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Flux

“the warmth spun by the word

around its center the dream called ourselves”

                        –Tristan Tzara

He steps into seams

to sow a discord,

so as to unravel

that which cannot

be patched with 

threaded needles.

Like veins feed

extremities of flesh,

roots rip into earth

in increments

turning aside the grain

as one would wade

through water, searching.

He knows this as himself:

with walls, without walls,

doors opened, doors closed,

or no doors at all.

He stands within a room.

He confines himself

to his consigned spaces.

His hands rarely held high

in an ecstatic dance, but

tucked tightly together

holding himself wholly.

What walls wait for

him to stand before

dissolve in streams 

winding their way

toward a dead sea.

So it flows, again,

emergent, never 

itself, each moment

becomes the next

excuse for love,

the next consequence

to be sorted

like bits of broken glass

for a new mosaic

scattered across a table.

(August 28, 2019)

Lost Books

Several weeks ago something made me think about rereading Tristan Tzara’s “Approximate Man.” I searched every bookcase in the house multiple times( yes, I am obsessive). I couldn’t find it. I knew I had not loaned it out… I mean who do I know that would want to read it? Then yesterday, from across the room, I spotted it on the shelf in plain sight. I figure a ghost, or old age.

eye of the storm

eye-of-the-storm

in this vacuous world the air is pulled

from these lungs like a scream on a string

a whirlygig’s motion without purpose

other than to click and clack in the wind

 

as winter branches break against branches

with a self-flagellating destruction

my words flail against themselves in anger

searching for a simplicity not there

 

I’ve desired to speak since I was a child

but have been hesitant to raise my voice

above the churning storm outside the door

 

the constant turmoil conspires to control

like a hand at my throat each syllable

until all I could say is ground to dust

 

(September 26, 2018)

Supplication

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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)

Dream Journal #34: He Promised No Promises

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You were a dream, as was she,

but neither of you were the dream.

She kept shifting from dark to light.

Both of you were, simultaneously

light and dark, entwined like lovers

tangled in a kiss. He watched, intrigued

and somewhat guilty, as if a voyeur

peering through bedroom blinds.

The dream kept returning to you

and her together, but not together;

separate in your costumes and colors:

red and black lace against warm skin;

a part of the ambient background

reasserting itself again into day.

He woke often, then returned to you,

in the dream, with her. The dream

turned the morning back into itself,

until where each of them left off vanished,

like promises which were never made.

 

(May 7, 2018)

Recorded Evidence

Unknown

 

I stand beneath layers

of my sedimentation,

as if the very air

has turned to silt

settling to the sea floor.

I know no tendency

toward an escape

beyond a calm acceptance

of the fossil formed

from what used to be me.

A configuration shaped

to a shell implies a notion

of what it once meant to be

a creature alive in the sea.

 

(April 25, 2018)