These green leaves,
now red and orange,
are changing like I'd
change for you.

We have been thought to be basic,
I have been taught to say

what do I know except mornings
yes I see it your way.


Bowing to the absences,
I want your raindrops

on my forehead

and your trees

down my arms too

for these berries, these intimations

another October, my skills

at rolling up a sleeping pad,

the space on my arm, are for you.

From Blue Lungs Trying

V. Coastal education
gradual like distressing
these front gates.

Thinking small vices
up at Deep Creek,
wearing feathers,
pockets,
wind,
earrings,
sparklers

that's a storm! no,
it's a photograph
of worship

the smell of rain
in this time of wanting
and soft spring,
palm branches,
residual morning wind,
how to procure honey.

What was true here, stairs,
I give to you glitter for your ground,
the stones you'll come
to cherish, tomato juice.

I see turtles floating,
you hear horns outside;
we think the same thing

like stop listening,
water for your eyes
the yellow leaves,
and the lemon yellows.

You say it like you know
the answer you know the rest
and yet
flies inside today,
attracted to the specks,
are charming up the place a bit.

I can walk away to the mountain
and drive away to the sea
and it's only summer yet.

these days fly away

like blades of grass

Weekdays

A beauty of youth
is burning into the fire,
waking up.

Looking back into the spring,
springing our bones
into the street.

I was built to cry
on Sundays:
movies into sunsets.

I see turtles
floating, you hear horns outside.
We think the same thing.

Pouring Over

We house anticipation
to match the water set to boil
and await our coffees
to bring it all together again.

Things are okay for us
all over the years
things are okay enough
to not mention in letters.

Coffee is up and we clamor
to share this time, over,
like we used to outside,
like we would on the porch.

We would sit then in the morning,
legs crossed and sincere, cigarettes burning,
our tree that we never thought about,
but loved nonetheless, shielding us.

We are not smoking now
and should be hugging
but for the years, but for
coping without one another.

It’s okay, of course,
because things are okay
and we even spill about
dreams coming true, seeing.

Our empty cups lay
next to one another,
rings aged calmly like our eyes
and it’s good to be together.

Words You'll See

Like stop listening,
the yellow leaves,
and the lemon yellows.

You say it
like you know the answer
you know the rest

Flies inside today,
attracted to the specks,
are charming up the place a bit.

I can walk away to the mountain
and drive away to the sea
and it's only summer yet.

Blue Lungs Trying

Here now, sweet,
desert heat, an oasis
of sun-blockers and pieced
vehicles: a matte motorcycle
like Los Angeles in the times.

Here at the beach,
the river bends
and our backs do,
nothing gold
except sweet jaws,
gold only the mango.

Here, sleeveless,
the children growing
up wild are they
piercing kidneys now
with their skin,
running scabby to death.

Here there's smoke here,
smoke here in the wind,
charcoal and sunglasses,
weekday mornings, casual
as holiday seashells.

Saturdays like the last of them
celebrating collections in our heart pieces
of what we value in the trees around us:
the leaves we can't get to.

Scrolling down of the truck's window
as a reset button to freest freedom:
the man carrying home the pieces to make breakfast,
right turns without looking

Five minutes to the store,
sins upon him, sins unto her like
-a year sloughing about outside of Mexico City-
fluency as heroism, as peace.

As twangy as lighting one cigarette
with the prior one, pine,
and then rocking back,
what is it, tucked away.

Forgive me mother, I have confessions
that I dissolve with the sun out here.

Now I know
the loquat tree

It's almost a song,
the echo of a song:

on the bat's back I fly
merrily toward summer

tasting the citrus,
peeling back the sweet skin
of March, sundowning outside

street lamps in the hills
above us, new canvas shoes
and baseball caps to honor one another

the grills billowing
moist heat in the night
we can watch it now

in full wonder,
revisiting the desert
at the hottest of times

relishing these epiphanic
entertainments and her fruits.



songs to survive the summer

This isn't a device
anymore isn't spring
in its full harness form
more like visiting a city
wanting to occupy it,
buying groceries, routines.

Today's gloom is deep
mean reds like
springing like two
middle fingers
with his name on them
and oh so luscious
like your beauty
through wasting

this isn't going
to keep me away
isn't clothed at night
is ready to move
to another park.



On Sat, Mar 21, 2009 at 9:12 PM, Jared Linzmeier wrote:

This isn't a device
anymore isn't spring
in its full harness form
more like visiting a city
wanting to occupy it,
buying groceries, routines.

this isn't going
to keep me away
isn't clothed at night
is ready to move
to another park.

Portage, from L.A.

Fifteen and wasting,
given away to
weekends packed in cars
in the backseats
with our headphones on
I am not who you think I am.

Bucks preyed upon,
we spent four years
or something like that
and I was always
waiting to live free.

Beer cans of smoke,
crinkled in the garage
thirty-five degrees
this is a dry wine.

Shaving for the hell of it,
touching upon the sacred
don't tell me how to kiss.

He knows best
nevermind where is his car

this blood will be safe in him.

you say it like you know
the answer, you treat me
like prized ruins

you're seeing clearly now,
you treat me
like prized ruins.

Storms
like a photograph
teach about moments
how to gape at rain
the smell of rain
if Innocence was
anything, she'd be
dreaming Deep Creek, thinking
sometimes grinding metal
smells like sparklers
wearing feathers, retaining
palm branches after the wind.

I want your raindrops
on my forehead
and your trees
down my arms too.

Burn it to the end,
finish the round:
pool keeping
the nights going
the sets of Thursdays
were the same
now we're talking
they were angry
and pissed
and they were the same
as were Saturdays
we would drive
as fast as we could
stand to
at night
and we'd
lay in the street
trying to make
out the stars
trying not to
let it show
slow enough
like sick days as a kid
yet nobody is scared
enough to want more.

No faith but what
she makes
is more like it.

No fate but
what he reads
about
Is how they spend
their mornings tussling,
watching a sunrise
and fearing
what it will bring.
Is being Saturday
stuck on punk
I don't know
how to say it
better than yous
you say it like
you know the answer
you treat me
like prized ruins
flush it with a picture
Is sight-hounds are sad
in the rain
like sitting still
like a tattoo
that says
water's calm
before it boils.

A PIECE FROM THE COAST




Curling and uncurling:

I have allowed you to smoke

despite the asthma,

despite nights away

and cheeks turning red

from the frustration in your chest.


In Mendocino in the rain

he pulled over

and they talked about

no it can't be this good.

He held a ball in his hand

and cried.


Our driver combed his hair

and rain leveled into the silence.

No more. No more dwelling.


Rise up after that as

the man still rubbing saddle soap

into his hands has been allowed

one sobbing and now must

return to the land he deserves.


Rise up now it's time.

This is the hour of house and tree,

leaf and blade, stick and stone.