poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

This is dying / This is living

grayscale photography of two woman kissing

Photo by Fernando Favero on Pexels.com

Don’t say / that word

case we defame / or endanger

this moment / and the next

cresting night waves against recumbent shore

your arms molded from sand rise and fall

to my perpetuate weave

and we are

like flowers awaiting sufficient light

to open fully

a miracle each time the pallet of

senses born over with each song

held in my chest like women who wet their lips with the sore

chaff of flax before threading it into life

we make our reality

each elbow gracing air with untrained response

ballerinas finding satin undercoat

beneath dance

if leaves covered us, they’d say

Fall never ran out of color

your diminishing form as you lean away

gasping for air and back again into

perfect vision

there are only circles, nothing is

straight lined nor willing to beg for its supper

we two have earned our share of peace

many years of violence

the thrum and rub of pain is an ever

present crystal, hung against day

a kaleidoscope of far away places

we both realized that ache lying

just one layer beneath fevered skin

for you are

this enchanted place within me

a mirror of sea water washing over

the hardness I tried to place in armor

in lieu of a heart

your beneficence and the

arch of your neck bent in sleep

a field mouse of russet and dream

I would gather everything holy

pour the past down trilling drain

vanish with you into wings of night

two stars indivisible, our energy tracing

electric center of the other

this is dying and this is living

neither of us can mouth the enchantment

no longer necessary to verbalize motion

as birds gather their passage to dusk

swooping like dancers ushered from stage

and after everyone is gone

our love shall endure

a hidden thing

blazing brightly

in memoriam

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poetry

Heartlock

my heart: a chunk of amber
an ancient rock
washed up from the baltic
opaquely transparent
like us
our love: the mosquito inside
a moment in time, chaotic
stuck in perpetual flight
frozen in aberrant delight
preserved lust
trapped trust
your smile: fossilised
your lies: petrified
those years spent
were no accident
you’ve still got
my heart in a headlock
my head in a heartlock
unbolt the deadlock
let us see the light
of day
again

 

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fiction, photography

PRECINCT

Chris R-1-81 Image by Christine Renney

After visiting the shopping centre they always lingered, had done for years. It was difficult now to pinpoint exactly when this had begun, much less how or why. It was unspoken that, once the shops had closed, they would skulk along at the edge of the precinct where the teenagers gathered.
Pubs, clubs, burger bars and pizza joints dominated and the couple would find a table where, from behind the plate glass, they could gaze out across the now car-less car park.
The litter, the day’s debris, had been swept and shovelled against the kerb and in each and every corner and crevice. The youngsters didn’t seem to mind. They kicked through it, tramped on it, added to it, restless and eager for the night with all its possibilities.

The couple talked over their pizza, dissecting the lives of others, of old friends, people they rarely or never saw anymore, colleagues from work and people they barely knew. They raced toward conclusion after conclusion, invented scenario after scenario. There was something about that place, that time, that offered obscurity: a middle aged couple with nowhere particular to go, nothing to do except to visit the multiplex cinema to see the latest blockbuster – ‘Action/Adventure’ or ‘Romcom’, sequels and prequels they watched indiscriminately. But this particular night their hearts weren’t in it and so they began to wander.
This, in fact, was what they had wanted to do all along. Simply to walk, just to be here and not feel the need to dress it, to skirt around this fact. They were elated and entered a busy pub. It was like walking on air and the drink helped to prolong this feeling and then, suddenly, the moment was lost. The revellers had deserted them. Of course, they could have followed, chased the party, found another pub or even a club but – they had shopping bags to cart and so stayed put, drinking until common sense prevailed at last and they began to make their way toward home.

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life, prosetry

Without Faltering For Reason Or Commentary

The perfect autumn day—by evening, when my toes are cold despite socks and slippers, I might not be so fond. So goes the erosion of goodwill. It’s fifty Fahrenheit degrees and sunny, gusting, and the trees are spreading color everywhere—rain is on the way, though, and the temperature is dropping. It’s fine to not be very good at something, like work, and to be much better at something else, like reading. Sincerity, I once read, is an inability to connect one thing with another but they don’t pay me to be sincere.

 


Originally posted on Art & Insolence.

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prosetry

And We Return To The Earlier Discord

When was the last time I just watched rain fall without feeling the need to be understood on others’ terms? In youth I learned to notice and, like you, I learned silence from the talkative, flipping back and forth between metaphors and delusion leaving snowdrifts of sawdust in my head because nothing is traceless. Nothing is traceless—I say it twice for double meaning, leaving less to the imagination, sickened as I am by our constant struggles over goodness, as ridiculous as the time I traipsed through NYC in flip-flops feeling perfectly alien and all in.

Not wishing ill but feeling it, Styron feared feeding the evil person within and therefore starved himself by swallowing his perceived failures and eschewing the sustenance of his success at touching people, for better or worse. There’s such a thing as writing to prove your sanity, I confess. I was the one who killed them, he and she, the two of us, perhaps, but it was only a dream and in the dream I stood hesitating in a small room of a three-steps-down-from-the-street garden flat with my finger on the trigger of a gun that belonged to someone, a gun which had just a moment before put a bullet in her. I pointed the gun at him as if to say here please take this before there is no going back to prove anything, counterfactualizing the past before it happened and that loathsome duality was rendered single, killing me.

