poetry

Saudades

Hyper-awareness is such a flatly ironic drag when it
lacks the ability to go beyond itself, within itself,
the verysame way we mistake saying what (we think)
we’re doing for telling the truth, even going so far
as to imagine this language ours simply because
something must be?

This winter won’t be like the last because this one
looks at us differently, despite any and all linguistic-
cognitive acts of connective reclamation inspired by
socio-cultural-derived desires for sense-carving and
excessive hyphenation. I would send a note to The
University to say a sarcastic thanks for all this grand
superfluity but they’d take it humorlessly and ask
for more money.

She quoted Kafka and I thought of the zeitgeist because
I’m obsessed with essence like it holds the key to
all kinds of cages in search of birds. It’s almost as
fun to tell a story as to wonder why. I don’t know,
I had to tell someone. Were this the Old American West,
I might just ride off one day in a fit of magical realism,
singing with a voice that comes from somewhere and
everywhere about the presence of absences,
forgetful and free.


Originally published on Art & Insolence.

Advertisements
Standard
art, fiction, life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Pure & broken

Emily-DiDonato-Nude-Narcisse-Magazine-Spring-Summer-2017-Cover-Editorial03Lie in bed

Child

Lest what stands beyond threshold

Threatens calm

Waking to the sound of winter silence

Clutching at inanimate objects

The seen friends who do not reply

Delve deeper into the mind

Where disturbance is held away

By merciful imagination

How long can a child

Pretend

And make-believe?

The sounds of fighting through the walls

Even the deaf hear

The crack in plaster grows wider

Each day carpet higher

Till jungle swallows child

Alone

Her own words ingrowing

Dance when no one is looking

For nobody did

Turned faces absentees

Hunger for attention

At first an annoying shame-faced thing

Then the end of longing

Acceptance

You placed me in a room of my own and said

Thrive

I did not

Instead

Half of me turned into plaster and chipboard and carpet fibers

And half climbed out windows and got lost

Letting her feathers be plucked early

By stranger fondling hands and false words

Prophet’s without prophecy

Girls born without reason

Growing in one ache

The silence their lover and their torment

Sliced in half

One, a creature straining to survive herself

One the albatross of finely dressed humans

Absenting themselves from responsibility

She says

You damned me

You shut me up

You expected me to thrive and grow in darkness and coal

As you closed the door and said entertain yourself

She switched the camera on and let them come one by one

Watch her fall beneath the lights

Mayhap dancer, mayhap pornographer

No words escape her

She moves her pain

Above you like light streaming down

Pure and broken into prisms

Standard
poetry, prosetry

meantime we will express our darker purposes

The patio overlooked my fantasy but we sat inside and had overcooked fish. Clinking glasses of white wine: Here’s to hoping you’d be someone you’re not, she said—or was that me? I’m trying to be more definitive but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice a silhouette in the upstairs window of the shadow-dappled brick building across the street where I could swear I once heard knocking. The young woman sold hand-made shawls at the street fair down below while the hot afternoon lay syrupy like nostalgia and poplar seeds fell like snow, but like usual, I didn’t need cover, only more sets of eyes. The churchbells ring at noon and nothing changes, just what we’re trying to be. Absence is at least not nothing. From it we derive the existence of all else.

Standard