night gets deeper as the wine becomes shallow. i call this the inverse square law of solitude. not sorrow, merely a means to draw out the darkness where light gets tired in the shade. night is dark, yes, and darkness is still good. i study its shape and dimension, master its geometry, enfold myself in its meaning. after all, how else am i to understand the light? having stared into it, no wonder i am blind. so much the better then. the solo night sojourn, the stillness of a sonata, sonority within a space outside of time and self. my self is half of silence and purity of wonder. life has its afflictions, having learned about different heartaches. so i teach myself new meanings for redemption. memories are only shifting shadows, a light in reverse coming as backward seasons. and there can be no regrets, only the sublimation of ice into air, and i am the intermediary liquid state of being me: a vessel for the wine, a vein of blood from autumn vines, a tangled thicket of time pressed like grapes between inescapable lips. perhaps i am a simulacrum of sensation. and i wait here, anticipating new modes of silence, unshattered stillness. in the meantime, i find myself killing time, but time won't die. so i am forced into the space within words, deeper within a deepening night. perhaps we are waves of hello and good-bye, currents of the sea's coming and going. and this only moment, where my heart is tattooed to my heart. the ink is invisible but you can feel your way across the lines that sketch the blueprint of my blood. perhaps life is a poem, and my heart is a poet. well then, let my tongue be a feather quill. the ink is in the wine glass, after all. i seek sedation within words, as a possible addiction, kinda like a need. writing is a self sacrifice, and i will bleed for you.
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
clarity, for L.M.
clarity is like this: you
awake with the diffuse moon
light scattering your dream
across boundaries suspended by
skin soft touches you merge
into sensation.
you learned this
from the sea. on sand
and on salt you stand
between
two worlds:
one that feeds on you, one
that nurtures you.
the horror and the hope.
tolerance is the measure
of your mettle, how much
life you respond with
after winter
has its way with you.
it is how much heartbreak
you can tolerate
before you are truly broken.
because of this
you befriend fire, shape
and bend the forge
with the force of your will.
will you tame your wild
steed, shod it
with the horseshoes you
shape
to protect your feet
from the hard and abrasive
road of your unpaved life?
clarity is like that: moon
paints a mournful longing
of the sun, sculpts your skin
wrapped in your sleep; dreaming,
you merge sensation
from a senseless world,
where everything is beautiful
despite the suffering you tolerate.
awake with the diffuse moon
light scattering your dream
across boundaries suspended by
skin soft touches you merge
into sensation.
you learned this
from the sea. on sand
and on salt you stand
between
two worlds:
one that feeds on you, one
that nurtures you.
the horror and the hope.
tolerance is the measure
of your mettle, how much
life you respond with
after winter
has its way with you.
it is how much heartbreak
you can tolerate
before you are truly broken.
because of this
you befriend fire, shape
and bend the forge
with the force of your will.
will you tame your wild
steed, shod it
with the horseshoes you
shape
to protect your feet
from the hard and abrasive
road of your unpaved life?
clarity is like that: moon
paints a mournful longing
of the sun, sculpts your skin
wrapped in your sleep; dreaming,
you merge sensation
from a senseless world,
where everything is beautiful
despite the suffering you tolerate.
wither
within, the worn
reaches of things
withering, absence
as my shadow, its
broken appearance as
silent blindness,
when i am only,
and if, and
that is all. such
fantasies as we are, baby,
we come
crashing back
as blackness beneath the clouds,
as waves stumble
drunkenly onto alleyways
between land and sea.
i am no sailor.
i am no longer
defined by these oppositions.
even as it pains
sinks hurts like hooks in skins
blessed with delicacy
and nothing to feel, as
against a warmth
next to cold cravings.
so what
if it was a good time,
the sky
a falling blanket,
neat hair bundles hovering
over this eternal thirst, and
i thirst. still
there is always the walk back.
the drive home.
there is never a home.
there is never my shadow,
its broken light. when i am
only, and if, and
only if. and that
is all.
reaches of things
withering, absence
as my shadow, its
broken appearance as
silent blindness,
when i am only,
and if, and
that is all. such
fantasies as we are, baby,
we come
crashing back
as blackness beneath the clouds,
as waves stumble
drunkenly onto alleyways
between land and sea.
i am no sailor.
i am no longer
defined by these oppositions.
even as it pains
sinks hurts like hooks in skins
blessed with delicacy
and nothing to feel, as
against a warmth
next to cold cravings.
so what
if it was a good time,
the sky
a falling blanket,
neat hair bundles hovering
over this eternal thirst, and
i thirst. still
there is always the walk back.
the drive home.
there is never a home.
there is never my shadow,
its broken light. when i am
only, and if, and
only if. and that
is all.
language of the dead
as in what constitutes the fleshen
bone and intimacy of our dead
language we are given unto these
meanings
traced back to our lives, each
lie, a suspicious truth
we invent after the last
spent skin slithers past.
are we capable? as
silhouettes like myths
cast onto these walls
caving in,
seeping into
neutral limbo.
who are you?
