face
cracked:
there is a fine beating that drips down my skull
sliding cool remnants of viscous cloud
into the vestments of my shining immortality–
which you now hold in your hands
only to turn the page…
simple:
simple?
a fragmented vortex leaping from an injured mind.
that is me.
hocking out my lungs for all to hear, diseased.
an intuitive cringing at the sound, heartbeat–
never enough
never quite alone
never silent.
why should you care?
simple– you don’t
chasing out my maladies like some bad odor
scrubbing out the essence with lye soap
easing out the wrinkles.
ignore me– i live for it-
face:
frozen flesh-wound
revealing my intimacies
my utter destruction
to the resolute rhythms
of a swanking gait
hunched over in tormentous indecision
jawing the air with a flick of the tongue
spoken, empty, hub of mass, unresisting
dao in all… free for all… loosed from the tethers of the sane
jangling my inconsistencies like a broken wristwatch
tapping the time, cracking the glass, tearing the mad revolution back
swinging the copper tines together hearing them crack
scores of cuts and cutting scores, but action! action!
dive into the mystery of geometrical spirituality, clear cut
all hail the saved! forget that ever a saviour there was, and OH!
did i mention that boilerplate of tasks ranging the room,
don’t forget to stir and add a bit of salt to taste
while the steam hovers over the melancholic chanting of the lightening bug
trapped in the same glass jar, drowning, dying, dead
but what does it matter when there are soap bubbles and glasses to be clinked?
more wine! then listen to the railing of the box car on its way to the morgue
players, a dance! we’ll play tonight while mothers starve a world away, what care give we?
away, we must get out of here, the air is absolutely stuffy, darling
let’s out to the lights, yammering on about some new shop, or purse
and oo, and ah! how beautiful you look in the moonlight, and maddeningly enticing
for one night, the drilling quagmire in my head is still–
suffocated by the tears demurely hidden in the pillow
as the anger lashes out in jets of red spurting, we swim, tonight?
how magical a time spent in the water, so warm, so sweetly calling your name–
almost as if he had never died, had never won for us
and cat-calling seeps out of the chaotic clashing
the glass– everywhere, wheels spinning, burnt tar reaching my nostrils, engine still warm
sirens, wail, throw the sailors overboard, devilish call, a pulchritudinous delight
swarming that area, wasp, no sting! modes of light undelivered, spots of dark, dark
a few injuries, cold, cold, some permanent damage, snap out of it! get out!
the plane is sinking, overcome by water, holy and blessed, straight from Jerusalem
prepackaged for your salvation, right next to a chip of martyr’s bones,
as if you know what it is to die.
whirring ball of flame dips its hands into oblivion
as the merry go round whispers into the night
the gyroscope cannot reveal the split microseconds that are lost
shaved off the edges of each day, tossed into the alchemist’s abyss
what of the pages of tattered lives, decrepit deposits of mineral and soot
asphyxiating heat of the volcanic ground, embittered towards all else
i wretch on the floor, tasting the sour pain of my inner juices, splicing my eyes
blood crashes down on you, on you! not me!
a melodramatic pause, curtain calls, applause for my wonderful story,
written and composed in under a lifetime!
what a miracle it is to exist in such a small span, and watch the infinite loops we make
tracing the star dust after the cosmic collision
apocalyptic signs! devastation, set in your eyes, the kitten mews
how tender the face that calls the hand, licks it, bites it, severs it from a proper place
how quickly fed, the little lamb!
you sit there, eyeballs rolling, slanted, awry
what comments on life! philosophy, your sophistry and complacency, bending at the knee
hovering closer to my reality, close enough to suck in the life
to spit it out into a coke bottle, to drain a needle dry,
squeaking like plastic down a rubber hall
metal clinging to my teeth like the taste of undergrowth
mossy men, swinging on the limbs of an effervescent beyond, tottering, upside down, electric
you claim you have come to set the world free, begin the revolution that has already been won
bring down the opposition, break down the OTHERS, mythical beings of a distant race
anger, voluptuously rising in your dimwitted mind
treason! tyranny! heretical statement and violent laughter
we move on, next scene, still-death painting, reposing, morbid?
