The Progression Concept

82708..:

Here’s one for the queens of summertime

+

To the heart’s massage

(to you the longest chord).

Sister and savior of the earth and its animals,

Women among women,

In this temple, many songs were written in your name.

So yes, the earth still needs you.

Once my soul’s mate and body’s bridal source of sun,

Cool was spread with the nite’s comfortable and miraculous heat.

Six years.

Loved outlines,

Inner secrets of places,

Prayers,

Pacing…

Change and servant hood.

Moments.

Moments.

Memories.

Mourning time morning -afternoon recovering evening love.

Child in linen robe, we held the diamonds.

We’ve read the illustrious illume.

In secret and through alchemy, our hands have met the jaw line of the messiah.

We understand that scabbed knees bring eyes cleen.

On the other side of rocks and stream, our grip has loosened.

Hands now meant as solo guides.

I’ve seen your hands hold heavy

(your hands hold heavy)

I’ve seen blood on the altar.

I’ve witnessed human and animal sacrifices, I’ve seen the hidden.

Nights of last kisses and releases:

Hold for no further breath now.

Days of open closure:

It has come to this.

With release in my bag, I trade you the final peace.

A cross of prophecy on you, friend.

We’ll make it far beyond our fathers.

Fin, to you the longest chord.

+

To the summer’s clothes.

These moments still march like Egyptian magicians.

‘Chased you inside and among your friends,

close to you like denominations approach rebellion.

I had my bones in a snake skin purse.

Snake skin because I’d just been freshly felled for the cause.

…and you were a fancy little bone magnet.

The purse became our picnic blanket

(the one we gave to the Indian:)

Condo castles gathered ’round, as the pool wept for us in jealousy.

Under the willow, we bowed romantically.

Our 1st letter became a map of our ancestors…

Summertime o8. 3 am till close. passenger boi.

“follow me and fill this place with female.”

And yes, boi was encouraged

and asked for nothing but the things he could give.

…and in this light, we can trade university suggestions.

…and in this light, we can empty our pockets,

scrape our change and mail it to the emperor of student museums!

…in the warm nights, I never lost my bones.

You erased me safely to sleep.

Woke me to hair, sunshine and e-town suburbian a/c.

I wrote several lines of this…

Advanced painting.

All who see, envy your fingertips -glowing with Palm Easy®

+

To the one who makes names and collages,

the punk rock princess and Italian twin of mine.

Us on the runway, the long urban stretch of run run runaway.

I’ve seen the streetlights bend to take our picture,

Cracks in the street filled for us in syncopated steps,

For we obviously have plans to take over.

It’s no secret; we rule with closed fists –for dirt roads hold big ideas.

Still is still with you, accepted as distilled.

Water is purely h2o.

As I was filling my bag with flowers,

you were simply letting them grow.

The yellows stayed yellow, the reds; red.

For steam and ribcage puzzles, think of an acid bath together.

I’m just sayin’ for the harmonisized duet,

think of how much air we could save

with one mask and a microphone.

Remember us among 10,000 rednecks, think

Budweiser holograms, think

65 day plans.

Teleradiovision.

…and I’ve seen cities and ghettoes split like axe victims,

laying aside themselves for the healer.

You are the stitch maker among lonely human mammals.

+

To the cat’s curls, the trend’s hippie physical.

When I was young, I was the killer of impressions.

Lifetimes lasted long, and again I return to heal them.

I have renewed the soil and have successfully caused a lasting stamp.

To you the shortest line.

+

… and to many of the season’s eye cages,

inserted from eye to memory,

Fist in your brain’s cavity,

sting you in your circuitry.

Until next time,

“him.”

+

Drugs catch on fire.

Seats sink in immobility.

Electric cubes,

Static disks,

and canvas paintings.

Here’s to the brothers of every season-

To you.

To you, DM growl.

To you, hold head man cry.

To you, shared boredom and magazine lipstick.

