CXXXI.
October 31, 2012 § Leave a Comment
It nags, pulls here; it is not the impulse to write but
you sleep; I write
is this not true? Or am I deceived?
Skin of my bones, my muscle, my egg-carton of organs (cook, crack, split them; they expire, they spoil; all it takes is time)
all it takes is time and these nights fade
you sleep; I write
there was a life here, was there not? Out here floating off is a boy
a balloon missing its weighted-piece –
not “decorum” because my inflated form does not belong up here
not “decorum” because the wind whipped it about, scuffed the plastic, wore-down the edges
faded; all fades as these nights are closing
in, around — I am deceived
you sleep
I write
CXXIV.
October 13, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I am typing from an unreachable space. Here, you are sealed off from the immediacy of the emotions coursing through my nerves, exacted by (oh, as I have referred to them as before) these interpreters made of bone and flesh and all that is invisible to me unless I were to peel these layers back until an emptiness revealed itself, until the void creeping into my thoughts as of late is revealed–
you should feel alienated by my words now. Good. It is best this way. The relationship we are forming is too knowable…You read; I live, I write; you read…How are you living? Well? Not-so-well?
If you are not familiar with this manner-speak, please, humble me by allowing yourself entry and entreat your mind to wander; do me this courtesy and I shall offer a heavily contemplated experience. I offer you honesty.
Here, you are sealed off from knowing me. You know the words. That is all I have anymore, really (do not mistaken this for pitiful remarks of Self.) It is true. The words say what my laughter and my new pair of shoes and my haircut and the artifacts on my shelves cannot.
CXVIII.
July 11, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Harvest
Drop him, Lord
De-leash your avatar
remove his belongings: scripture, wallet, emblems,
the fleshy-pink, mole-rat-state of nature cocooning him–shed! shed!
he shrivels, buried in vines
he breathes in detritus and waste he becomes (what we became)
he breathes us; digests, deposits us
to worms, we move
to muddy pockets
to water bodies; we sink, we ferment–
“ah, such legs,” Sun says, spinning us in its glass,
“so finely aged . . . I’ll have more.”
CXV.
June 13, 2012 § Leave a Comment
Today is no more significant than the next
but on Earth
today, Timothy McVeigh was sentenced for execution;
today, the Beatles had their last #1 hit, “The Long and Winding Road”;
today, King Charles I married Henrietta Maria of France;
the Edict of Milan granted religious freedom throughout the Roman Empire;
Hitler and Mussolini met;
man-made probe Pioneer 10 passed beyond the orbit of Neptune (now in deep space, out of reach, out of contact–
though, much is out of contact
such as our expectations of time and space,
our paltry attempts of making sense of where we are or why we are.)
Today, Thomas Young
Carl Schmidt
Steve-O, a Roman general, a Holy Emperor
and myself were born. Today, a Japanese sculptor died; so have Macedonian poets and Hungarian biophysicists; also, Muslim clerics and Norwegian athletes.
And I, the American author, am here to fill some nonexistent void we all tap into, this anomaly of time and space,
this networking abstraction;
in it, I am essentially no one. And I’ll do well to remind myself of it.
C.
February 11, 2012 § Leave a Comment
No dreams in particular
- -
the pond, last night, filled with geese; new flocks circled high above, descending among a blaring of imitated-car-horns and slapped water
the cloud-filled-sky masked the outer planets and unconscious stars from where I stood watching dark, feathered figures gather; my eyes could not discern between the ducks or the geese; these living shadows amassed at the rate of what I imagine it takes for a bulb to lose its captured light at the flick of a switch; they became one, huddled race intent to survive,
intent on making it through another season,
another generation
another time
I became another time
a better time for measure