Dream Journal #32: Coherence

Like the twisted medieval Streets of Venice
I had a dream where I spoke to Ezra Pound
About cats as we walked near the library
Of the school where I work which was not
The school where I work for these buildings
Were from the sixteenth century with tangled
Labyrinthine halls where in various pockets
And corridors familiar students practiced yoga
Calling for us like the sirens to Odysseus to play
along but Pound kept talking in ever lengthening
tangents which bent back upon themselves as once
Gertrude Stein pithily accused him of explaining
everything I had tried to understand for years
before I awoke and it all fell into fragments
like glass glistening the light off in the distance
(July 17,2017)

Quilt

“I reconstitute a memory”
–Roland Barthes
By now neither hears
The other tell a story
Different than the one
They shared. The past shatters
In the moment. Memory’s
Scattered bits cohere
Only through proximity
And a desire to cohere.
The emotional scraps
Linger. He sanctifies
His past in phrases,
Images, intonations,
Until what she possibly
Meant when she did
What he remembers
Becomes a patchwork
In which he wraps himself
Against the oncoming cold.

(June 7, 2017)

blur

the fragmentary moments vanish
blur into the greater god’s oblivion
one would think yet one does not
possess enough will to resist
the smothering onslaught’s surge
long enough to think for oneself
long enough to think one can
exposition’s time’s relentless
explanation nags at rags
each scrap a potential cause
each thread must unravel
into totality’s tight mosaic
one’s existence is not whole
one exists within the whorl
(March 9, 2017)

Lost in Transition

The horizon blurs
any distinction
between sea and sky.
Pulsating
in long undulations,
in long ululations,
I am at sea,
no rocks
to crash against.
Like pyroclastic flows
cascading down
a ridge line,
my shell cracks,
hesitates,
then shatters.
Something glistens,
for a moment,
in the sea swell.
Which fragment is mine?
Which some other
I’ve taken on?
this chrysalis
will not break;
the wren’s egg’s intact.
I am still,
and cannot breath;
one must stay silent.

(February 25, 2017)

Each Moment an Act of Violence

You move through mirrors;
your reflections’ shards glisten
red visions through your eyes.
You parse bits of time, and
the air undulates in waves
shredding skin past bone.
At aperture’s erasure,
a facet forms as in a fly’s
eye’s shattered dreams,
and you fall between
fragments and trellised
roses’ sharper thorns:
less who you were,
until what you became.
(October 4, 2016)

I Wake Into Myself Yet Again

Memory’s fickle nature turns
all nuance into fragments.
I hold the trembled bits
between my fingertips,
as if I could discern
one moment from the next;
separating fine gradations
like diamond dealers sweeping
stones one pile to the next
with an easy dexterity. I shudder,
like an old bull to the yoke,
beneath the variables framing
all the doors within doors,
until the still life’s vanishing
point collapses into one
I must be for my time left.

(August 5, 2016)