prosetry

Achieropoieta

The sun was low and melting through the palms and garish columns when we arrived after flight and frightful drive along winding shoreline lanes in a bus too large for such turns and twists.

We approached the front desk in the open-air lobby and I heard the ocean, fancying it was music, or heard music and fancied it was ocean, and for a moment I attempted in vain to consider the virtues of solitary companionship, nevertheless wondering why I hadn’t come alone.

Days later, I would walk out into the sea through the waves till they became eye-level swells and my feet no longer touched the soft sand beneath; I held my breath and sank in the ease of dissolution.

I should just keep going, I thought as I lost all touch and all taste for judging, suspended in merciful indifference, the undulations of the blue-green water washing away any remaining fear of what I’d learned and who I’d been and what I might become in the great vastness of the permeable and possible.

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poetry

Mercy

Standing on the cliff edge,
two feet away from certain death,
I hurled the contents of the velvet box
into the Atlantic;

piece by piece,
broken-promise ring
by failed-engagement ring,
years of of tears and diamonds and memories
flew down into the sea;

now all that silver sparkling pain
is at the mercy of something bigger
and angrier than me.

(But why I don’t I feel as free
as I thought I would be?)

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poetry

Flow

Esmeralda, how much of what we do is out of fear of humiliation?
I fill people up with my secrets like little pools and walk away
when I can no longer stand to see what they reflect.

All I ever wanted was to make it out of Texas out of that dream
like Texas vast and hopeless where I dropped my last two pills
in a sink full of dirty dishes and couldn’t fish them out.

Make it to the land of sea and sand and sunshine, to paradise,
where you dance like in the stories. So I can remember my name
and all the nights from all my past lives will have been worth it.


Originally published on my personal blog, Art & Insolence, back in May. Sorry to be a self-recycler (again) but I don’t have any new bits done today and I like this one.

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prosetry

Proclivity

Let’s perform this procedure and run these tests and hopefully then be done with this. Oh yes, and your heart can go on beating. That’s what the cardiologist said in a dream I had in August, not in real life, but it was nevertheless a relief, albeit late.

Camus, in real life, said “You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.” I should’ve asked the doctor about the possible side effects of semantics on one’s physiognomy. But one rarely reasons in dreams.

It’s a good thing I’ve gone from documenting my brain patterns and emotions like so much abstract-realist reportage to actually simply merely finally really trying to tell stories, without so much cognitive noise going on. A good thing indeed.

Who else can I appeal to? Well, Ali Smith said novels are about sequence and short stories are about all that’s unsaid. “There is structure, but you know that there’s life somewhere in it, around it, free from it.” Saying without saying, living without looking. Albert, Ali, and expressionism, with an abstract look on its face.

If I had a writing teacher instead of a cardiologist he(?) might applaud that sentence. But one night in September, awake, I realized that no longer does my apparent fate seem to hang in each sentence’s balance, and no longer do I desperately hurl “my” words against the confines of presence and circumstance. They’re just structure for the story of life somewhere in it, around it, free from it, happy and living.

I close my eyes and sit on the edge of the bed and see thoughts as a tangled pile of string needing to be unraveled and pulled taught and I enjoy that double entendre without thinking myself clever. I can’t find any ends, which might just be how thoughts do, and my heart goes on beating.

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poetry

Hymn

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The dancer has purest art

no need for vocabulary

rules apply not to those

born unable to speak or justify

their choice

language can become a snare

numbers lead to label

you confine yourself by

obeying

while the dancer

her feet in balance

listens to the spinning harmony

of chakras recharged

within as fingers whirl plates at dizzying rate

all is harmonious

a child irrespective of years

charged with equality in all sphere

her center cannot be punched out

not her strength shoved in passing glance

the mirror shows elegance

tamed fire creating music on the floor

needing no conflict or measure

she could be herself in braids with unhinged head and intact hope

or winter bird dying in first snow

living above and beneath

no need for shape or illustrate

hers is the simplicity

bound to no-one

dare to define

she will your bonds

break

and in step with

a deep hymn

spin as fast as lights

glazed on still water

appear to unlock

submerged secrets

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