To you

fists, poems, mosh dancing, daps and props.

To you.

For you in torso share my empty couch.

To the gothic

The Indian

The prisoner

The painter

The hippie

The Jew

The whole damn crew…

To the rent-a-cars, which catch on fire and are drowned in the river by daylite.

Crunch, Crenshaw punch!

“can you still score?”

+

To the body’s interpretation of heaven, you’ve been my vitamin for 28 years.

+

I’ve swept you all in my blanket.

And your unsorted cigarette filters are applied to my wooden walls.

Hands on cheeks for all of you,

-DeLucia

©2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

Leon

Arms from end to ende, has for once paid my burden, has forever given me the hall pass.

I’ve passed several doorways, seeing exit in neon.

Tine

You pulled from hooks to taut chords, white like street paint,

And I felt the pressure all weekend, red like flesh pain.

You know it and your cool with it…

Tune

I’m the only one who can use a tele.

They have always so severely pursued you, and in that, must have broken your fingertips.

…or erased your memory.

Btw

The piss fest I’m used to is when two opposing players grip their own toes and pull to break ‘till the other stops.

Never whatever silence assuming think over introverted undercover front, in which even I’m guilty.

ille

I was once a boy, you know.

A dumb ass little boi, who left a nervous and hurried impression.

I was hoping that by giving quick hellos and sticking you with smiles, I might erase you from him.

I’m actually trying to erase him completely…

Isa Drk Pnkrkr

Stab, grip, pull and pull and pull..repeat..5, wake, grab, get out, push, push, repent, nothing personal. Never personal. We’re in our 20’s and we’re right and we know and we do what we want, rite?

*all Just and Equal Fecal, crie 2 tears in a bucket.

Ó2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved

Here’s an elaborate speech about something very simple:::

Thoughts can hold you prisoner,

And their ransom, your week’s wellbeing.

I had my little self encaged in a cubic pastadon.

When brought among us, his face and mouth twisted as one screaming

But no sense projected,

Ranting as one convincing,

But no literation to the audience,

only chirping, biting sounds.

It was unfortunate.

Carnival litter @ my feet.

Knees bent, forming an alphabetical symbol:::

Why can’t intentions be red like epiphanies?

Why not vespers public among friends?

Again, is there no understanding in [in-tention]?

Why succumb to natural offenses if uncomfortable explanations need to occur?

And as a reflection, why even speak when comfortable?

I can do back flips off walls and break bricks like team powder.

I can shut down and power off.

I can grip empty fists and slam

Dance with the ghosts of excretion,

Push and humiliate them.

I can sleep fully in a coat with arms crossed…

Mute *

For the sake of one’s state,

Transparency in communisation,

Notice the piles of bark brought natural notes of sand sculptures and edible earth,

And this is why I consider us children, for the healing that playfulness brings.

Can one’s description situation be as pure?

Most thoughts are intestinal waste, waiting to be the fertile ground of our actions.

Identification.

For your soft and sacred heart, a cup of open honesty.

For the sake of indie optimism, the purest core of infatuation.

Kindness can be like glass.

Ó 2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved

the son of David, the son of Jesse,
the son of Obed, the son of Boaz,
the son of Salmon, the son of Nahshon,
the son of Amminadab, the son of Ram,
the son of Hezron, the son of Perez,
the son of Judah, the son of Jacob,
the son of Isaac, the son of Abraham,
the son of Terah, the son of Nahor,
the son of Serug, the son of Reu,
the son of Peleg, the son of Eber,
the son of Shelah, the son of Cainan,
the son of Arphaxad, the son of Shem,
the son of Noah, the son of Lamech,
the son of Methuselah, the son of Enoch,
the son of Jared, the son of Mahalalel,
the son of Kenan, the son of Enosh,
the son of Seth, the son of Adam,

Adam’s father was God.