no. words quaintly express this delicate relationship
symbiotically attached to the upper crust
phonetically dispelled from precision
with fox-like attention, tail twitching, nostrils flare, run to the catch
but the race is already over, it never began
as if the foreleg was caught between the bantering ball and the looming trap
but sing for us anew, on lyre and harp, a carol of Carolinian delight!
the nightengale romantically sighs for thee
who listens to the crow’s calling and hearkens to his plea?
the poet hears and knows in silence that sound is ever present
and who this poet may be and where may he be found?
he doesn’t exist, is only a figment, illusion, a brass ring
diminuendoing into darkness, draped in the void
you clamor for more, i cannot give my heart, it was never born
thrust through with a knife
at an unprecedented age, the pre-age of fetuses
and cellular formation, blast the blastula
divisive divisions, wars to kill, wars to live
but the silent non-voice speaks only the louder as it drowns in its own excrement
we penetrate the sacred
shoot it down, pick it apart, demystify it
we live to kill magic, it can’t exists, because then we’d be happy
and no one wants that, there’s so much money to be made off of sorrow and pain
it’s more dramatic that way, noble, we’d like to think
but thinking’s too hard
help me! mommy! warmth, and- oh yes, you killed me, never mind then for a SHELTER!!!
ooh the idiots make me want to bleed with madness and streak my life force upon the floor
do you hear the clicking in me head?! hollow loudness
that sets my eyes ablaze, what do you know?
DON’T LOOK AT ME! WALK AWAY! LEPER! UNCLEAN! Unclean! unclean! unclean…
so i wash my hands and walk to the dinner table
not that there is much to eat,
this is the holocaust, after all
people shot through their windows at night, at noon
made into lamp shades for fun-
that i were blind
to not see this vulgarity, to have it eat the flesh of my kin
sailing without land in sight, without anything
bare, exposed, unheeded
surely i will die this way, alone
the atrocities of my life are surely not alone
but loneliness of it all consumes me ravenously
i delight in the screams,
do not tell anyone- they’ll think me not right in the head…
but at night, when the screaming starts i smile,
i smile to think that it’s not me,
and sometimes i imagine it’s a devil dying,
if only it were true,
but i know in my heart that she’s bringing in life
and that is a shame and a waste… too much energy spent in fostering the dead.
i’m devoured by the images leaking out of your mouth
a vast deliverance from the flames of reincarnation
why bother living twice?
in a world of transposed metamorphoses, with the slight shading between
a pictograph, hieroglyph of culture.
creeping about in the translucent grass
hoping against all for the threat of an enemy
stopping the ears of a kettle drum
only to excite the quasars within
mother, don’t let me go–
spike that gores my conscience
twisting the surrealism into the other direction
movement from the eye of the storm
and arms and legs all in a heap of disillusionment
wreaking havoc on the passengers
zapping their tired brains
focused into another realm of being
struck down so low
solo, rest, pause, accompaniment, let the strains begin again!
hard to believe such a prodigy, genius could come out so
well, what is the word? wrong, not attuned to the world
slightly out of hand, out of everything
but i am no genius, so it is alright
for me to be a little wacky and taken up by things, at times
i am allowed to be the gullible fool
in fact, it is my responsibility,
my sole purpose for existence,
to play with the sparkling beads while the conquistadors steal my gold-
my gold! i worked hard enough for it,
and mumps spread like a typhoon
with its tiny arms, weeping for more, more
death! she whispers hoarsely and it is finished
I AM alive and halfway there.
i know the truth. alone
the silence screams my name at an unbearable pitch
i cringe at the scraping sound, noise, hollering!