or are we beyond
questioning,
as realistic representatives
of what we can never really have,
holding onto things
we never really had. clutching
at silence. not speaking
words, these symbols
of the new warfare.
weapons we turn on each other
trying to undress our pretenses.
as overtures to the great lie.
love, they say, as virtue,
but is vice.
love, they say, as words,
betraying reasons for evol intent.
here we see our naked folly,
the beloved, the enemy. within.
here is where you slide the knife in,
this is when i pull the trigger.
let us say the words together.
i am alone.
bone and intimacy of our dead
language we are given unto these
meanings
traced back to our lives, each
lie, a suspicious truth
we invent after the last
spent skin slithers past.
are we capable? as
silhouettes like myths
cast onto these walls
caving in,
seeping into
neutral limbo.
who are you?
or are we beyond
questioning,
as realistic representatives
of what we can never really have,
holding onto things
we never really had. clutching
at silence. not speaking
words, these symbols
of the new warfare.
weapons we turn on each other
trying to undress our pretenses.
as overtures to the great lie.
love, they say, as virtue,
but is vice.
love, they say, as words,
betraying reasons for evol intent.
here we see our naked folly,
the beloved, the enemy. within.
here is where you slide the knife in,
this is when i pull the trigger.
let us say the words together.
i am alone.
flunkie junkie
such is insanity, these
modes of culture and history,
a junkie nation
getting high on itself, strung
out on stupid. addicted
to drivel, straight shit
to the brain, a gutter siphoning.
all things news
worthy of debate. as if.
a debasing.
when the past comes alive, zombie
fascism, and old Henry,
the Big K, chuckling to himself.
Puppet peep show,
down and dirty, this
mass onanism
a grand old parrrrtay!
Pretenders
to the new McCarthyism,
these no-dirt-under-their-nails
artifices of intelligence.
such dead weight, counter
ballast of leaden feet wooden minds
listing this sinking citizen
ship. we sail
through fog and spittle seas,
the blow hard blowing hard, and
fuck them fuck
them. how easy to forget
history, we junkie flunkies
of today.
modes of culture and history,
a junkie nation
getting high on itself, strung
out on stupid. addicted
to drivel, straight shit
to the brain, a gutter siphoning.
all things news
worthy of debate. as if.
a debasing.
when the past comes alive, zombie
fascism, and old Henry,
the Big K, chuckling to himself.
Puppet peep show,
down and dirty, this
mass onanism
a grand old parrrrtay!
Pretenders
to the new McCarthyism,
these no-dirt-under-their-nails
artifices of intelligence.
such dead weight, counter
ballast of leaden feet wooden minds
listing this sinking citizen
ship. we sail
through fog and spittle seas,
the blow hard blowing hard, and
fuck them fuck
them. how easy to forget
history, we junkie flunkies
of today.
time zup
what time i
have is found
in the wastes
countless and ticking
up to never never
those moments
with moments
of another person's life
and another person's life
until someone says
enough
i've had enough
and somewhere else
someone is waiting
with their moments
hoping
to fill a hole with
time we borrow
from each other
and the world fills up
with time with
wasted time sometimes
fun or worth it
or worthless
spending all this time
trying to forget it
and how can we be better
how can we ever hope
to be good people
if all we ever are
is selfish
is a plea for pity
is time falling down
a deep dark hole
waiting to be forgotten
the way it always is
always
time
always closing
ending always
have is found
in the wastes
countless and ticking
up to never never
those moments
with moments
of another person's life
and another person's life
until someone says
enough
i've had enough
and somewhere else
someone is waiting
with their moments
hoping
to fill a hole with
time we borrow
from each other
and the world fills up
with time with
wasted time sometimes
fun or worth it
or worthless
spending all this time
trying to forget it
and how can we be better
how can we ever hope
to be good people
if all we ever are
is selfish
is a plea for pity
is time falling down
a deep dark hole
waiting to be forgotten
the way it always is
always
time
always closing
ending always
me bridge them
something, then, if
sensation, certainly
beyond a feeling, where
words have yet to be formed,
to be
thoughtspoken, but
they're water so
they're within us
and all over the place,
this place, this
planet like a spinning tear
dropping
out of some galactic eye
in a candy shop
full of children.
some
thing, then, in
the realm of sense, as
internal cognition, familiar
like family. i am
a time bridge, spanning
a river, mysterious
bloody ancient
present and futuring,
connecting the shores
of some distant then
to this here now, this
here now, this here and now
these two better halves
of myself becoming
themselves.
is this what love
is? but be
yond words?...
sensation, certainly
beyond a feeling, where
words have yet to be formed,
to be
thoughtspoken, but
they're water so
they're within us
and all over the place,
this place, this
planet like a spinning tear
dropping
out of some galactic eye
in a candy shop
full of children.
some
thing, then, in
the realm of sense, as
internal cognition, familiar
like family. i am
a time bridge, spanning
a river, mysterious
bloody ancient
present and futuring,
connecting the shores
of some distant then
to this here now, this
here now, this here and now
these two better halves
of myself becoming
themselves.
is this what love
is? but be
yond words?...
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