(Links 27 & 28 of a poetry exchange between Natalie and myself. Making a chain of cinquains [a Cinq-chain?] in an effort to "un-chain our muses.") (I think we have enough Chain-Links to make a Fence....) Around what dead thing are the vultures circling? There is always a corpse somewhere nearby. Nearby, there are blossoms breathing in the dark night. Why is the air so empty in our dreams? Our dreams where we descend with stones in our pockets like Virginia into the dark water — water which bears the weight and weeps to consume us and delivers our bodies back to land. To land in a place such as this, to fall like bombs into an abyss. Sky becomes water. Water waits for what falls. The bones of thoughts lie half- remembered, settling, eaten by time by time which wavers like curtains at a window devoured by moths, mice, and men until – until time stands with a backbone of its own and says with breath from a distant wind: enough. Enough of this wasteland pantomime, this taste that still waits on the edge of our tongue’s desert, desert of the mind’s end, end of the places where we can offer our selves any comfort. Comfort yourself knowing there are seas beyond these sand dunes, once you blink and open your eyes your “I”s left behind like so many broken shells once you realize mankind is one man one man walks alone, as kind as his dreams will let him be, real eyes seeing more and more and more than won men can handle, more than bartered men can bet on, until they close their eyes. Their eyes flicker like light— bulbs in dusty attics, following him into the dark places places no man should go until he has learned the way of the rat and the raven and Poe and Po, the old poet, knew that life in the world is just a big dream and not worth spoiling, spoiling with nought but wine since we ever know that nothing will never be the same again again I see my own eyes peering out at me from someone else’s face – I must free them free them before they rot the soft skull that holds them. Some thoughts should not be thought, or so we think We think we know what our eyes are doing when our ears are listening to the soft tick, tick tick, tick of the bones as they settle and soften in their assigned places in the mirror
mirror yourself in the same place Sylvia saw terrible fish – grasp what you can before
before
it leaves your hands
the way all wild things must —
let it go before it gasps and
goes limp
goes limp,
slips through your last
frightened fingers into
the gas, into the last space left
to them
to them
that see the world
for what it is. They see
into the dark corners that we
do not
Do not
go wandering
or wondering where they
make their homes – those are unholy
waters
waters
where reflections
are more real than the
faces that cast them and move with
free will
free will
not be easy
and easy will never be
simple and the hardest things are
never
never
land is a far
away place where nothing
ever happens, no one dies and
we’re bored
...keepin' the Po in NaPoWriMo...
I can so relate to these words tonight. Excellent writing.
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