by
This is not me—
Nor a representation
Like a photo or a word.
I exist in the tension
Tearing at my heart:
The moment between beats,
A hollow space
drifting amid
Particles of dust,
The movement
From one syllable
To the next.
I am not here
Anymore
Than you.
(January 2, 2018)
by
“Cold is desire,
cold
(being old):”
–H. D.
Speak to me,
Embers glow,
A fire stirs:
In dreams
It seems,
You come:
Approach—
Like a winter’s
Sun:
Frost pale,
Moon pale,
Still light:
Morning teases
The aging night.
(January 1, 2018)
by
Some nights—too often now—I wake
Shouting, flailing from worry
Of someone lurking behind a fence—
Someone who claims to be no one
Who, when I wake to darkness again,
Is correct, if not mistaken—
I cannot find solace in sleep.
On the margins of the night, she sits
And knits in a rocking chair singing,
Weaving stories into the air. She’s not
Singing for me. Yet, I cannot speak
In dreams anymore. Night bruises
The day until my skin is broken
And blood spills as if in sacrifice.
(December 31, 2017)
by
The familiar voice, a constant whip, rips
Bits of metaphorical flesh to fleck
The truculent air like a moist firework.
If one listens— the recriminations
Claw, maul, snag and cut to reshape the past;
The pressure provides us old forms to drape
Like silk shrouds upon the dead and dying.
I hear the fears of my world, the cold doubt
Niggling each broken phrase, like a dry catch
At the back of the throat. I do not know
What to believe, or which patch can still fix
The tattered fabrications, or which will
Transform into the next tale to be told
Before the voice begins to speak again.
(December 29, 2017)
I find you in your eyes;
Why do I turn away?
(December 27, 2017)
by
apologies to u-t-l
silence surrounds,
it spins, it grows.
beings sprout
in silence.
the secret’s
hope;
listen:
a snowflake
kisses leaf’s tip
at forest center.
(December 26, 2017)
by
Always on the periphery
Of many misunderstandings,
She slowly dances alone
Along the firelight’s flickered edge:
Almost blind,
Almost about to see.
Shadows sway the light
Back and forth like a lover’s
First dance. Neither’s willing
To take the lead; both desire
To surrender. Their bodies
Cleave each to each. She cannot
Read his intent, nor its
Inevitable consequence.
(December 26, 2017)
by
“yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me”
—Malvolio, 12th Night, William Shakespeare
I wasn’t one of them,
I just want you to know—
I wasn’t like those others
She said almost as if she
Believed what she said
He smiled and nodded
As she said it again
But he knew as well
As she that she was one
Of them and was the same
But he was in love and wanted
Her to be what he wanted
Her to be not with those
Who were those who giggled
And mocked his doleful thoughts
Not that he cared then or now
He was in love then as now
And wonders now why she
Wanted him so badly to know
She wasn’t one of them
(December 24, 2017)
by
at the edge waited a bridge
made of clouds which stretched
off toward a vanishing point
I watched the slow sway
of the span and hesitated
lightning scarred the sky
then night retook its domain
I am still broken
(December 22, 2017)
by
A time to speak up
Think of it
Not
As punctuation,
But rather
Dialect, decorated
By accented diacritical marks.
If I speak in such
A manner that’s averse
To the way your words wander,
Perhaps you should listen
To how variations
Play across our story:
Resistance exists
Along the blade
Of consonant’s hiss and click.
As the oldest god
Has whispered before:
The word changes the world.
(December 20, 2017)
by
“Above all, don’t lie to yourself.”
| — | Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov |
I can lie to myself easily enough,
With small shifts in the story to adjust
The present view, to accommodate
a new façade on the old denouement.
Although, it is less work to accept
The dominant narrative; the mundane
Given, leading toward an obvious proof;
Someone else’s truth not your own.
I am so tired, and there are so many
Steps to manage the smallest crisis:
What to buy for dinner? Should I change
Lanes now, or wait a mile or two.
I simply rearrange the bread crumbs
I’ve dropped for you along the way.
(December 20, 2017)
by
Each morning, I re-inscribe rituals
For the approaching day, rescind
The night’s remains with haste
And diligence to avoid decay
Into a more disruptive pattern.
I move through the dark, from bed
To stairs, as bits of dream and desire
Intermingle like fireflies drifting
Through a midsummer field.
An echo of night’s constellations,
I connect arbitrary bits in the past,
Tracing lines into patterns I imagine,
Until all my life’s lore is rewoven,
And I step into the day fully clothed.
(December 19, 2017)
by
I drop the words
Into my hands,
Roll the syllables
Through my fingers
To feel their viscosity.
The raw taste of blood
Lingers along the consonant’s
Sharp tang, bitter, yet
Desperate to be devoured.
I hunger for questions,
Which will provide
A key, a new translation,
To open a door
Through this emptiness.
(December 18, 2017)
by
let me define you
not as the fantasy
you think you know
as the one who listens
but the transcendent you
who listens vaguely
into silence
as the roiling dark
devours your edges
like slow kisses
traced across
your tense skin
until you vanish
beneath the words
(December 16, 2017)
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