I have come to pick my teeth. I have come to part the seas, these winds that befall like ellipses the stagger between stories. Enough of this stitch of itching, this glimpse of sky, this depth of flesh. These lungs at last emptied, this voice at last silent. No claim, no grace, no contagion to give a motive or grant a name. It is just...
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I admit I missed the moment, heels dug into the metaphor, stubborn to the extremes of every sense. Time was that the eye could witness even if the words were out, time was that was among the unnumbered duties held sacred by the heart. But the material grows more permeable as the soul cools down, from thunder to fumes in a few short years, beauty...
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It’s 3:30 in the afternoon the way it only can be on a Wednesday, on a clear eyed day in the summer just after a beast of a heatwave at last relents. And leaves stir beneath the spinning winds, coiling hellos and goodbyes from the branches, the vivid scenery through a dirty window shining just so in the only set of eyes I’ve ever known....
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So the flesh begins its meditations, drifting from the mind’s ministrations into the varying moods of meat. So the ache settles on a direction, so the instrument bites the lip of the allusion, the bearings corrected for wear and tear and spiritual drift. Something to the ardor of the singing, something to the reason of the rhyme. The breeze laps at these perspirations as the...
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The trees sway a ruddy green stencil casting in my first glance mind tiny bouquets of sky blue blossoms of blue sky, a brief startle from the spark to the cognition, another moment where my first words go so terribly wrong. Casting away illusion for the next perception in line, the say so of my senses another unreliable narrator, still I try my hand at...
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This is still in the habitable range, though too pronounced of heat and drought to last all that much longer. This is still carried water, though the reservoir doesn’t show it. We move in haste across an estimation of our terrain, thoughts deep beneath the exhibition of turns and signs, threatened and threatening by tradition and design. We are known by knives and appetites, names...
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It is here that I sink beneath the horizon. It is here that, like the sun and moon, I dwell below the sea. Lovely pea green across the ocean blue, the journey of the eldest practitioners that we still elaborate, the song in the heart along the lilting waves. Lovers with their paths now parted, the dirt at the notional fork. Ritual a machine language,...
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It’s no different now that the word is out, there’s no difference now that the moon remits its luminescence, the sky still too blue to know which wanderers at last align with your precious sentience which shape at last you grant. So strange how these horizons move and apexes hold, the turning of heavens, the tickings of the earth. A shadow pressed like a flower,...
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It’s penetrated the foundation, it’s cracked the bright blue firmament, this smoke hardened heart. The arteries thicken and slow, the mortal blow a fist and a scalpel, a hurled brick and a dull blade permeating this fester of meat and mind. The nerves burn and fizzle, hot sparks and blunt howls. The whole of being turning into fragments and blurts. Words dribbling down my beard...
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I have reached the age of unreliable instruments and staggered sense, staring over the foxtail swallowed yard, gaze fixed hard on the figment blazing in the residue of my thinking. Thoughts burned into the meat, icons and myths and the complications adjacent to abstraction, wheels that spin some ancient spark as my engines turn over. It is the persistence of absent objects and names we...
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It’s not the sparrows in the feeder, it’s not the doves on the wing, it’s not the blue blazes sky and the wind woven pines casting some cool with their shadows, some respite for a sinner come a sunny day. It isn’t the tremble in the telling, or the foretold dogging its day, cracked pavement and each shadow soft to the touch. The words work...
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The day leaves without saying, the sky astir, the earth in ruins. The day is gone without a single glance, the signal of at least glancing back never received or sent. Just foundlings in the fundaments, the same old feelings dashed into the ground, a change in the air as the skin finds out. Something dead and something dear, a reach through the blue and...
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