The scribe’s diary:

(found 61 feet from his most epic rendering, the breath of God, the hand of the prophets)

Fear in adoration, rage to uproar this holy moment

In sweat of scarcity,

my hands are shaking in their movement of this moment’s prophecy.

Our master, from his chambers returns to us anointed.

Robe is wet with oil and salt, skin is bleached from the Sun.

His lips are quivering…

Speak, oh son of things to come,

From your words, a bed for the messiah.

“The spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me.

He has equipped me to bind the broken hearted.

To restore to them a crown for ashes…”

Selah

Slicing vellum with feather tip sticks,

Not one utterance missed or misunderstood.

“To open the prison doors to those who are captive.

To appoint unto them who mourn for Zion.”

Amen

The same ink that branded our palms now spills like blood.

I have bathed in blood outside the city walls.

Thorough tears, he sings his burden

And in his last breath, falls to physical emptiness,

For his mouth has created boneless legs.

His welling eyes are static from the unveiling…

+

The lamb enters,

wearing the linen that will sweep the streets of Jerusalem.

The fabric that by touch, will stop the bleeding.

Hood raised upon his brow, folded in symmetry like the cross.

Among my children and fathers,

The scrolls are spread, dividing us.

Many priests and honorable leaders have entertained this temple with holy theater,

But this is no actor.

With palms on paper, his words drop like authority:

“The spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me…

 to provide for them the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
 and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair…”

“This has been fulfilled today in you hearing.”

…and with the scrolls, we were divided.

…some of us gathered palm branches, some stones.

…some followed home, and served meals of blasphemy, heresy and contempt.

…some wove sandals for our children,

because promise is walking so we will walk.

In a great darkness, we have seen a light.

And this son of David has perfected the sling,

for he himself is a shepherd.

He has followed the lines of his human torso,

For he himself is a carpenter.

He is born from us and knows our fathers.

I am writing as those before me, as if to believe that words are capable of creation.

The one whom he loved.

…as if to raise a dead man’s thoughts.

The one whom he loved.

…as if to see for himself the physiology of prophecy.

The one whom he loved.

On vellum, lines are paved in the earth like veins.

Our earthly treasures, stored in clay vessels.

Seeds lie dormant in the earth until summoned.   

Ó 2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved

The Characters.

(names have been changed to protect the innocent)

*the value:

“none to return to the alter, not in days.

for fear of entire openness,subconsciously.

to rise at 3:00 am for accomplishments,

only God and the fireflies are awake then.

none to return to the alter for fear of openness.”

*the day:

“not in days to face his own thoughts, weeps from malnourishment.”

*the capture:

“they wait and they worrie.

they are like children, for intention is never to be infected.

upon them, eyes and arms rest.

upon them a copy of pain is hastened.

upon them… the palm rests but refuses to close.”

*the measure:

“no hurt to be placed upon her.

the absence of plans pack substance for the closed fists.

they can only take, but never release.

they as weapons have been nailed shut!

no hurt to be placed. no hrt to b placd. nohr knowher to be pleasd.”

PRESCRIPT (soft theme music)

*the wailers:

“there were 39 stripes before skinsuit, 39.

songs about complements.

*the poem:

“… …she lays to rest in the garden.

and in one breath, she inhales the cologne…

in two, she breaths another…

another hit, for the both of them…

’soaks in perfect peace for some reason,

from where is his peace created?

lips are oxygen masks.

words are compliments, and at night they turn into sexy beasts

*the bricks:

“i remember the fashion.

their attempted stab at fashion,

we were OG’s.

from the reserved couch to VIP.

(the camera controllers would veer from their subjects to include us)

us and Niel Yong’s colorado brother.

and the street’s black drummer.

and the new wave attic.

‘this is what its like under a stampede of horses.’

the lyrics,

the night,

the next day, the play,

the invite to stay fu***ng bricks!

the appreciation for we go through!

and the call for one night of children’s feet, from the wet grass to cooling…

PROCRIT

*the Mormons:

“Do not love him, nor fall asleep too deeply.

