20100727

Colleen Lookingbill


along the way, panoramic friendship year after year, at times in sync. we have seen madmen sitting for so long with their great ability to explain decisions and the logic behind without music, through hundreds of alluvial fields as far as the eye can see. I remember being paid to tempt chance, although the critics came to perceive the very greatness of the early days at odds with that famed duo. for subsequent renditions a kind of perfect balance hinting at thousands of small towns.

in the end, my ability to accept silence as an idea of composition, a beautiful black and white credo in those days, scenic routes seeking everyone’s happiness seals the deal. coast to coast like a loving mother weeding out her doctrine open mouthed, half laughing, impulsively justified year after year, privy to relationships, sinking quietly to the floor, body curving over knees, holding pattern hints at parallel dissolution within ourselves.

names marvel or cut short, the priest who repeats catlike stealth. styles of the street slip past, deserve to be heard, a tirade trying to fend off pity. just one more day of thread worn childhood melting into evening conversations only to be answered by innocence, despite our lovelorn performance.

collection of fictionalized experiences from richer dust, keen observations and highly accessible quirks of mass media’s nature calling it quits. I learn my routines and manage to buoy up this genre made clear in a nutshell, so when something is knocked over we gracefully exist in the outer boroughs.

strange how an immigrant ends up dead in the water. we can finally write a new globalized literature commensurate with cells of inner worlds where indigenous flora and fauna paraphrase every swaggering correspondence.

pastoral dreamers and visionaries waiting for the missing key item of genuine regret. but we never turn around. last night I asked a stranger to observe our plaintive losses, willing red earth beyond our travels, witness to fires in a world just like this.

heavy yet dexterous, she leaves for a brief moment, years and an ocean away sends long complex notes. you fit freedom tight inside reckless testament, restorative as rush of blood flying over hard legs to explore surprising connections. at dusk hearing the closing credits roll, we cut our lines and lose the collective road.

strength of locution falling asleep out on the stage means literally learning like diamonds in the mist – the places we see make a series of songs. fluid and gentle feelings by internalizing blackboard carvings sketched out like stands of white hair facing a more subtle malaise.

most of the time, to get to this solution, papers held for a single performance resemble a junk heap where everything ethnocentric reinforces the material mark, giving up a distinct tactile quality like the longtime friend who takes our words for substance.

those who translate coming back, choices help clarify both seeing and the seen. rather than misconstrue or take for granted, toward a close reading, reframing fatigue in situations more easily dispersed. one launches pleasure with guarded interest despite the shifting cold breeze.

confess circling homeward involves some finer points - bittersweet and deftly articulate. that still leaves furrow and stubble arranged alive along the wall where broken stones gather nonchalantly. chest of orchids face fundamental transience, hope and risk the tales told over a whole grand life, a pleasant way to ponder what’s left of time.

we play where we can, contentment made by chirping crickets vying on the football field, come to rest with regional syntax and close watch best handed out one county seat at a time. I dream slow fleeting tones not unlike fecund experience. my untouched journal does a fine crusade by comparing direction given at the door exploring food for thought.

sensation, those beautifully reproduced protective layers framing permission inside a system we cannot stop. look within the quiet counterpoint safe and healthy defending our country or sweeping the floor. we have no answers. we have a general jukebox point of view, we want to turn out differently. this is how it goes, we want to know, but we are immersed where the picture drops off, personal choice mysteriously airborne.

for those who don’t have time to read, listening puts the voice together, pinpoints weather, says all that is dark is a loss of sure footing. low slow voice presses trees. we become friends with the family of ships, know when it is time to stop, given that we understand the range of media, writing about other dimensions, the status quo and values organized portraying later years.

while we are on the subject, going from there to here, two things encourage trust: ordinary compassion and long sweeping poems which fit in the palm of your hand. travelogue contains distance between sensuous epigrams, how you imagine rhythmic warnings crackling into emotional and oddly precise saving grace.

in the best sense of a page turner, calling to calm her down, how it’s always been half the rate of normal. two spouses wear the virtual skin of mutes, each step flawlessly conveys jittery sleepwalking through the promise of awkward adulthood, long passages gorgeously bleak same as dark singularity of closed entropic systems.

soft machine is another matter, walking and wondering - what can be so easily named? is it hybrid fusion that shows living as a return of all events? do you think you can have both? self-described in full regalia where the start is not the start and the connection with buying milk entirely obvious. action floats five hour wait.

such a griminess when times are tough, the mosaic telling forward in real life the grass is always green, either up to speed or in the book you are reading. creeping ivy goes further, what else can we do there in a clear small house of eternal receiving.

we accrue ability or wonder about the way they cook or the way they seem old fashioned or allow ourselves in a series of publications to scatter context within materiality of sound. although repeating may exceed quatrain, the wedding is full of fat yearning to elevate the many dangers arriving late from plant to galaxy.

giving way to full extent of interpretation and reception, you point out maybe these really are locations for heroes or ideas of purity, every glance insistent as ghosts in a bright night. smudged fingerprints come from collisions, not a choice between things. a lake hovers, the kind of feeling one gets when all events rock back and forth like movement on a bookshelf.

how a complicated history is what gives the very start, holding hands even more rural at a certain level with rolling cadences. I man any explanation, as containers become less available, can also be used where your dry and crusty handwriting is but a memory, a sample of peaceful co-existence from the second or third grade.

leaving tricky balance beyond all entry level elements as dialogue describes living hundreds of miles apart. world where we meet circumstances, breadcrumbs not included, remind people it is written by the writers themselves. lines are formed, but feelings are the same. we set out to sound logical, inclined to agree: uniquely squeezing the wish list to build an oil derrick.

details pile up, far-reaching reflex from hipster to deviation. I always seem too public, too decrepit, at the very least prohibited from extremes capable until identical absence reveals which ballot box holds water weight. long slow kiss rumbling out of my closet.

if you are louder than most, the same way human affection prefers unexpected situations, you collect spare blooms but your curio cabinet leaves out something, linking the thin veneer of one culture to another. we are saying to ourselves I could have done it another way – I could have!

reminds me of some aspect of character angled verdant and incongruous as background dense in letters that make up a ring in the middle of the page. fragile terrain once a landscape, a new wilderness of familiar comforts more neglect than transformation. intentional churning about warm proximity, elegies to implicit material connections a nameless shrine. rare thing.

seems like promising ground. shortcomings have set her up for three close-ups, playing with anticipation, tidy packages of sense memories bequeath city gates. please send me a bicycle alongside nine months filled with Egyptian taxis. going together keeps our flame afloat on
bateau-mouche down the Seine, that occasion when you speak in front of me, beside me, familiar winged towers inventing intuitive truth.

house without nails unfolds on your behalf, drawn from dim pearls fed and comforted through irreplaceable art and life and millions of tangential collaborations between. eyelids raise, we come in, exchanging sighs with willow branch and fishes, marvelous longitudes swerve alongside our vermillion preference.



Colleen Lookingbill lives and works in San Francisco. She co-edits EtherDome Press with Elizabeth Robinson and has a previous book of poetry Incognita. Colleen has writing published in New American Writing 26, Ploughshares and the new Ambush Review. A new book, the forgetting of, is due out this year from Lyric&.
 
 
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