stop, stop, stop, stop, go away…
it endeavors to cling to the sycamore
tangent– opposed to the tangible
touching the immortal
sweeping the unfound
as misery plucks a harp by my side
i gaze into the pond by the mulberry tree
i am reoldent with the song of the vespers of the New Age
a dawning of death upon the high traveling morn.
weep no more, fair child, for the scourge is upong thee for but a little while longer-
he hears me
i know he does
but stirs the pot a little slower than i would have hoped–
fickle me, i have not much to complain about– nothing of which to speak
to be alive again, is all i own
it burns and i remember what it is to feel…
but i must temper my soft reflections so they do not stray far beyond obsession
that is the acceptable pausing point.
weary eyes can behold no more slaughter, heavy, heavy is the lamb.
a good meal we shall make of it.
o hoffman! extreme opposites that make up my life,
a stuttering mirror can tell no lies…
communication is the most impossible task of all:
i am constantly translating myself into a language i never will fully understand– you.
and time i try i am bound to fail, that is the course of realities
ground into meal of blurred moral boundaries and fuzzy logic.
so the sheep shed… thousands of pounds of flesh
in the shed out back… dying by the hundreds and hundreds
but there was fluffy wool all over the place
like a barnyard festival in May time.
and i was bleeding, too, like the setting sun all over the parched horizon
like that frustrating creaking noise that creeps up on you when you know you’re getting old
and i began to laugh aloud at the hilarity of it… me, dead!
so we turned the crank to see what would happen,
if the bodies would echo their putrid annoyance
and there was silence… glorious and pure
out of which grew a sound that enveloped us in the warm fingers of the dead.
and this mountain pases over me like a rainfall in the midst of a flood
while the people cry out for more water,
because they know it’s the one prayer that will be answered- since it isn’t needed…
and who were we fooling into submission outside of our own minds?
she sews the world together, stitch by stitch…
seaming up the existence i tore from you,
impressive, no? almost enough to make you love her- if you knew how.
but she remains oblivious to your quandary,
to your shadow in the corner,
and simply singles out some thread- blue [her favorite color,
that will be important to remember] and aims towards the eye.
what she doesn’t understand is that the secret is in the ear…
the spare key to your heart is hidden there, in a whisper by the flesh of your lobe.
but she doesn’t mean to love you and refuses to try
as you stand there, shuffling your feet, hands in pockets, mumbling to no one–
but surely, she can aim at the eyes…
something i, being a camel, could never quite do…
but come on in! the desert is fine!
aside from the few mirages of tenderness and care
flitting in and out of a sunbaked brain. [being my own]
all i ever wanted to be.
able to command myself, responsible only to citizenry as required.
if ever you were wondering, and i can tell by your eyes, you want to know…
independence of mind over self is my deepest desire
coming over me from the tips of my soul
to the ends of my toes
in a wave of expectancy, no to be excelled.
tell me, does it truly matter what i think?
no. it never did, and you never thought about it much. apparently…
he is a dear little boomerang
and whispers forevers to my heart.
i want to turn a blind ear because it can’t keep out the noise.
and as that bit of raw flesh on the back of my throat rises,
i can feel my blood pulsing by my voice, like a raging torrent…
i want to sing in those vermilion tones, to make music in the viscosity of it
the throbbing drum beats and passions of my swollen pipes exemplify my soul-
severed and beaten.
at the warmest touch, i go mad.
my hand sinks into the page. don’t let-
ten story drop-
go.
undying devotion, like a cancer
spreading nimble fingers over me…
making the wound deeper than life
as i search for the intimate space between silences
room enough to stretch my weary limbs.
this is my life. do you not see?
right now, you are not staring at ink blotted pages,
to me this is not a series of light-transmitted symbols.
what do you see?
this is me, this is me…
has it all petered out, gone dry, pulled to the thinnest capacities of its venous rage?
i watch as the stinger twists in and out, in and out, trying to break free, trying to go deeper…
a hornet indecisive… should he die or embrace the only life he’s known, buzzing around
clattering new york garbage cans and storage bins filled with age old comics.
