Raven flutters close,
Peers into window glass,
Senses nothing but himself,
and flies away content.
(July 9, 2017)
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Inarticulate Roots Tangle
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“to try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little”–Roland BarthesAnother day whistling phrases from pop song melodiesHours after they’ve played on the radio on his way to work.Another night as he twists in sleep worrying phrases he heardOther people say as he wandered haplessly through his day.His silence and blather pulled him ever deeper into the morass.He said too much too late, and too little when it could’ve mattered.Fragmented and inarticulate to the end, he parses his phrasesSharply between all he said and all he wished she had heard.(July 9, 2017) -
Here Maps Do Not Exist
The parts of the paththat have not succumbedto the rising floodwatersdeepen the treachery of the way.The secure step seduces.With no ground to stand upon,nothing to absorb the blood,it’s hard to justify one truth.Safety’s monogamous.It holds one tight in beliefthat there is no other way.One’s position must be trueto maintain a proper balance.The lie of the land is neverto be trusted; static, or fluxis inconsequential. What gripone can acquire is equallyaccidental and delusional.Trails here have collapsed,Vanished beneath undergrowth.(July 4, 2017)
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The Subject of a Love Poem
“it is assimilated into the subject’s hallucination”he wrote another poemto herit meant nothingto himit meant everythingagainhe wrote another poemto hernot the poem of herof lovebut of his love or loveto hershe read the poemas a poemnot a poem of loveto hernot a poem of lovefrom himbut a poem he wroteof lovebut not a poem to herof his loveonly a poem of lovenot her(July 3, 2017) -
she did not respond
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“for it is always that the other will simply ask no question whatever about these unaccustomed glasses that the other will see, in the fact, no sign.”–Roland Barthesand there he was the person whohe was looking for all this timeas if anyone else could step forthother than the one who waited therehis pen obliquely scratched the pagelike an old dog lost in his sleepthere is no other other than youhe said to himself slowlyso even he could comprehendthat his words had no meaningexcept to the one who listenedexcept to the one who heardhe lay down next to the still waterand admired his reflection in the pond(June 25, 2017) -
The Act’s Compromised
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“a whole scene through the keyhole of language”–Roland BarthesStray bits of light glowed along the edges:What he wanted her to say in contrastTo what she said. We only see what’s there,What we understand. Through the dark, firefliesShout out for love in sharp intermittentBursts. How do we ever find each other?He understood little of what she said.His desire, her intent, shrank the language‘til fine grains of difference determinedIf either could move without consequence.With one key to the code, a tumbler fell,A latch opened, yet, the door remained closed.Enough had been said; they each bent to reada denouement from their side of the door.(June 23, 2017) -
Hunger’s Shadow
“I keep swallowing and regurgitating my wound”–Roland BarthesHe pulls the same morselFrom his fleshAnother day’s gnawingSavoring the nuanceIn iron and gallSucked between his teethThen spews it outTo feed the woundThat still hungersLong after she has gone(June 19, 2017) -
time absorbs us all
“she is no longer the other, but one among others”–Roland Barthesas each moment of his memoryblurs into his present desireall his erasures rise againthrough her as she dissolvesinto a panoply of shifting starsagainst the relative stabilityhe holds in his empty handsuntil they too fall into dust(June 19, 2017) -
Come to Me
“the efflorescence of causality”–Roland Bartheslike wind through maple leavesher words drifted through himshe mouthed her desirealong the tendons of his neckher kisses were like morningglory’s tendrils unfurlingalong a tree branch’secstatic longing for the sun(June 17, 2017) -
Doors
“this cascade of alternatives”–Roland BarthesEach moment opened and closedA hundred hundred moreOpened and closed a hundredHundred more after those untilThe clatter of it all crackled likeHer laughter loud and electricas the current moved through himAnd he heard the multi-foliate roseUnfold as each petal grew and fellEach moment’s possibilities flourishingThen collapsing upon themselvesSo quickly he could barely breatheAs if love were a mountain waterfallAnd he caught up in her tumult and mist(June 17, 2017) -
Reflection’s Projections
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“the other is the figure of my truth, and cannot be imprisoned in any stereotype (which is the truth of others).”–Roland BarthesHe is no more this, than shePermits outside the wallsHe hides behind. No tropeTo be conjured within, sheVaguely files her nails,And thinks of him lessThan what to have doneAt the spa. He knowsHer as he imagines,Not as she is told. SheBelieves she does notChange outside herself,As much as he desiresHer to be more than both.(June 15, 2017) -
Labyrinth
“the victim of his own image-repertoire?”–Roland BarthesHe was lost in the mazeHe created, so many stringsTo find and reconfigure:Did she say those words?Did he take the right turn?The pieces splayed beneathHis hands like tarot cards.He could not read the futureAny better than the past.The present remained nearby.His vision placed blindersTo direct his attention:Go there, do this, conform.The only maze was hisunwillingness to escape.(June 14, 2017) -
Inscribed Runes
“my desire clings”–Roland BarthesShe clings to him
Like scarsWritten into his skinShe entangles his wordsTurns them toward himUntil he is changed(June 13, 2017) -
Permeable Verb
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“words leak through definition”–Roland BarthesHe became a part of speech,A statement without needOf a response. She fell afterThe predicate, and waitedTo be acted upon. Yet, heCouldn’t define the subjectBy himself. There had to beMore than his limits allowed,More to the conversationThan life’s mundane truths.He watched as she erasedHim slowly with time,Leaving a smudged outlineOf an incomplete sentence.(June 13, 2017)
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