We machine sadness; hone the lives of our knives and sharpen our dances to slice into the watery selves of these silks that we wave about. We choreograph the movements of alphabets, shading the letters with all the wet and hard and broken things that we find in our insides. And then? We cry out, spilling them onto the floor.
There is a robin
singing in a tree somewhere,
telling the world he
is looking for a
mate. A robin sings in a
tree somewhere, telling
the world he has found
a mate. The tree somewhere is
a tulip in the
neighbor's front yard. Spring
has come. We drive by the same
people, sleeping in
bags on the sidewalk, waiting
for the world to warm.
(Been a little minute since I wrote one of these...)
(damned soundcloud. I've been waiting for 45 minutes for this to "process." It was done on the 8th. I swear.) Three Facets I. It is strange to place a smell that has been so long lost to memory, to realize that you did not feel its missing until you found it waiting for you, a breath of absence in the room that clings and orbits around you and the dying dog. It is not yours. It is not a gift. It is left for us by the living as they leave. II. It is strange to come across a thing waiting just here for just you to find its missing at this right moment, next to the kiss that you placed on your mother’s brow when you asked her if she wanted to go home to die. These are not things that I can understand. They are the same life. Their deaths smell much the same no matter who does the dying. III. It is a strange place to find yourself, on this bare floor between these two like epigraph and epilogue, both ends and both beginnings, simultaneous and arbitrary bookends, heavy with hollow. Who could have guessed that you would find your self in this simple act, waiting for you to tell it apart from where you found it? A trio of haiku sonnets
Grey morning creeps in through open-eyed windows, steals between the sheets—as dark as the thought of cold before it can be felt— slips through shuttered eyes sewn shut by colors dreamed into them without will or consistency, and now, just there, just above the window, grey-winged mourners come. Perhaps, like me, they want the world to wake up without them.
The moon is not full of dreamy light. The moon is full of….well,…the moon. One could say the moon is full of rock, I guess. Yes, lots and lots of rock. And the moon is not a hole punched in anything, either. It shines like ….well, it shines like the moon, I guess. It shines like a ball of rock. Up there. In the sky. Where it winks its cold eyes at the sun.
(inspired, yet again, by a conversation with Natalie/potterfan97) here’s a piece for you—a slab on the boards waiting for the knife of your eyes. it drips from my mouth. there is blood in it. there is iron and weakness in it. it turns from red to ochre in the air. can you smell it? it's starting to rot. can you stomach it? your gut must match its emptiness or it will infect you and eat you from within.
A Prayer Like Gravity 