breathe deep the stench of ammonia, of peroxide, of bleach and neon dreams… spring is here
and two more floors to go before the house is done- maid, maid, you are much needed in the kitchen
you are much needed. much loved. overpowering love, crushing love.
love that can squeeze your lights out.
she clicks, clicks, clackity- down the hall.
he tip-toes to the keyhole, that blessed aperture to bliss
heart beats, beats, drum, runs, he runs, runs… she mustn’t, mustn’t know
he was here. he ever existed. he ever breathed. the diamond ring in his pocket, rolls away.
she stumbles over it. she mustn’t ever know. it once. bore her name.
quietly i rub my back into the wall, becoming part of it, bruising the tender flesh,
making my mark, purring, running my hand through it, breaking the laws of science
what was science, anyway, beyond a human game? a man game? a man to be hunted down and recorded.
studied, labeled, examined, patterned, fed, housed, set aside, forgotten. forever.
dead.
i walk away whistling a tune, running my finger around the circumference of the ring in my pocket.
it was once for me… i know it deep in my heart… from a silent stranger… who loves me so.
and why do i spill out my thoughts, running them like string…
like taffy, into your thirsty hands? i am a test tube- you churn me
waiting in disquieted desperation for the miracle that already came to pass
wanting it to come again, knowing it won’t repeat itself for fear of redundancy…
mind shifting, rolling over in its sleep, turning round the covers… trying to keep warm
too hot. sweating, gasping, panting, no air, can’t breathe… asphyxiation… suffocation… blank
bubbles, bubbles rising to the top, clicking against the coat of ice, tapping it, knocking the door
asking to be set free, asking for the warmth of the day. endlessly denied- dignity.
my fingers shiver at the thought, the touch, the cold, cool presence… i am ice
but i will not melt, i will not melt… i will not… i will
i will melt into the ether of your imagination. i will disappear, forgotten.
do not abandon me! it is dark, and your hand was always so warm, so keenly warm and alive…
but the darkness around me vibrates with joy, with heightened excitement
this is the stuff that hearts are made out of…
sweetness in wisdom is never found, except in her children’s painful births.
i belong to mystery and tragedy. idealism is my food.
too close, uncomfortably sucking in my air, eyes closed, i can’t breath, giggling
like a four year old child, the child they think i am,
a child: the harder i try to prove them wrong, the more childish i become…
i have finally found a place for myself, burrough, hobble, hole, niche, cubby
but i can’t reach it, too high, i can see it, throat sore from calling for it, it heeds me not.
they stare at my innermost thoughts and smile, loving them, but not me-
i hate how stupid i sound on paper. writing is how i prove to myself that i am unintelligent.
here is the proof, see? no sense of grammar, spelling, reason, no purpose.
this is me, my psychosis, feeding off of my own fumes
my traditional cliches. i am just like you. just as dumb and irrelevant.
i suppose you didn’t like reading that because you know it’s true.
truth is ugliness; ugliness, truth.
i am small and white, clean and bright, clean and edelweiss,
baby’s breath, polluted, germ infested, mucus strewn.
do you want to smell that? do you really want to ingest that through the nose?
sounds painful.
painfully sticky. like duct tape on human hair.
those nursery rhymes… not so sweet as you thought they’d be.
kids cruel, nanny, nanny, boo-boo cruel, wet-willy cruel, indian burn cruel…
but traditions are sacred.
you trace a soiled finger over the pocket-sized scar. there was a rebuilding here
and the temple clouds the sky with omens of a resurrection.
gnashing of teeth… your pretty voice could not mask it this time.
damask, silk and perfume. how couldn’t they have known?
