Intangible

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1033

Abstract

the face to swing from the fingernail moon, gathering the intelligence of blank pages, walking on our hands because our feet are keeping time: the world is not abandoned and we are not jumping ship, arm in arm, slinging the verses into the atmosphere because we’re keeping action at a distance so fucking real, so very, very possible and into those moments of pure shining, kneeling like we would around sacred sculptures.Giving into the lunacy of the breath, tangled by the hair left on the bed, laughing at the cuffs and the expansion of entanglements, sweeping joy into the next paragraph because what else is there — to be doing right now, to be holding right now, to be singing right — and then the cascading textures of love and light surround every syllable like a lantern, like a new grove of trees — like the chiaroscuro of paper with little black symbols on it, we’re going to rise out of this awakening and dance.Conscious of entanglement — the structures of clay and ink become the

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resting place for heads and backs, for the movement of many poems to come raining down over the green, over head, swept into forgetting to remember and remembering to forget that there’s a moment coming — but then getting out the pen anyway, unconscious historian of a past that keeps coming back around, making the intangible something solid after all.Now, in this December fog, glancing south and west, some disorientation: one of you is on my left, one of you is on the right, and you may as well be angels; I am playing devil advocating for a future like this, the song that leaps out of the air is “I’m Your Man” — stutter, static…smoothing out the envelopes to address this space between us and then let the words keep spilling on.<a href="undefined">J.D. Harms</a> 2023Many thanks to <a href="undefined">Claire Kelly</a>, <a href="undefined">Dave Logan</a>, and <a href="undefined">Edward Swafford</a> for hosting my work in this beautiful space!</article></body>

Give into the lunacy of dreams

Always looking west, once we were on the level and now everything has tilted, has shifted like faults, ley lines, straightening out, fixing to become the site of another historic power, and the noise is damn near unbearable, is centered, explosive-like around the middle of your body, and we’re all here to get touched by the energy and then give in to the lunacy of dreams.

And we’re all here to get touched by the intangible, lifting lips up to the face to swing from the fingernail moon, gathering the intelligence of blank pages, walking on our hands because our feet are keeping time: the world is not abandoned and we are not jumping ship, arm in arm, slinging the verses into the atmosphere because we’re keeping action at a distance so fucking real, so very, very possible and into those moments of pure shining, kneeling like we would around sacred sculptures.

Giving into the lunacy of the breath, tangled by the hair left on the bed, laughing at the cuffs and the expansion of entanglements, sweeping joy into the next paragraph because what else is there — to be doing right now, to be holding right now, to be singing right — and then the cascading textures of love and light surround every syllable like a lantern, like a new grove of trees — like the chiaroscuro of paper with little black symbols on it, we’re going to rise out of this awakening and dance.

Conscious of entanglement — the structures of clay and ink become the resting place for heads and backs, for the movement of many poems to come raining down over the green, over head, swept into forgetting to remember and remembering to forget that there’s a moment coming — but then getting out the pen anyway, unconscious historian of a past that keeps coming back around, making the intangible something solid after all.

Now, in this December fog, glancing south and west, some disorientation: one of you is on my left, one of you is on the right, and you may as well be angels; I am playing devil advocating for a future like this, the song that leaps out of the air is “I’m Your Man” — stutter, static…smoothing out the envelopes to address this space between us and then let the words keep spilling on.

Many thanks to Claire Kelly, Dave Logan, and Edward Swafford for hosting my work in this beautiful space!