This was when the world began, as it was known to happen in those days, days when all thought is lit by the obscure city, by the unknown shade of the moon and lurid color every street subsides on the exhale of the earth, and where the inspiration for new epochs of creation begin like when just stepping out of dark from in of doors to find that the world is suddenly as calm and dim as a new moon waning gently over providence bathed in pearly glow like a thousand eyed Aphrodite rising slowly from a humming sea. Tonight the cicadas wing birth a new song. It has just rained but all is still in wan of sight. Life has just begun within a ripple as a hundred legs sprout from this puddle, and air and revelation skim my mind as I skirt and glaze across it the sheen of brevity.
We are the few for whom
only night is too bright
and so we traverse every tunnel
and backroad to find it.
I live by the dimmest of lights
in certainty’s flickering age
in how I crown the unknown
like an acrobatic babe
immersed in infinite utero.
I’ve seen the pen bled dry upon the page
left while waiting for soft and chubby child digits
still too slow to lift and become armed,
the thought run dry and astringent
not tight like the hands that grasp and count,
but crying to be wet and rest their appetite.
Here I have set down the journey
to gently lift up the soaking map,
that trembles in between push pins,
while I stare in awe, cautioned not to watch
as the needle was bled dry on the vein.
That room nestled and cradled in as many arms and veins
it could riddle with the infant dream –
eternity tapped on the pulse.
One solitary smoke-stack,
back drop to the white night sky,
swayed chimneyed between two fingers
tracing onyx Grecian clouds in shapes unread
that I’d come to think I would forever see
becoming was what was to become of me
which I ‘d continue to cast but break endlessly.
I’ve watched the timid and modest run dry and unclothed
on nothing but winter air into the barrens of well known night
in illicit after dark conservancies on borrowed natures,
where pulse could run free and unseen;
and faith run dry because the rope was short and the well was too deep:
it frays and stretches to reach just before it breaks,
or wretches out remaining hours before the self conscious sun wakes,
or while mining the vein the golden pick quakes,
and with final strength found to lift, emptiness takes
as I await hearing a splash from bottomless lakes.
Only now I wonder if I show my soul
just to feel that I have one,
to feel that it’s there and not lost or
having some how slipped out of me
like a crumpled up love note from my pocket.
I used to dream that all of my teeth were falling out.
I’d feel the first rolling around on my tongue, foreign
and estranged. Like I never knew it to begin with,
now out of place and with nothing to do
but be spit out into a strange hand quizzically.
And one by one they would like stalactites
cascade onto the then writhing
muscle feeling something new,
a fearful tongue,
and I with fearful tongue and speechless,
a mouthful of confusion, I, skipping stones
into the dark pool of my mouth, am lost.
Only now when I wake
do I still bare my teeth.
With the longing that day break brings into coming day and grey of dawn, an unfocused haze of visibility besets the open plain on which a cottage is set. The landscape once fluttered in the wind like an emboldened flag, and is now old and sentimental, fluttering no longer but set in place with waves and rolling hills: a timeless icon of the American Midwest. I look out from a window at the front of the cottage. My left hand placed above my head against the window frame holds my weight as I lean forward into the view from where the house stands, atop a ripple in the flag. I slightly lean more forward and close my eyes exhaling. I can feel my breath collect before me on the window. It is surprisingly warm. My forehead softly presses upon the cold moist glass. There is dew outside. I know, despite not having yet gone out this morning, but closed eyed and warm breathed and against glass cold and pressed I know there is dew. And slowly as I without end exhale closed eyed against cold glass I know the sun breaks forth from bleak faint light. The glass gradually grows in warmth and makes less show of its wicking battle bereaving breath.
I know that I am forlorn and lost and there is no going back
when I have begun already falling in love with people I don’t even know
and my heart drifts out beyond even my reach and Sudddenly the Sea becomes
the closest coast to my metaphorical mass and I begin writing love notes
shaped like boats and send them out into the raging storm.
They are built to sink, made of heavy words and dreams.
They are holdfasts to my hearts past and an inexcusable future.
They are artificial reefs of exhausted songs
and played out tires burning endlessly under water.
When I lie down, collapsing into bed,
rolling over onto my back, and close
my eyes before bringing both hands
up to my face and impel them to run
fingers through my hair: weathered
and telling fingers, tired and restless
hair, in the interrupted closingness of
shuttered eye’s lids and winged brush
of perhaps unjaded lashes let loose, I
will stop the desedimentation of my self
and start to build something I too can enjoy.