We left the bodies in the bathtub and I left by the back door, plunging into the dark, blue-green water of the small harbor there, alone. Submerged, I opened my eyes to navigate the subaqueous opacity, white boat hulls floating above, a forest of black dock pilings all around, and green seaweed rising from below slowing the going as I swam through the underwater labyrinth of my final moments of freedom without coming up for air or needing to. Now, I wondered with resigned disillusion, how to negotiate the terms of my latest armistice: wonderment, fear, and awe, all in the same held breath—that’s the future, gray, my second favorite color, though more so from familiarity than appeal. Gray is cover and blend, possibility and lack, the native hue of indecision and liberation. Give me blue or absence, all in or all out, I thought, kicking my foot flippers to keep from sinking deeper into darkness and pulling myself forward with cupped hands, anything but this in between, clutching both and going nowhere, on the run from the ghosts of us.

This, here beneath, is both my refuge and my pulpit, where I float and drift through embryonic muteness, where my voice bubbles and rises to the surface, giving me away, a blessing and a curse. Soon, my body will follow, ill-made as it is for such environs, and I will rise while there’s still time, still time, time still to believe in the strange virtues of freedom and evasion within the context of an undetermined certainty that our days are toe-tagged and body-bagged and on those tags are the names of our teachers and the volume of our ingratitude, right down to the last gasp of asking why we can’t stay.

It’s windy tonight, and fateful. The trees sound glad. If they were more consistent, they’d sound like the sea, I think, and I feel it: be happy, choose to be, choose rare, true, and free.

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poetry, prosetry

fading out under the ashes of the night

For the child, time stretches out immeasurably in all directions, and it’s as if nothing more is needed than unencompassed possibility. A little blonde girl walking down the sidewalk with her father makes eye contact with me as I sit myself down in the couch by the window in the deepening sunset evening to read. She gives me the warmest little girl smile and a friendly wave as if fanning simple kindness my way through thick summer air and I hear her say “the neighbor” to her dad over the cicadas’ divertimento, without hearing what came from him. Did she come from him? I wonder about her future, and, in doing so, think back to what was once mine and I remember the way it looked from the interior, seemingly infinitesimal like looking up at stars projected on the dome of a planetarium. For some of us, the ceiling is just another direction. For others, it’s a destination.

My friend has been dead for six years though I only found out today and I’m not at all sure what kind of friend that makes me but I am certain we once shared dreams like young friends do of being more than where we came from. Some nights are defined by lack. Some nights are just thoughts. Some nights are like tonight.

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poetry, prosetry

just deserts

If deserving matters then it must be a matter of not anti- but non-matter like aridity and openness and that’s all, starting there in minimal sparse-seeming but full life teeming and lit up neon sun subtle as whispered nothings meaning everything glowing warm in deep dark spaces after sunset words, following and preceding, follow and precede and sometimes most times in between persisting, arid and open, persisting to subsist and subsisting to persist sometimes barely more than barely, sometimes feeling only clinging for dear full life, at times clinging to and at others tumble-blown across parched surfaces but nevertheless delved deep with élan, don’t forget, delved deep and diving into mirage pools like we’re alive and barely there, really, ever, only sometimes passing through on no name horses, slow and sun-drenched and soul-scorching and feeling fooled for having hung hopes on lucky herradura, hopes that rain will come and come down and pour and run into all the cracks and ravines on time lapse like science and there’s nothing to do but slow down and soak up, soak in to exquisite, raw in between, never all but most, at least some, almost free from before and after, and at least we have that, at least, that to almost look forward to, at least at last, looking through heat wave distortions at far-off mountain horizons like backdrops dropped in to place us, to locate, offering a silent reference reminder that time thieves each seemingly motionless, progressless step toward away and stakes are high and rising, they say, with each moment traversing the sublime, teeming wasteland, they say, as if there’s a course or a goal in mind and the steps count but no matter, no matter that each moment of precede and follow might be the last in between, the last steps out away down and around where the jackalopes roam and electric desert butterflies flutter

out where eyes shutter snap capture dichotomies seen felt known in roam and flutter, sun to one side, clouds to the other and no idea what’s next for nom de plume I visible in cracked mirror and strung together, figurative-like like these figures of cacti and coyotes as silhouetted and representational as I am.

The desert we deserve—sounds clean-slated and Cartesian, something as if something for the first time something and you do, are, easing in and that’s why we’ve been found in the midst of the rainy downpour deserving desert season,

that’s why thunder and lightning strikes,

that’s why flash floods and grey-black skies

hopeful and daunting, promising something, promising relief and replenish, promising something big because you didn’t try to earn it and it just is just like you, rolling through, alluring lonesome you of the always undone and unfolding in between but not lonely, never truly but just meandering along beautiful and on occasion dashing for the cover of daydreams or standing in a swoon for exposed sky-watchings while I try to speak through storms we fully secretly believe we’ve caused, remembering storms I’ve been and bringing, been and bringing but no longer being, no longer being brought but just bringing and bringing everything

and I know I deserve—

but what?

The chance, right?

The chance, yes, because chance is all there is, mostly, the chance of the good bad everything in between with all its electric energetics behind it, coursing and moving and holding on for rainy seasons like these and I defy those who tell me it can’t be lived this way like deep desert crossings under storms rolling with pen name You joining me in visions of oases and real mirage mood pools for full life feeling, arid and open but soaking and soaking, soaking up here today and there tomorrow and all time felt in flutterbies and shutter-flies captured caught and for the time being I feel I’m no longer catching the heat of the devil’s kiss like I earned it.

And the grey-black and flashes and rumbles closer getting closer and the heavens part and down it all comes, with you.

 


This was written at the end of July 2016, published on Art & Insolence.

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