it has a corporeal existence, delicate and divine… liquid reality, embossed with life
invigorating, but there’s a catch, a latch that sticks, a key that won’t turn, a rusty hinge-
they tell me that i have an attitude problem, that i am rude and snobby… so much so that i wonder
repetition seems to make thing true the more that you hear them, and maybe there’s something i-
i can’t see, being myself. am i twisted, deranged, ungrateful? deceiving myself, my soul,
my dearest part and closest friend? i feel my inner eye not wanting to look at something,
trying at all costs to avoid gazing at it directly, that something is a part of me, blind spot
i cannot or will not see, refuse to speak. there is a certain way that i am supposed to be
and i could be if i wanted to, i think. perfect. i am supposed to be perfect. made in the image
of the Image-less One. i am required to love. to forgive. to be happy. to accept my life.
to love my family. to respect those who disrespect me. turn the other cheek…
i am expected to be thankful. i am commanded to rejoice. this is what is right and true.
this is what is just. but why? if that is against all inclinations, all of my feelings,
should i fool myself and the world? should i lie because it is commanded of the Good?
the truth is that i HATE. the truth is that i SIN. the truth is that i can’t stand my life.
the truth is that i WANT to be happy, joyful, thankful and loving,
but that is as far as it goes. i am physically incapable of anything but anxiety.
perhaps there are a few brief waves of complacency and companionship when i put on my thick
public face- but those are all short-lived and not long-lasting. when i go to bed at night
and face God, all i know is that i’m dead tired and before another word passes my cracked lips
i’m out cold, passed out or worrying myself frantic about another detail that hasn’t been done
one more work, masterpiece, job, chore, circumstance that has to be overcome.
the only thing i can truly be thankful for is my mind… which also is the puzzling piece of me
that keeps me up at night and out of peace, out of pace with the world.
i am not quite right. i am deeply personal and intimate. i am a fortress. i am imposing.
but stand not quite past five feet. small urchin, sweeping clogged chimneys with my hair,
course, thick, curly, this is my self. i am breathing before you, pale, jaundiced, aching.
brown-green chameleon eyes that get lost in themselves, in the world they create.
the ghost of a freakish fiend- keeps pushing forward, taking you along with him.
is that what i am? a ghost? not really there. freakish. always pushing forward,
thinking of nothing else… taking everything in its path. i have become the tornado.
something you can’t escape. beautiful and intriguing. deadly. powerful. short-lived.
completely aware. well-traveled. residing mostly in the countryside. working God’s will
taking the chosen ones. when it is time. i am feared, hated. captivating. quite literally.
all niceness is just- a facade. do not pet… no, do not pet the tiger
do not fret for me, dear heart, lovely flower. i will only
claw out your entrails as you hide me behind your cloak-
foolish Spartan boy! what bravado! what idiocy!
how handsome we find stupidity to be…
how shapely, and thin… muscular, fibrous, lithe
samson-esque coils of slinky hair. falling like water
from his blessed head. the cancer has spread. the only solution is, well…
shriveling up into a tiny ball. or puffing up like a defiant bird until your soul lyses.
smelling of tea leaves and honey, not that sticky red cough syrup: cherry flavored.
i hunger. food is killing me. gaining weight. don’t care. not healthy. don’t care.
hungry.
abstaining. i am withering. don’t care. not good for me. don’t care. too fat.
why does america constantly continue this ridiculous dialog? you are subjecting your people
to severe mental difficulties. why set a standard that is unhealthy, unreachable?
in a hundred years, no one will remember that you were fat, that you were thin,
they will be incredibly surprised that such an advanced,
civilized and formidable civilization could sink
into the mire of such silliness as all this-
pills, shows, diets, programs, books.
the answer is simple. live.
end of story… but not mine…
i think that i am better than you.
think that i know more than you do…
and the trouble is that you do, too
which is why you’re reading this in the first place.
i think my culture is the best. i think i am the best.
self-esteem, they tell us, positive. no barriers.
