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The Progression Concept
a project by jonathan delucia…
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.
+
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?”
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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.