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)
a small difference
between where I am
and what I see
determines today’s
direction
the wind buffets
the cell I push
against
as if words
can protect us
(December 14, 2017)
by
As if thrown into the sea,
I drown in myself. Adrift,
Worn from lack of sleep again,
I berate and taunt my past.
Each faux pas, each arrogant
Act, repeated and rehashed
Until each cringe inducing
Detail is nailed to my skin.
Time does not layer armor
Tightly enough to protect
Against the internal thrusts,
But rather sharpens the blade
To more precisely dissect
Each vein flowing from my heart.
(December 14, 2017)
by
I hear your voice still,
But as a whisper.
The words wisp, like mist,
And shift shape as lisped
Past context’s vague edge.
What was said lingers,
A cold recompense
To hold this absence.
(December 14, 2017)
I have forgotten my voice,
And become smaller. I don’t know
where I was lost, which forked road,
which whimsical decision.
Once in Vermont late at night,
A dark so dark I could see
Only the dark, I was lost
With no flashlight to open
A seam in nights starless threat.
So, I stopped, stood still, knowing
The sun would eventually
Rise to reveal the way home.
Reason’s path does not matter
To the ground I sit upon.
(December 9, 2017)
by
I am nothing, but all:
a totality without
definition to describe
the vacuity within.
Bound to my skin
like a bear raging
against its chains,
each second contemplates
its blood-soaked revenge,
as if an afterthought
confirming the mistake
turns with disdain
from the banquet table
unable to renege.
(December 6, 2017)
With a voice inflected
Like morning light,
You whisper in my ear.
Edges are so near;
One’s well past,
Then notices.
The rose unfolds,
Then falls.
There is never enough time.
On the verge of tears,
I hold you
In this moment:
Precarious,
Yet whole.
(December 4, 2017)
