Identity, the white flag, a surrender to social
expectation, the reductio ad absurdum
of self . . .
We simplify ourselves down to an easy-to-follow instructional set, an A-to-B slotting of the personal, if only laden with dabs of our quirks eccentricities, preferences and desires. Creativity factors least.
. . . and smile to disarm. Even when we give the ulterior motives away. In the corners and crevices of emotion. And a kiss . . .
It’s such a lonely feeling
all parts at once in flurry,
as near to invisible,
joy in absentia . . .
–love reigned in is
not an angel.
As the undulations collect and disperse,
betray the deep water’s shared weighty calm,
sunlight crests the melting cloud cover,
sparks and wobbles
in the prism emerald and blue.
The breath of an idea puffs into the chill.
An emotion stirs and wakes.
. . . the last time we spoke
our conversation abruptly ended
though I don’t recall the reason.
I wanted to ask you why
(in so many words)
you still wanted to engage me
despite the fact that we’d likely
never see one another again
after that interaction . . .
Most days, peering out to sea eases
my own agitations. However on that morning,
toes ground into the damp sands,
the air soaked and unpleasant to breathe,
I drew a half-vacant memory:
“It was she who was waiting
for words that never came.”
. . . all across the waves, quiet echoes
in valleys that once were peaks.
And even their momentous beauty
We spoke yesterday of nothing.
Today the silence resonates and decays in an instant.
I haven’t eaten a thing in hours . . .
I walked here. My ankle throbs.
Every beating heart in this vast place goes on
of its own ulterior motive.
I could die here . . . or anywhere.
There are so many things that I will never say.
People continue to move in obscure patterns
oblivious to all the strange and beautiful
thoughts around them dancing, energetic, luminous
yet invisible perhaps forever . . .
I can’t decide.
Some days every bit of food tastes like
a vague, fleshy wetness if not an artifice
of flavor and texture.
I only know that I want something
but not anything . . .
Some stories cannot be told
because we’d destroy our capacity
to live and flourish if we believed them.
I had to tell you that I was thankful
(in so many words) before I left that day
even if you didn’t understand me then.
But later at home
I ate in silence.
ripen at the behest of con-men
in their seedling temperament.
We cannot feel the
at lightning velocity.
When everything not iron-braided
to our wavering arms is
for the frivolous taking
is the only earthly trade
and worth a damn.
I destroy everything I touch
(and all I don’t) by exhausting
their latent meaning. The stories
are all that I possess
until I’ve forgotten how they began.
I can mesh your mind with nonsense
if you consent. Nothing’s more clear
as a method of escape–death,
a dissertation on love
Biology asks us to believe in beauty
as life-giving (and a crucial flaw.)
Nothing we can devour. A breathless
flourish. Evasive . . .
I have no power.
Words begin and end of their own
volition. I’d wish you all well,
but I’ve always been hidden.
( . . . and the narrative chases
me down again. and again.
Superlative, anxious falter, how you grace me:
You, the irons in my ambitious fire, thrust deeper
than sorrow into the furious embers;
You, the undetectable fracture in love;
You, the tidal moaning over the graves
of causes deferred.
The silence elongates you, unfurls you
into a shivering frailty. How heavy
your notes. How seizing
When the whole world opens wide, I
close my eyes. How alone.
However, your immediate chasm
does not swallow, only invites a root.
I am not a tree, a fist from one plot.
I’ll hide from the sun when I need a reprieve,
but the horizon is still mine to bend.
The sun in tatters plies the horizon
over itself, and the anger of the sky
washes into pink acquiescence.
The darkness mulls an offering . . .
. . . that final voluminous hour.
You’ll believe your own lies.
And set them to melody, a skin of euphony
snaking around the most precious nothing . . .
No voices, just an understood echo.
Redacted screams . . .
Like two islands that reach out of their isolation
and capture one another in an eager pose
above the tumbling currents, we leap
all reasonable stirrings of a particular moment.
Whose rocks tower over us, we do not break.
We are nested in their salty crevices
echoing through the thunderous wave breaks
with a curious fear.
To inhale: to dream.
A potency: a gleaming blue.
The sun sets on the old world.
And the canopy of stars is no longer an illusion
but a fertile anchor upon the wild seascape.
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