Category Archives: delusion

radius

The eye is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary figure is repeated with end.

–Ralph Waldo Emerson, Circles

I do not know where I am

nor by extraction where you

are in relation to me

other than someone else

.

when I look at you you become

the object of my sentence

a reference toward action

that is wholly defined in me

.

my eye contains the complexity

deep within the oyster’s pearl

layer upon layer’s luster

shines with time’s light

.

an accumulation of vision’s

blind devotion to itself

(April 14, 2020)

Belief Leads Us On

The pursuit of happiness

provides a simple delusion

that happiness exists; and

that, if we continue chasing

blindly behind this empty

flag, we shall one day trip

over it as over a rock,

and fall into eternal bliss.

So, we run on, full of purpose

and dread, as if encased

in a cloud of angry bees.

(March 18, 2020)

allegory

from a work-in-progress: process, not a journey (39)

each day the shadow

fluctuates

each day

I cover my face

from fear

of the shadow

from anger

from humiliation

that no one sees

rising and falling

with accusations

to be some other

as candle flames

flicker a wall

(March 12, 2020)

echo chamber

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (29)

the mirror reflects

a person I cannot see

.

familiar yet

not

.

a ghost

that is me

(February 19, 2020)

disambiguation

from a work in progress: “process, not a journey” (18)

I’ve been here before

floating adrift frightened

the water is cold

–

a door opens

I walk through an emptiness

to arrive in another

–

I’ve been here before

this time the people are blue

and the music hasn’t started

–

a door opens

air rushes in

to fill the space

–

I don’t want to repeat

but no one is listening

and patterns are seductive

–

years later

the same song plays

I dance alone

–

I’ve been here before

a door opens

I step through

–

there is no dream

there is no metaphor

the wind is silent

(January 23, 2020)

Fairy Tale Endings

from an untitled serial poem (2)

tufts of dark fur

scraps of red cloth

broken glasses pools

of wine the remnants

of someone’s meal

are splashed across

the cottage like blood

on a butcher’s apron

she is not here

neither is he

one fled

one’s dead

birds hop and sing

on the window sill

a family of rabbits

nibble grass

along the path

the door lies shattered

on the ground

dry splinters of wood

punctuate the grass

with unvoiced cliches

(January 3, 2020)

Mistranslations

My past imperfections intercede

to lay claim to what I can see.

The air between thickens in time

like delirious veils in the wind.

Each word she spoke I heard

as if her fingers on my arm

traced a secret in braille

I was too blind to read.

*

Now too tired to transform time,

I watch myself as if dead;

the chill pushes through my flesh,

like a rat gnawing in the wall.

Time’s translations fill my silence

with the words neither of us spoke.

(December, 20, 2019)

Lightning Ignites the Core of a Tree

All around him, the forest burns,

uncontrolled, beautiful.

The warmth reassures him

with its certainty.

His fingers burn; the flesh

chars as on a spit.

He turns, searching;

but she is gone, if ever

she were truly there.

He stands alone,

arms outstretched.

Flames leap through the trees;

smoke swallows the sky.

(December 10, 2019)

An Early Spring Day in Paris, 1984

The Seine flows

endlessly

around us.

We sit on the tip

of the Ile de la Cite

as if on a boat’s bow,

sailing up the river.

The sun shines,

like a promise,

after days of cold rain.

We drink a decent Bordeaux,

eat fresh pate smeared

across chunks of ubiquitous baguette.

Notre Dame looms

darkly behind

in its medieval bulk.

We are in love, as we

are still forty years later.

Nearby,

above a former morgue,

is a memorial

to the two hundred thousand martyrs

handed over to the Nazis by the Vichy

for deportation to the camps

forty years before we sat happily

oblivious to all but the beauty

of that one Parisian afternoon.

(September 19, 2019)

Exposure

Another layer’s stripped

away, as through attrition,

until the grain of my skin

bleeds through, a botched tattoo.

Randomly, I pick a book

off the shelf and read notes

from decades ago I left

in the margins, and wonder:

who was I then to write

myself into a text so poorly;

while knowing, I am

no different now.

I am nude on a stair,

descending into myself.