“Desire is a moment with no way out”
I parse each moment’s possibility
Pretending the past can be reconciled
With present desires. Memory wears me
Like a palm stone smoothed from idle handling,
Until no difference exists between
Me and what I have perceived to be me.
The unstable threads interlace with all
The lies, the truth, the last dry sip of gin.
The metaphor for myself unravels:
The little that was left unsaid is said,
And the air sparkles with embarrassment.
I have built constructs out of Tinker Toys,
Vast whirligigs of simplistic ideas
To clack and flail in an ignorant wind.
(December 6, 2018)
It is familiar enough
to be familiar, but no
more: a scratch in the dark
which stops when you stop
to listen to what you think
is a sound somewhere nearby,
but it’s just you thinking
in the silence to the dark.
It’s absence breathes heavily
as if aroused with metaphor
still clinging to its half-formed kiss.
It waits on memory to form
a shape which conforms to desire’s
simple reduction to a truth.
(August 17, 2018)
Unless a care be taken to repair,
happiness is a tenuous lacework,
fragile and personal; the past
and present knot, like fate,
into seemingly intricate patterns
where one thread, time-worn
or simply stressed, snaps,
and the whole unravels into dust.
It comes to a question of hugs
or hurts, as if the two could easily
divide along traceable fault lines,
rather than entwine like caduceus.
I am conflicted as to the intent:
to be wary, or to pretend content.
(August 2, 2018)
“I’ll be your mirror”
I try to write as I am. Of course,
I could be lying—but that’s the trick,
Isn’t it? To write through the skin
until the pen’s nib scratches dry bone,
until the face I present implodes
into the silence from which it rose.
Even when lies are unintended,
one only knows what one only knows:
the mirror lies as often as not.
(July 27, 2018)
The words above the door
replicated and smeared
themselves along the wall.
With one stroke, I saw
what drugs decades before
revealed in delusion:
For a surety,
our projections turn
back proffering chains.
Yet, no chains exist beyond
our myopic visions;
the earth begins and ends
with a whisper, with a shout,
with inarticulate gargling
(May 15, 2018).