(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.

Contemplative Moorings (A Reject From My Book of the Same Name)

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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Nascency

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In the greatness of our fallen ambitions,
that one fertile rift,
      soil from stone,
agrees to the flourishing of bladed tufts,
a patchwork of cautiousness,
      optimism as tenderness,
the soul reborn from decay . . .

Empathy prohibits an examination
of survival, consciousness, all the
thrashing beauty in
a breath.

. . . every ripening hour is devoured
all the same.
 
 

And/Or

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I’m afraid of forever
that impossibly distant roar of time,
the call to vacancy: everything
must pass . . .
And the tremors feel more real to me
than my (passing familiarity with)
contentment (i.e. hello. –or perhaps
in a miraculous twist, a more familiar
admonishment to stay . . . )
In either image
(every choice, a refraction of a simple
trick of light–) we struggle on to
the very end and/or subsequent
beginning.
(–As the vibrant undulations of the soul
reach out, back to the starlight
that made them.)
Like cascading water that foams into
a mist, the future both rises
and falls away . . .
 
 

Recurring Poem

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(The nightmares return, continuous, not night after night
but too recurrent to shake when awakening again. I sleep
during the day. [There’s always a lesson out there
somewhere that I’ve missed, a schoolhouse
for my anxieties and ravenous, neural longings.
Fear of the dark doubles its meaning, illuminating
as much as enlightening.
(No one saw my failure coming.
Only me. I knew. I told them too. I knew what was
on its way. [The only consistent flaw in my life
finds me alone–without love–most days,
most moments, unmercifully.
] And if I can see
the way into my fate, how can I not see the way out?
As if we possess the future and dole it out
in absurd varieties of ecstasy and malignancy.
Oh no. No no no.) The dreams always end
with a realization. I know the suffering is mine
and not cast upon me. Because the deepest,
most terrifying fear is numbness, the soul impenetrable,
unattainable
. . . ] The night soothes me. Meursault knew
the heat of madness, but I shield myself beneath
the most opaque morals and reason. This–all–is
true. [How can one ever be certain?
Every road leads outward
. . .
 
 

Love Poem

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Love is a shape not an object,
      a genre not a performance,
      theme without detail.
(We feel, not heed.)
As vines are to ancient walls,
      the heart sprawls, reaches
      for strength and certainty.
(We sublimate the fear . . . )
From the heavens comes warmth,
      comes cold glitter,
      alternating.
(Love.)