by
Stop. I’ve said too much
to you. Stop. Like smoke,
I hold traces: conversations,
finger tips along my arm.
Stop. I cannot. Stop.
Love crushed me. Stop.
Still you run rampant
through my poems. Stop.
For years without reply.
Stop. I want you still
To say something. Stop.
What vague answers
Can I give you? Stop.
Other than this. Stop.
(November 21, 2018)
by
like so many broken bones
scattered on a shaman’s floor
wait to be puzzled back
into our imaginations
these are the answers
I do not know as these
are the questions I am
too frightened to ask
the fragments are small and soft
the edges vague indeterminate
how they are to be returned
whole waits troubled for night
as each day’s tenuous relation
struggles to piece the past entire
(November 21, 2018)
by
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)
by
“..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)
by
“Knowledge of the name gives him who knows it mastery even over the being and will of the god.”
–Ernst Cassirer
The mythos surrounding
Can’t in positivity
Can’t hide the truth
That can’t can
Always be said,
And can occur
Even when said
Can’t can’t.
Ultimately changing
A word can’t change
the word. Limits
Exist that can’t be
Broken, even when
We say they can’t.
(November 12, 2018)
by
After the teacher conference
spent listening to others
speak of techniques
to hold their students
locked around an idea
of reading and writing
with little actual reading
or writing of consequence,
I am reminded of a Greek
statue of a wrestler,
who stands silent
scraping sweat and
filth from his arm,
his day done.
(November 11, 2018)
“How have you made division of yourself?”
–William Shakespeare, 12th Night
In order to feel,
I parse the world.
Behind prescription’s
Veiled violence,
I choke out
A staccato song
Into the resonance
Of the reflected world:
I am you— but
I am not you,
no more than the air
Is our breath
Fogging briefly
The silvered glass.
(November 6, 2018)
Often while reading,
I scan the words,
turn the pages,
and then the book
vanishes, and I vanish,
aware of nothing.
To hold nothing,
and have nothing hold,
I desire this freedom–
a breath unnoticed,
as it is
ubiquitous:
Radiant, without center,
I cannot name
my discontent.
A wind, at my ear,
stills as I turn;
yet, still’s nearby.
(November 4, 2018)
He could not sleep
In the dream,
So he wandered,
Without moving
Room to room,
Worrying details,
While obliquely
Hiding
His traces.
Until like a flower’s
Augury For love’s
True answer, he strips
Off the flavors
Of the dying night,
And stands barren,
Without possibility
Within the omnipresent
Never-ending day.
(November 1, 2018)
by
Somewhere, not here
A field lies open,
Unframed, without
Mind, as if lost,
Waiting on ritual.
In Increments,
I have changed.
Each day dawns
Into itself;
There is no other.
Hear, and here
As well, I
Still seek
Her across
These echoes:
She followed
A fragile winter
Ice across a lake.
I am cold; the wood
Grown dark.
(October 30, 2018)
Someone has already been here
Always, even if you are still
Unaware of her presence.
You are never alone, even
When you are alone, in awe
On a mountain cliff’s edge.
Someone has been here—
Even if only in imagination
Someone has been where you go.
Everyone you have met—
Everyone you have read—
Everyone, even the slightest touch
Has always already existed
Inside you now, and forever.
(October 26, 2018)
by
There is nothing here, she says
holding out her heart.
He demurs in silence and
refuses to speak his part.
No matter, she improvises,
each stone’s cut smooth…
…and takes its place, he smiles,
like fate into its groove.
There are no walls, she says,
when nothing’s to divide.
The walls are real, he says,
everyone has something to hide.
Again, she offers her heart;
and, he has forgotten his part
(October 21, 2018)
by
I have a sarcophagus
To hide within:
No key holes
Through which to spy,
Nor allow spider
Silk strands of light.
I keep secrets
From myself there.
Under interrogation,
I will not confess
What I know—
When I am alone,
And frightened,
I go into its dark.
(October 17, 2018)
by
He picks up a rock,
He puts it down.
He picks up a rock,
He puts it down.
He tells himself:
Don’t pick it up;
He picks up the rock,
He puts it down.
He tells himself
He is stupid—
He tells himself
Not to say such things.
He tells himself
He is stupid
For saying such things,
Then says them again.
He tells himself
Don’t pick it up.
He picks up the rock,
And puts it down.
(October 15, 2018)
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