His cavity is a Waking hole, a poisoned well of inherited bliss.

All the scrolls have been found, and it turns that he means what he has said.

There is no line in him now, no end of string.

Only a beginning thus far.

On side b-sides and crie boi fill sides,

Fueled by the following:

social speed and very careful motion,

indie ink and the blood from zombies,

fornication and abstinence,

holiness and hypocrisy.”

*sand:

“i have put my guilt in a capsule around my neck.

i have begged for your protection.

the pictures are up in sanctified boxes,

and i have made a calage of written prayers for you.

they serve as a halo around the crucifix.

my lamb, i have been longing to drink the pain from your eyes,

but find no tears…

they have not been summoned.

they have not been summoned yet.

you feel, my child, that from my own rib she has stabbed you,

and i have worn my guilt around my neck.

we the neighbors are begging for your forgiveness,

for the sake of tears.”

POSTSCRIPT (theme music fades)

*the lion:

“and what of worry?

hasn’t everything been explained and understood even before creation?

respones to predetermind actions

are far from the control of their performers.

 lamb, take note and care of her patience.

she is allowing you to simply bathe in her, for the sake of YOUR wellness…”

*the response:

“as twins, your words were healing to me-

this stone in which my heart is replacing.

he asked us ‘what is your heritage and are you related?’

obviously we’ve been related for years.

i have framed you check, knowing my work has reached you.

and if but for one,

i have taken the things you have said

and have put them in my envelopes, child.

…and i hope to walk the city again.”

(music fades and all is stripped away)

*merrick:

“…and yet i feel those closest to me to be the most frustrating.

… and yet i, as a worm, hide in the yards of those who adore me.

…and yes, embraces have felt like stitches before,

and i do not know why.

even in the cool wind, at times i walk with an unsatisfying musical tone.

even though i feel touching the body may bruise it,

my hands are cracked and you have offered me moisture.

…and yet i feel scared to share the garden of those who adore me.”

(let those who have humbled their heads, now chant for healing until it rains…)

(c) 2008, Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved

If in eyes, my open apologies.

Vomitus upheaval.

“That’s plausible enough to work.”

Foibles to snicker shortcomings, and I’ll separate…

Make the exchange.

 Oil for pigment.

ILL

If in races, my open intentions.

Porous excretions.

“Daily digestions, emboss your pattern with flame and lame starter conversations.”

Twist, your not so red-eyed.

We’ll mix gold, dung and Windex to make rings that turn us.

Yellow, the send.

Green, the return.

Chain, CS and JR, Chain

If swallowed, harmful if swallowed.

My deepest exhaust, normal chain link thoughts.

IDIO

Ó2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.  

My Dearest King,

Obama has broken my back rack,

I am the new sha-clack-clack.

I’m sick with deep conversation.

Every poet is a poser, including me.

I’m sticking to sheets;

striking the letters “M”, “E” and “I” from my speech.

 As one with no political opinion, she spreads her arms downhill.

We’re all here to impress each other, aye?

Oi!

Oil

Rip the mouths from those with strong opinions,

and curse if they line with the popular ones.

We the whiteycocks,

We’ve been naughty little experiments.

“REVOLUTION!”

..I’m going to have to start saving my money…

Consider the weight of well living.

The sparrow and the lilies of the field.

Consider the heart of the matter.

Ecclesiastes and the tear between holy and heretic.

Count the beads on the crucifix

Close your eyes and consider your salvation,

Apart from what has been figured in your fabric,

Aside from the popular facts,

What is the heart of the matter
?

And what will be said of me?

?

My fr**nds call me jonkie.

I know words too.

Merrick has been walking in circles, trying to find infinity.

Puts his fingers in feminine holes, and closes them back again.

To the public, we the pubic.