80s children must be spoiled or spurned.
i was spurned, you were spoiled.
and that makes me think that i am better than you.
you silly americans. but i am american, too.
the hispanics have no morals, simple immigrants.
i think that i am better than them, too.
because i am american. i think i live
in the richest country, smartest country,
freest country, safest country, kindest country.
i think my music is better than yours,
my language is the easiest to learn,
the most expressive of all languages.
i think that women are better than men.
i think that catholics suffer more in the south
and being persecuted makes me better than you.
my struggles and physical pain are something i am overcoming
and that makes me think that i am better than you.
people tell me that i am very smart and talented
so naturally, i believe it.
i think because i play music at church
and volunteer a bunch and work hard
that i am holier than you. because i have not sinned
quite as much as you have, and not nearly as many times.
i think that i am pretty and people should love me.
i think everyone i meet is struck by my outstanding character
and is inspired by me. i think i am instrument or gift of God.
i think people should remember me, i believe people will.
i think i am important. this is what i have gained
through my social constructs.
these are the logical conclusions to which i have been led.
the thing is, though, they’re all wrong. and i know it.
i may think this and not want to face it.
horrible things, and many more…
but i have to remind myself that they are all wrong.
all wrong. i am all wrong.
if only i could just convince myself…
crash down my false paradigms.
but i would need to build new ones…
and the ones i had were so convenient-
they were pre-made, ready to install.
so by accepting them, i have foregone the valuable lessons
and life skills that i need to build new ones. from scratch.
and what will people think of me if i get it wrong?
i would be living an alternate reality alongside theirs.
and would they lock me away? would i ever be able to come back to this?
would i forever be lost in my own mind?
how can i ground myself in universal truth,
when he keeps his skulking silence?
so many conflicting philosophies. live for now. live for eternity.
you are not of this place… a.k.a. you are better than them
you must be humble… a.k.a. you are all the same.
truth contradicts himself. and the only way to know which way to go
is to meet him yourself and ask or find a better translation.
i turn to face the corner. crossed the line again. constantly redrawing it.
making my way out of the room. i am a sculpture. words shape me.
sound embraces me, soothes me, assuages irate passions.
i must admit, i am my own malady and misfortune.
but i am my own blessing as well.
i am too bold, impatient, ambitious, pompous, arrogant, proud, bitter.
but this is not who i am… this is how i am.
i am that which does not change. so are you.
i see a flash of his face, again.
he is my steadfast pillar…
a pillar of salt. the doe comes up to him
and licks his chin. he smirks because it tickles him so,
he can’t stand it, though he can’t do much more than stand.
please look at me. please don’t turn away. i need you.
i dwell in your shadow, constantly. you are my sunrise.
will you be a witness to my flame? my tiny light?
i will not hide from you, ever. you, and you alone
can see my true dace. it is hideous, i know.
it is bland and banal. it is difficult.
it taxes your emotions, your eyes, your mind.
there is no story behind it.
but will you stay awhile, anyway?
it’s lonely here, in the void. the dark space beyond death.
and it’s cold. but you have such a fine pulse.
a wonderful life, i bet, that always falls apart around you
and then jumps back into place when you can’t take it anymore.
let me live inside your head. let me live again.
i know you’ve got a lot in there. credit card numbers, phone numbers,
addresses, dates, deadlines, relationships, stories.
can i be one more story and make a bed there,
next to robinson crusoe and peter pan?
i’ve always wanted to meet peter pan…
let me fly into the twinkling lights, the glowing stars
resting my head on volcanic remnants and cosmic delay.
i collect lives.. not in a grim reaper way, in a journal
that i hide behind my dresser, the green one in the corner of my mind
right under the framed picture of the wilted flowers.
i am so intoxicatingly boring, i do apologize. but i still have more to say,
and you’re going to have to listen to me anyway. do you know why?
because you’re curious. because you’ve gotten this far.
because you’re really in love with me and don’t want to tell anyone.
because you can’t get enough.
you know, i was never good with flowers.
