Writingsof Landis

A few of my misguided channelings of the literate person inside me

        "Velvet seats"

 I was watching a movie almost alone in the theater

and it suddenly seemed like me on the screen

of waiting for my name to come up

but when it does it's still not enough

waiting for someone to remember me

I cling to ink more than

I should

and obviously drifting

are the people who don't know how

to know me better

I hear the words of crimson or copper

the way I look

I wait to hear the words

telling stories of what I mean

or what I made someone feel...

But conciously watching

the images grinding by

like nails on the side of a car

that I carefully walk away from

because I can't love them enough

or is it

the other way around?

"last enigma"

why are all the poems i write drawing down?

looking through the last three, i was haunted

On the fibers of the page,

I seem to be a tragic figure- ancient skin wrinkled by stale pain..

my eyes held too many philosophies and mysteries

 that were screaming to be solved...

 where do I gaze when he is here?

something inside of me dies whenever he walks through the door.

stranger in familiar land

the air is thick and stars are concealed behind

stale, costly silence.

which face should i put on? sullen behind my hair

forcing myself into another mystery?

or laugh my way behind bars

and through the iron, whisper

a patter of empty conversation?

"painted work, 1985"

 I am an experiment
 an impressionistic representation of
 an overly surreal color of music
 didn't mean to smear the canvas....

 i am an original
 satisfyingly unfashionable piece
 rhythmically, mysteriously free

 I am a mess
 emotional ink bleeding methodically
 too deep
 i'll sweep up the shards of drunken joy
 from last night
 the next time i get the chance

 i am an apparition
 shimmering clumsily, welding sense
 into surrealism
 speculating at the graceful works around me
 accepting that my frames are out of date
 and proportion
 but that the signature is there
 and i am an original

"Burning"

Blow the dust off the spoken words,

lying embedded in ink blots

and mystery,

contradict the notion of fear

at the steps of the staircase where someone made history.

These expressions;

they are getting through,

a little east of the mountains,

my thoughts are being stained slowly, left to linger

opening windows into air I can breathe.

Write me a letter,

share in this resiliant obsession,

take in all the breath you would

if it was raining.

A streamlined rhythm;

your accidental grace floats around you,

like my fingers,

slipping through illuminated water....

Candles burning on the side of the bathtub,

I wait for them to burn down.

to ramble, question, or ask for more- windwillow at joymail.com

"Painted work, 1985" is wonderful, graceful art. -Adam

Beautiful, that is all there is to say Landis darling. You are constant insperation, Franny