The Progression Concept

Summertimes

…almost over so it’s very sunny and cool.

Both internally,

as shine reflects on the puncture wounds where flies lay their eggs,

And on skin, externally,

where the shine reflects…

Merciful gun in my pocket,

And as the dog lays dying

His eyes,

HIS eyes are getting tired

As he lay dying,

His tail was wagging at the sound of my voice,

his recovery

My palms rest in the only spot not bleeding,

I sing to him, and he is healed.

Where summertime ends, teenage begins.

Skin cool and wet and sensitive to the air

Cooling after cold water swim…

17 was coffee and a search for girls, pot and some kind of coffee, girl or pot shop.

The owners switched often and more often than not,

I rose to create roses.

And those I gave them to

Received an embossed stamp of me.

On their palms all raised and reloaded,

Keeloided from years of carrying…me.

Hands grip logs of shit

Where the flies lay

And dipping their tongues in water washed blood away

And when your teenage ends

Mine will extended

be born brand new every time

summertime

begins.

My first car gave wings to my friends but not me.

I have art pieces that rest in pieces, allowing no eyes to see them,

not even mine,

and sonically none receives them,

they are inaudible.

But I love it.

How their eyes,

stopping their stigmant

find their place on me.

And how their harts reveal themselves

And revel that they shared a piece with me,

Either internally

where the angels hand their wings,

Or externally,

where the angels hang…

I’m working with words you see,

Trying to make a body from the body’s ora.

It’s

Not

Exactly

Easy

Not

Exactly.

Everyone knows what happens when girls sit at angels.

Everybody knows the body

From memory,

Every woman knows what they’ve done to me

But not the me everybody knows.

words impregnate the blank, soulless page,

Leaving its living legacy in you and me.

“you and me”

What a heavy hand full of words…

How many meanings that fistful piece of sentence has had…

And what that means now…

(c)2009 Jonathan DeLucia, all rights reserved.

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