Thursday, November 18, 2010

The distance between me and my past

the body is no longer made of papers,
our moments have been twisted and properly burned.
I've been lifted from the 1-inch margins,
and this fog has gone up to touch the sunshine.
These storms can't belong to any combination of key strokes
the patterns of genius are gathering spiderwebs
to better weather the electricity,
and I can pick any fucking font I want.
Perception is everything
and all the power in the wor(l)d is useless
without the ability to feel powerful.
And I am crawling out of my puppet fingers
lifting off like fog becoming cloud,
becoming unpredictable weather
I rumble in time with my own lightning
and swallow the counted spaces between light and sound.
my stormy body will be pressing back against your numbers.

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