Tag Archives: writing

A History of Mirrors

It takes a moment to recognize the face I see,
rough cartography that looks like deceit,
lies between us, a confusing ambiance;
big; small – they are all wounding.

Look away and speak to me only in silence,
you are the last I want to hear.

I’ll extinguish the lights,
scream until my lungs rise like flames,
reducing my thoughts to ashen remains,
that glow beneath the cacophony.
Embers radiating a dim red light –
of fear,
            but you and I,
                                  we’ll call it anger.

Snap

The pressure,
functions far beneath the surface,
beyond even darkness,
pushing against mundane complacency,
the nine to five,
contentedness;
jealousy seeking a surface it will never see.

That viscera,
grinding like worms, displacing the earth,
infecting the mantle with friction;
ur minerals confronting each other,
conflicted purposes,
devouring;
Sacrificing themselves to see the end of the other.

It burns,
that ancient exchange of authenticity,
for the hot pulpy rage that takes its place,
patiently waiting in the soil,
biding time,
stalking;
until finally it can break free and consume.

The surface,
undisturbed for countless generations,
is corrupted by the change,
so long schemed beneath its skin.
Malicious intent,
contempt;
the kind of anger only born from corpses.

Rocinante’s Secrets

The worn grips where I held you tightly,
through foul winds or gentle breezes;
the subtle change in color there, pleases –
where hills become valleys resting in those old wraps.

Every scratch, no matter the size,
when I carried you impatiently from place to place,
or tangled with you imperfectly at my own disgrace,
are hints at the strength beneath your skin.

The dirt that hides in strange corners,
the oil, the grease, the wires, the gears,
sometimes too much, or too little are my fears,
that the care I can give you is not enough.

The way the two of us consort,
inspiring the earth to move, the wind to blow,
and in that ambiance becoming only the now I know;
free, finally, from times attempt to capture me –

Soft words whispered to eyes keen enough to listen.

The Ur Resonance

That head cold of a place,
claustrophobic like asthmatic lungs,
a beginning, an ending,
depending on where you look.

In that heaving chamber,
a body stands misaligned,
like paper planes fumble folded,
the right side crawling away,
desperate for the solace of shadows.

The rest of the body too, one can assume
(but know nothing).
Where secrets grow like hair,
even as the source will never do again.

Another figure is inhaled,
drawn deeply from the darkness.
A reflection of the native,
lunging towards its chiral twin.

The folds of space between them thin,
become thinner still, non-existent,
a monstrosity of osmosis.

A tired rage erupts from the forebearer,
one ‘good’ hand emboldened and armed,
vomited out from the disheveled shapes,
plunging a dagger into the aggressor,
again, and again, and again, and again,
until, together, they slump away,
retreating from life, reality, everything.

Reflections on Time

Interacting with your own line of time,
feels like death penalty electronics,
brain shouting in pyrotechnics,
warning or celebration, who can tell?

Perhaps it’s the screaming desire,
to transcend the moment,
to be sound, fury, too.
Stretching out into places as alien as you,
manipulating the history of your future.

But the noise fails to silence
the confrontation between your two selves.
Merely a transitory way station for thoughts,
as you try to adjust perspective towards fullness.

A magic eye poster of before and after,
regurgitated onto a single surface,
only making sense to disloyal eyes, corrupted minds.

Singularity, finally achieved, is painful,
requires hyper focus,
the tension if it stretches sanity’s bounds.

To hold in place, grab another and squeeze,
break skin, find empathy.

Bond

Late
later than we knew,
but that is eternally,
you.

Profoundly present, attentive,
ignorance only in the future,
the moment reigns supreme,
you.

All other time,
is trivialized by experience,
the sand amidst the dune,
you.

When the day ends,
when the next begins,
it is always comforted by,
you.

Now, here,
living fuller lives,
loving more,
we.

Guest of Honor

It stands against a marathon of sand
creosote winds playing the air in scented ribbons.
The way it feels;
                  the way it is –
        quilted together like conflicting fabrics.

Too great a thing to be disregarded,
too great a thing to accept.

Sanity keeps it always obscured,
                              out of focus;
the malignant veil a mere lifetime away,
too close for comfort.

Malfunction

Rough edges hewn,
subtle moments undefined,
obscured by clouds –
broken plumes
                  stuttered interruptions
        of a tattered parachute
                                        panicking;
anchored to a lost cause,
      that screams its confessions to the wind.

                Like rain,
          wanting never to fall.