A thick malaise slurs
the day with inarticulate
desires. There is nothing
but dissatisfaction beneath
each prime move. He slips
about the house finding solace
in unread books, in thoughts
of what he might have done.
The pointed questions come:
Why he dawdles over trivialities?
Why he quakes a pauper to his ideals?
Will the last glass of wine be his cause?
Will the safety of his status quo
be the death and guilt of all?
(June 18, 2018)
A deep resonance in waves
flows through my walls
as if they did not exist;
and, I am set atremble
like the wings of a butterfly
on a bit of Queen Anne’s Lace.
Thus fear inculcates the normal
day to day rituals, casually,
like friends meeting for lunch.
I cannot control my shaking.
I have become thin glass
singing in harmony
with the tremulous cacophony;
until I shatter like ice.
(April 29 2018)
Some nights—too often now—I wake
Shouting, flailing from worry
Of someone lurking behind a fence—
Someone who claims to be no one
Who, when I wake to darkness again,
Is correct, if not mistaken—
I cannot find solace in sleep.
On the margins of the night, she sits
And knits in a rocking chair singing,
Weaving stories into the air. She’s not
Singing for me. Yet, I cannot speak
In dreams anymore. Night bruises
The day until my skin is broken
And blood spills as if in sacrifice.
(December 31, 2017)
The familiar voice, a constant whip, rips
Bits of metaphorical flesh to fleck
The truculent air like a moist firework.
If one listens— the recriminations
Claw, maul, snag and cut to reshape the past;
The pressure provides us old forms to drape
Like silk shrouds upon the dead and dying.
I hear the fears of my world, the cold doubt
Niggling each broken phrase, like a dry catch
At the back of the throat. I do not know
What to believe, or which patch can still fix
The tattered fabrications, or which will
Transform into the next tale to be told
Before the voice begins to speak again.
(December 29, 2017)
“I do not hear the scream, […] I am the scream. “
— Edmond Jabès, From the Book to the Book
If I scream,
No one can hear
Over the clamor.
So, I whisper here
To pierce the fray,
Which fades to fire—
A burning to sear
The air free
For us to breathe.
Our throats gasp
The flames like water
Except as syllables
To parse truth from lies.
(November 26, 2017)
Slip like ropes around my neck.
We are never free.
(October 31, 2017)
time and lost desire grind
with relentless imprecision
as the night’s flailings
attempt to toss off the day
muscles along my shoulder
blade cleave my neck
like a well-honed knife
through a lump of raw meat
hard and tight they bend me
like a crumpled can until
so misshapen and abused
I forget who I used to be
the pestle pounds a paste
in the mortar’s shallow bowl
(September 29, 2017)