Conscious Enigma


 
Strange as it may be to say, I don’t possess much of an ego–in the sense that I find it difficult to perceive the world from my own point of view. I see everything in many different ways and cannot say which meshes properly with my self. Perhaps

these ideas are riven
needing something to unify them
but de-flocked,
chased into diffusion by an anxious

soul. Deep within, a murky fold of my being may hold the truth and may one day consent to living it unambiguously. For now, bear with me. All my words and thoughts are misaligned but maintain an enthusiastic gravity. All puzzles nest their solutions.
 
 

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Love as a Nightmare


 
 
In your dreamscape
Fear saturates your entire body
Though of what you cannot say.

You want to be encircled,
ensorcelled by warmth and depth.
However, every moment
is an ocean of deprivation . . .

      Time is ruination,
      entropic death,
      without flesh or blood.

–My heart, the lonely sanctuary,
behind this anxious fortification;
You move like you’re not
moving at all . . .

Even the most anxious sleep
ends, all the better
abrupt.
 
 

Nothing is Real (Everything is Real)

Let’s agree to disagree
      about
why we disagree,
trapped as we are in the regret
of indifference.

Do not grieve against
      nonsense,
the discordant empathy
toward the neglected,
inarticulateness in the face of despair.

(A word.
One single entry in hope’s roster.
Deep-night starlight vocalized.
Smooth yet anxious air relenting.)

We cannot un-listen, un-know,
      simply
because we fear
silence, truth, the horror gasped
from our own self-image.

What do you see when you look
in the mirror? Not what
the rest of the world sees.
And not glass either.

Love is made of the strangest tangles.
But the heart only wants.

Dysphoria


 
 
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
being oneself
all parts at once in flurry,
blur,
as near to invisible,
joy in absentia . . .

–love reigned in is
a devil
not an angel.
 
 

All Across the Waves

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
will dissipate.

Null Pointer

IMG_0004

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.
 
 

(Elliptical)

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
and survival.

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.
and again.)
 
 

Ode to Failure?

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
your melody.

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.