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Whirligig

“Desire is a moment with no way out”

            –Anne Carson

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)

Perpetual Reinterpretation Machine

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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)

 

 

 

Problematic Musings

 

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)

Mimesis

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“I’ll be your mirror”

–Lou Reed

 

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)

We Walk to the Witch’s House in the Wood

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It was a place to go.

It promised us more.

The past had nothing,

but anger and fear.

 

The witch smiled,

because we knew

she was a witch,

but entered freely.

 

Compliance, not cages,

held us to her.

It was easier to

submit, than not.

 

We live in fear

of a better world.

 

(June 2, 2018)

Blur Into Heaven

broken-chains

 

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).