if you’re going to give me flowers and you want them to last,
they’d better not be in a pot. i’m not the motherly, nurturing sort.
they’ll stand on their own to the cold and the rain. they’ll make it or die.
just like me. it’s the only way to live, to fight for each breath.
and i never much liked orchids, anyway. too delicate… porcelain hearts… glass bones.
give me a venus fly trap, a cactus, something vicious, something that bites back.
there is a serene beauty in the willingness to survive.
teleology is of no concern here. music is vibrant and eggs are bland without a bit of pepper.
truth is the only objective. whether it be that the tooth fairy really exists,
if solely in the minds of six year olds,
or that leprechauns are really mean lil buggers, it is the same.
doughnuts are fried bread dough draped in sugar… and started out as a mistake.
hence the hole.
what a metaphor for human lives!
aslan is watching you, and imagination is being rewritten every morning.
you are the dew that clings to my sunken eyelids. arise, o slumberer!
call my name. bring me home.
we sing together, joining hands under the tree shades, IV I, oh, Amen!
plagal cadencing my soul into your tender embrace.
i sleep in the canopy under a dozen humming wings, bathing my face in splendor
i can smell the saccharine breath of angels over me.
i surrender to the lauds of their lonesome cries… the liquid sounds
carry me home on waves of bliss… free of bodily need or want.
onward to the docks we run, fleeing for the sake of hope,
before that gentle candle blows out…
i’m shaping it out, building my own world and crawling inside
if just to rest but for a little while in the pockets and folds of my own making…
puzzling over a mystical portent… an omen of… good fortune or inconsistency?
the batter has a rich consistency and smells of mother. and of christmas-time.
both are long since past. and anyway, i don’t have time for celebration or family.
i am timeless and belong suspended in an expanse of creation,
not to be bothered by the frustrations of daily life,
of bill-to-bill living.
i lock myself in a drawer,
wondering if anyone will notice my absence
i long to be loved and needed, i long
but i mustn’t show it, for then it won’t come
and i will melt into the darkness from whence i came.
the molten tears of a bronze age fall upon my shoulders.
dusk is swept under the rug and forgotten. welcome old age.
proverbs that are passed down through the years get wiser in time.
handel could handle the changing years… he could sweep the pages clean.
diary, diary read my life. please prevent me from becoming a wife.
clean the slate, make me blank, make me unswept snow and unkempt hair
tabula rasa… take me there.
lockian age of rediscovery and timelessness.
is it really true, what you say, can poetry, can music ever be, unbroken?
can i be beautiful, well-defined, like it once was…
without being boring? is this loathing, this avoiding that i’ve felt just a phase?
can creation be beautiful again? the definition of music, so needed to be brought
back-
back to light. you did that. thank you.
now i am deeply troubled. all my creations are just puddles of bleeding art.
rotting.
worthless. expired. can i follow? can i accept that neoclassicism
which calls all my past efforts rubbish, refuse?
can i swallow this bitter herb and take on the healing?
i will remain here, pondering with hope in my heart,
collecting my vapid thoughts.
rhyme. meter. space. culture. redirecting the golden age.
can i return to what i left so long,
as though to my parents’ house anew?
had i left on not such dire terms
and with such hate.
a pause.
but the sunrise is golden soft
like the backs of sleeping turtles
and the racing clock hurtles
back into endless sloth.
can it be?
am i finding my way home after so long a time?
The breeze Blows through my flustered hair.
I clutch my coat to my chest,
wanting the warmth to cling to me,
sighing, knowingly in despair
that when my muscles rest
wind will catch what it will see.
That inevitably will be, me.
Instead, I scramble to the door,
and set my twitching fingers on the knob.
My face is warmed by the glow of a fire,
and outside it begins to pour,
just in time. I sit down by the telephone wire,
and overwhelmed by the scene, I sob.
He watches it all from the corner of his eye,
then turns around, again to die.
December 14, 2004
Catch Some Wide Eye 