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Two Poems
by William A. Clark

Canvas Pt.0

was it you who said that life is just a line on the palm of my hand,
making its way across our geography,


and cutting jagged pathways
   through our hands, before settling on your chest,
      finding a place
         altogether unpopulated?

or that "electricity" was defined merely by the lines
      that i traced, up and down your cold sleeping spine, in motions slowed only by the heat of our

eyes (and the lack of words or need for words in that moment that held only this life)

in a way i think you're right.

I'm feeling akin to a metaphor - when did THAT happen?
     I'm counting every verse in a way that makes it seem important -

and you're hard asleep in the depths of these dreams,

      your skeleton tracing a faultline across this crooked bed and
ultimately settling with one arm across my forehead and one ear to the ceiling,

     everybreath, revealing an aspect of this geography.
          and all i want to do is join you there, my skeleton tracing a faultline across this crooked bed,
revealing aspects of this geography, in a rather synchronized and syncopated rhythm.

(if this should end so abruptly i should find it improbable,
    time is moving sideways in synchronized syncopated rhythm and our skeletons are topographies of

an otherwise barren geography.)

i am the earth...

"i    am  the  earth,
    and  you are the air,
    and   all  the   rest
is really just   bullshit"

                                "i       was      the  sun
                                 and you  were   an  ocean
                                 and   i   crawled,   from
                                 your bed, and i scrawled,
                                 a letter on your eyelids,
                                 until   i lost  my  name,
                                 until   i lost everything.

                                 now then, what do you
                                 think of that?"

"our hearts, our heads, our
brains,  our feet,  our legs,
our hands, they are all
just machines, because
i used   to watch the moon
fall   into   the skyline
under the flickering
streetlamps, lit, lighting
the   asphalt below
where all    the people
waved   and screamed
and    shouted   and
     whispered  condolences
  (i could never spell my own name
not   even   on the first  day
     not even in the last)"

the light,
     streams in
  through the cracks
in your skeleton
and the floorboards
and the   wall
     and   the windows;spiderwebs;remnants of
better things
   and   the numbers
the math; the algebra
      can't explain
  the way  you write your name

on  my eyelids
  in the dark

     in crooked
and angular strokes

                                       "you shouldn't do this to yourself,
                                         it's    all  just   temporary
                                         anyway,   and regardless   of
                                       the   depth  of your speech,
                                     you will never be   able  to tell me these things
                                   that you always wanted to
                                        because  you could never spell your own name,
                                           you could never do a thing"

"i'll never be a winner,
i'll always be a sinner.
  but either way,
it's  the same,
   the streetlights will always flicker,
and i will never sleep,
    and i will always miss you,
always always miss you,
      and you will never see me as
   i trip    over   my own speech"

                                            "you're comatose,
                                                and   still you stutter,
                                                  in poetry, in verse, in meter, in rhyme,
                                              and   you fell,
                                           a whisper,
                                                  and   moved backwards because
                                            i    was the earth
                                              and   you were the air
                                        and we were together
                                           and your name was the same
                                          and the streetlights they flicker,
                                        in poetry, in verse, in meter, in rhyme,
                                           a morse code moratorium
                                         (the lights in here are getting darker)
                                    what happened
                                            to those words
                                      because i was  the   earth,
                                  and you were the   air,
                                        and   we were the atmosphere
                                and we floated away
                                        now, then, what do you say to that?"

your  face was in the mirror,
     reflected, reversed
    "I'll never know a thing"
and  in that moment
   that   you saw the sky
    you finally


"sometimes i wish
  that all of the stars in the sky
would disappear for just a moment
   so i could stare
upwards and just

now then, what do you say to that?"

About the author:
William A. Clark is a young&naive 16 year old who dreams of paying taxes and driving cars and adopting small African children and also space travel. He also takes photos and designs things, and sometimes he makes music. he has a spot on the web, at, which is still under major construction, but he still thinks is really kind of cool.

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