Let’s empty our purse and cheer, “here’s to purpose!”

…attending the ritual.

In robes we don’t deserve.

Crowns we didn’t earn.

Adoration from those we adore.

…accepting our rights as children.

Our inheritance we spoiled.

…I’ll bath once or twice a week until I’m clean,

sorry.

Sorry, until during and after,

Your slave,

Merrick.

Piss,

Side A has come to stop. The tape is flipped and I’m trying to listen pass the hiss until I hear music…

Esq,Lbc.

Ó2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

<post>

inspired from the dark city, us as them.

in an old chair…

 house is my house,

the dust is mine.

the dog’s hair is from my dog…

this organ,

C G F Bb

this is the summer’s poem, this is the coffee shop side walks, this is the sun in my eyes.

 this is to loitering… this is the summer’s poem.

 thank you in advance.

+++

///

They, as humans shape the city @ will.

by our sleep, they find us.

by our leisure, life is traded.

within mere seconds…

time

still, then sped.

things are indeed changing…

our leisure has robbed us of muscle, has taken…

the humanity from the bones of us humans.

we    are      them

usasthem.

___.:***werthealiens***:.___

we have evolved

indeed let them say

let them chatter

let worlds change at the will of one

let this.

.THIS.

prove

.

(the choir chants in an unsetteling unison)

“and as our mind and chemicals expanded, our greed , and natural elements thrived.  

we never knew the concept of time travel.

us as enemies - we’ve been traveling this whole time.”

we have been fighting

ourselves.

In this consciousness,

the one in which i am aware of, and step towards…

in this world,

 i have changed my shape.

i am a shape shifta.

tonite, as i lie in leisure…

i was pushed back into position like whiplash.

like craft or chess games.

like beeing    in   check.

   (the choir stopped singing…)

natural dissonance

again

 i was shafted.. some one else has been playing me.

i was a star to them.

(moment, recline. breath in THIS breath.)

they couldn’t find our souls, we hid them in the garden.

We would not be deprogrammed!

Understand, we have been programmed,

and the shepherds are coming!

this is ground,

this is science, these blades have been photosynthesized.

 the file polarized.

 +

in the end.

through pictures

and images of pictures

purposed was *programmed in a single syringe.*

contained here, in palm.

in the beginning,

our destiny was inaudible,

non visual and tasteless.

 our palms

couldn’t grab this one.

(dig)

what has shaped me?

what has shaped you, reader?

we flash to spit and blush the surface.

we realize new levels and pages

and present.

we start,

meet people , then meet them again.

sometimes, us…

we’re covered in mercy, sister.

+++

God, heal my arms.

 ©2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved

Seven

Savior

Slumber, its 4

Your still awake,

sending me the invite.

Sunburn, I want to get golden.

+

I was trying to push my digits,

As if they weren’t even a part of me.

Created an alive sense.

The 6^th sin scent.

A love of earth.

Your milk has poisoned me, earth.

Your honey has rotted my stomach and I’m tired.

+

(through so much worse)

3X

Grip and his capture have finally loosened my eyes.

The scales have fallen like manna.

The coal cleanses me.

*    iCoal    *

cool and slow,

this   slow,

+

noiseless pickups

there’s this day.

Neck stretching

Like metal strings,

The cables spread across back and shoulders,

Cut into the abdomen

And spit out Polaroidä photos of moments.

…the moments are nice, but the stretching fucking hurts.

 Ó2008 Jonathan Delucia, all rights reserved

Stop.

Raise the cup and fist to the bands that broke our hearts.

… who’s songs cut with your feminine stamp.

 Props to the acoustic indies.

Girls adore you.

We wish we were you.

…now the girls are gone, and all we have is the memories your melodies have created.

 Thank you sirs and madams, they burn.

 They bling and shine like shins in summer oil.

I taste them often on purpose.

 (the pen has had no recent airtime.)

Ó2008 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved