I project myself onto a new world
Which is not mine, but simply becomes mine.
These become moments when something happens
And nothing happens. I exist tangled
In marginalia, a handwriting
Stitched upon the edges. Another book
Becomes a palimpsest to my tired thought,
A filter to strain away the slither.
Roman priests examined the intestines
Of animals slaughtered for sacrifice.
To devine auguries in the moment,
When something happened, and nothing happened,
They would take the eviscerated signs-
The clots of blood, the bits of flesh, as truth.
(November 30, 2018)
I step out the door,
Another muggy fall day:
Mules trudge through the field.
Mud slowly sucks at my step;
I shall fall and become earth.
(September 20, 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)
Repetition runs counter to chaos.
The steady tap-tap declares one
to be; it belies the random
scratch upon the prison wall.
Only for a moment one rises
above the skitter of rat’s feet
through dry straw to say it
again: I am here, I am here.
Too often ritual’s condemned
as too difficult a constraint
to work within. Yet, there is no
freedom in the sun’s fire and fusion.
Freedom’s found in the patterned
improvisation of predictability.
(May 7, 2018)
A fire flares and flickers
As the dark embers pulse,
Keeping beat to the dancer’s
Feet twirling in a circle.
He hesitates to speak,
To throw his slow mind
Into relief against her quick
Laughter rippling the room.
His words bind him to earth
Like roots tangling underground;
Hers flutter like butterflies
Rising as one from flowers.
Flames, flowers, roots and embers
Turn, and turn, and turn again.
(January 30, 2018)