The Progression Concept

82708..:

Here’s one for the queens of summertime

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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.

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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®

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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.

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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.

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… 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.”

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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?”

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

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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…

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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