An image like a flower,
something simple, a cliche
even, to distract away
from the slight of hand performed
beneath the mark’s open gaze.
Like now, for instance, you turn
your attention from the poem,
secure in your own slow thoughts;
what you trust to know trembles
as if a leaf in autumn.
Here exists my truth and yours.
I can explain myself true,
in a way that you cannot.
Thus, seeds grow into flowers.
(November 25, 2018)
Within the parameters
Which define me,
Am I who I am,
Or who I have created?
I revise a simple story
Of which I am a part;
The story compels belief,
And I comply completely.
I am only a part of
this story as a voice
I hear, which stays near
Slightly behind all I do:
I am this voice, this story;
I am my only limitation.
(November 20, 2018)
“..truth is often nothing more than meaning”
—Trinh T. Minh-ha
I mean–
what can I say,
you know?
I’m just talking,
to myself.
You know
what I mean?
I imagine you
do, since
I hear what
you’re saying–
You understand
what I mean?
(November 13, 2018)
“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.”
–Ludwig Wittgenstein
Emerson once wrote
that the first circle
is that of the eye.
My self fleshed in words
falls in a circle
that binds me to god.
My world’s in my voice
which whispers close by.
The first circle sees
these limitations
inscribed in thin lines
along the edges
of my fragile skin.
The weight of my words
holds me to the ground
where the air grows thick.
No fairy circles
exist to conjure
magic from a dance
only a few know.
I know my own dance;
each step a new world,
each thought adds new flesh
to my empty bones:
my thoughts embodied
in the day’s motion.
I wander slowly,
head bound in prayer,
obsessively lost
in the ancient turns
one must take each day
to gather the strands
that were left behind
by all the others
who tried to escape.
(June 14, 2018)
Much of what I write these days
sounds like a rote confession;
yet, I am no savior, even to myself.
So to hear the nuance thicken
around a verb in my own ear,
I must speak a native tongue;
and like all true stories I tell,
I shape myself to a form
which best suits my desires.
I collect what is at hand,
charting all my little failures
as profound, as if the paucity
of my life could ever be enough
to transcend these humble clichés.
(May 31, 2108)
Despite my resistance,
or perhaps as a result,
I live within boundaries,
yet am unable to discern
clean edges, as all walls
fall into grey on approach.
The poem is dark, as you,
who like a peeping Tom,
slip through these words,
hoping to glimpse more
at the window frame open
before you than can be
imagined on your own.
This is a portrait of me
within a frame, a simple
frame, not minimalistic,
certainly not ornate,
for either would provide
far too much that is not
a part of me as if it were;
and, you would believe
these thick lines to be
exposing more to you
than I could possibly
reveal on my own,
as if I do not know
what it is I write.
It is arrogance to think,
on my part and yours,
without blinds one can
see all that exists
within a well-lit room
while standing on the street,
as if life were a simple
sentence tucked neatly
in a proffered book,
like a love letter
marking a certain poem
lovers shared in secret.
Oh, do not tell me how
to see the lines I write,
nor open my words
to finger a wound,
probing for pock marks
to read like Braille
along bloody bones.
Yes, this is me here.
Yet, it is just as much
not me. My borders
extend like language
blurring dialects
with familial tongues.
I refuse to speak
Into the silence
simply to speak,
as if any sound
by itself could be
enough to save us
from our muffled
dread always near.
(May 27, 2018)
My mouth is my wound,
a stigmata of broken teeth
and words. My tongue’s slashed
like ribbons flapping
in the mountain’s wind.
My prayers snap violently
into the icy air’s silence.
I don’t know what to do
now: swallow my own
blood, and drown; or spit
my life onto the ground
to call forth a bitter
beast which I fear
will devour me whole?
(May 11, 2018)
