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 strangest encounters may come to fruition
from the day-to-day-to-day.
And we only know how to answer them
tomorrow . . .
A long time ago in a grassy field non-existent now beyond the neuroses inflicting me with memory, a girl with red hair and a flair for the dramatic told me that she spoke Spanish, fluent or near to. Well, I the relentless student who’d yet learned a flimsy representation of this musical tongue, in all my youthful eagerness gave wide audience to her. What she spewed forth was gibberish, something approximating a fourth-generation distillation of pig latin and actual Latin. Or in the moment, that nonsense imprinted on me so.
Life was simpler then, when we wept
from even the most frivolous aggression
against our being. The bully was always
in the effort not the ends.
But now . . . People rarely look me in the eye. Most incoherence directed my way comes strangled by an equally enigmatic anxiety. The last person to say “hello” to me did so with a sickening note of vapid goofiness. Love cannot flourish in such a wilting place.
Quiet reigns, for I’ve no endgame
save a fascination with the bubbled ends
of the fragmented future . . .
I wonder what became of that red-haired girl and the wound she nursed slit from my unambiguous disbelief. What would she say to me now that the springtime of her naivete has ripened and fallen away? What burgeons from maturation’s blood? Perhaps I can conjecture.
“My life will be bookended by lies.
So will yours. I only hope they will be
(from @pixelatedboat, a frequent source of comedy gold.)
Also, if you’re so inclined, you can follow me at @mutesarcasm where I post dumb jokes and repost a lot of weirdness from other, more popular twitstreams. I’d appreciate a look or two.
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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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
. . . every ripening hour is devoured
all the same.
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
(–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 . . .
(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 . . .