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)
no dragons burn and pillage
even when lost in metaphorical
forests. the children’s screams
in the candy houses next door
are real enough not to be just
symbols in a jungian melodrama
analyzed casually over a cup of tea.
there are no stories to hide within.
the steel-eyed king and queen
handing down impartial justice
never existed anymore than the gods
who were used to justify raw power.
Whereas the black-helmed men
with polished shields and truncheons
still freely move down city streets
searching for someone else to kill.
(October 12, 2018)
While the mendacious moan
their pious exclamations
to smother any dissent,
a metaphor translates thought,
holds out the broken leaves
as an offering from the gods,
an opening to move through
to find a different bend
in the light you’ve come to know.
The ground, slightly uneven,
is common enough, a solid
base to build upon.
Simple words whispered
into temples and prisons.
(August 21, 2018)
the words were a way out
between the rigid definitions,
the expectations carved in cant
the words slipped along fault
line’s edges; the incongruous fissured
like water through the undefined
the words wore meaning there,
bare and taut, shrugging off
all social niceties for love
the words were love for the world:
the laughter of the sun rippling
the horizon further each day
words were a way to a salvation
from what I was not to become
(June 25, 2018)
Me, I’m much more mundane:
just piles of clutter collected over
meandering decades: associations
misconstrued; memories cast,
broken, reconfigured again
and then again into iteration
after iteration, before scattered
about the place so willy-nilly
one can barely move without
stumbling, causing stacks to collapse
onto stacks, shifting the only path
throughout this maze as if there
were ever one way to go,
as I was about to find out.
(June 21, 2018)
there is always that moment which arrives
when the conversation has abated
and all that must be said remains unsaid
and our minds’ sharp intimacies depart
amid insincere handshakes and chaste hugs
in a doorway and what occurred that night
vanishes into small talk’s silent wish
and this wish is somehow always the same
which is somehow that what one says matters
enough somehow to whomever may hear
that they will somehow respond in a way
which will somehow equate as well to your
first desire and yet still somehow both will
mange to survive your disparate lives
(January 31, 2018)