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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It lines up along the impulses, ought or naught unto eternity, the utility of the dance of opposites. It is the tongue of flesh and the tongue of fire, these analogs of hunger, these waves of want and wish. The twinkling of machine inklings pitching woo with the entanglement of language, thoughts like stars dancing upon the midnight tides. Perception directed with intimacy and audacity...
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Another wasted year, another circle around the circuit. Another wished for ending that never came near enough. Fifty six years, thirty of them well after I should have been planted in the past tense. This sick turn around the mulberry bush, waiting on the weasel to go pop. Years of bedtime wishes never to awake, as the body atrophies and the mind fragments, words and...
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Sometimes an instrument, sometimes an obstacle, I take shape late and give up easy. The sun has too much gumption; I let the typo have its way: I hit my bumps and potholes at speed. I blow a tire, I break an axle, I drag these chains throwing sparks. It’s the show that goes on, the proof of life gone to seed, the spectacle after...
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There was never a want for words, filling in the margins, making up for time. The far side of this elicited ache, the heavy haul of flesh grasping at the atmosphere, a glut of abstractions meant to justify all this breath and blood. Conversations caught mid cadence, my voice aloud elaborating my bias, sorting ghosts and ephemera. Would that I did, would that it were,...
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