Monday, June 22, 2020

so sweet and so cold (style piece)

It feels unnatural to speak through the wall, on a river of ink.

But what of it? Coffee downed, the wall serves its purpose—to keep separate heart and mind. (for are we not but one? corporeal two the end, threedom and fourtune in stride, or menial pain, but striding all-together fivesixseverance—)

But purpose served: I am shielded from shame by hardwood blinders. They keep me honest (lying through his teeth—ha! I lie only through a toothless grimace, bitelessly barking the dusk)

And honesty a virtue? Honesty is my only virtue, I'll say as much (it's true). A poor man's perseverance, or a rich man's conscience—plying trade by prying secrets? i'mmune, for I have none. And for that matter, I expect no secrets, secrete no sullen expectations, pollen-delusions of grandeur, scandals. (imagine!) Through and through, glassily transparent. (not so, yonder glasses of chocolate milk)

But honesty is no mutual guarantee. Rather like empty air, it contains no trust. I might as well be switching in blanks in combat—blank stares, gaping at a gaping wound (who told you to—), lying down on my one and single (bloody) lie.

Or blanks, as in a fill-in-the-blank. Cloze deletions, as they are known to some, injected and revived for brief (arduously long) Frankenstein-like brain raves of half-med student, half language junkie. Rage, rage, against spaced-out spaced repetition. (-epition, -epetition—) But finite doses of affection, no matter how optimally spaced, do not unveil the hidden heart. No matter how much context, the unending line of blank stares you full-on, in the eye. You know that you don't know, it taunts from the abyss. And you concede—spacebar; [hard]; +17 days. If only love could gain the same traction, backpedal frantically along the forgetting curve. Survive.

The door, at least, makes temporary peace with the unknown. Here I sit, planted lumbar-tense-along-the-ladderback, firm on the (illusory) plane. It's all fake, I know: sitting back (as one never does), the convergence of ladder-slats (as they're never called) invokes a hardwood calm, (artificial) stolid solidity, a falsehood of a chair built on a peekaboo-a-bly-fake wreath of tree-mortality. While the windsor makes no attempt at smooth(-talk) support, the pretentious ladderback's inviting (un)curve joins pudgy, skin-soft with hardwood truth. Rammed together, but with a lullaby to put you to sleep. Lumbar-like, it coons. Posture-panacea. And in a deeper voice: Lest you fall through the slats, or scream past polystyrene. Better ink your honesty, ball-point your fingers, baldface the truth.

Because it's not unnatural. It's all too natural. Speaking through the wall, riding muffled air, brutally, blankly, all too genuine. My own voice, now, beyond the seams: Say the truth, I chant. Say the truth, ply the trade, fight the curve. Spaced out, it's not so impossible. Not unfixable; rather lullaby-able, fill-in-the-blankable.

The clock strikes eight. My finger finds thirds, savors the white fold-over, seals the tongue. Nevermore, the ladder urges. Nevermore, the mug-born-coffee-scythe cries. Tablecloth and conscience stained, I drink anyway. The air is biteless, lukewarm, cleanse-like; extended on an olive branch—a moment to think, a halcyon crystal in the wind. And spaced out, the swig is mellow, even inviting. I purse my lips.

It's still not easy to swallow.

***

Brief meta on style pieces: they're down-on-paper-first, edit-later sort of deals, driving style and forcing me to create content on the fly, born out of a single phrasal/clausal/allusive seed (usually in the title). I plan to explore motific development (à la fugue), exude wordplay, and to have no plan. Maybe there will be some sort of schedule, or maybe there won't. But this is the first; there will be more. Write on!

Wednesday, October 2, 2019

Wild World

wildworld
whilewewhirled
fro and to
believe me––we flew!!
“checklist please,”
I checked but he's
floundering
aroundweswing

the dashboard lit up in red

wildworld
whileweswirled
fly—oh, it unfurled—
downanddown
sungtothesound
of “air-a-shoot!”
buttherewasmoot
(the point was moot)
dancetothewind
tastingthespin

the tail fishtailed

wildworld
criedandcurled
viscer-rolled
natal-fatal
––must we still pay, though?––
“air-a-shoot!”
“tear-through’t”
andthesunspun
andtheairflung

the blades caught a foreign fire

wildworld
"high load"
“air-a-shoot!”
Iwishheflewit
’twixtblueandblue(it)
water-bound
sungtothesound
ofpride
––but what a ride––
that
aside
lookslike––
bulls-eye
blue-hurled
viscer-rolled
criedandcurled
whileweswirled
whilewewhirled
––and still it unfurled––

a wild world.

Tuesday, May 28, 2019

En Passant

A youth stares down
On a barren ground
And makes a comment most uncouth;

A plain stares up
At a foreign sound
And remarks upon a vulgar youth.





(lines from an airplain window)

Sunday, March 24, 2019

Returning

Unfurling––returning
In seablown wind––the windblown sand
Sans water. Returning
To gritty, weathered in-
dolence wrapped about that ethe-
real one. Widening
to catch the wind––a windmonger;
tightening to catch the
heart, fluttering foul
under the beacon
of sunken knots
of light. Here––
or somewhere 'twixt here and the-
re, sunken dreams a'bubble into foux
skies, tainted azure sighs, pearls of a canner
-y row row rowing gently to no more. Petty things
to sell, fall
into part-
ly the
wrong hands, partly sent
so bubblin' into no hands at all, retur-
ned, sans water, towards kin,
then-maiden knots.
Hold
Me.
Or
better yet––now hold my innar-
ds, kiss
them as a lover would. And lose
me not––unfurled upon
the
cypress wood.





In the end, what is returning but the second coming? From the grave, from the Great Flood, from togetherness, from the one. Unfurl the tale––upon the grave, the glittering shovel take.

Wednesday, March 6, 2019

Colores (Dolores) (Dólares)

Un arco iris
        de colores (dolores) (dólares)
Después de una tormenta
        de vientos (lo sientos)
Lloviendo frutas
        distantes
                lejanas
Sinfín de frutas
        el fin de frutas
                de rutas
Cuando venga el águila
        Que guarda el tesoro
        ¡Qué ardua un toro!
        Muerto, sin oro
La araña tejiendo su tela
        ––rediciendo la red––
        ––informática sin información––
Ahogando, con su hogar,
        bajo un arco iris





[un poema sobre California, inspirado por Diego Rivera y John Steinbeck]

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Untold

...Setting a stolid face...

Why again––
Why did I fill each step with care
Evading your gaze
Eyes only on the path
Sidestepping your shadow
Through the open haze
Seeing through you
Like empty air
Taking from you
Thus
Us

How again––
Have I lost you for so long
Taken into the energy of oblivion
The adrenaline of a lifetime
A windswept windchime
Compassion, passion
Every melody
But your song
A hundredfold
Finally
––For me––
A bell tolled

...Within your infinite embrace...

Friday, July 6, 2018

Cliffjumper

                          If I
                      close
                   my
                  eyes
                  it's
                  easier

Eyes to eyes
The granite margin
Ears to ears
The west wind calls
Impulsive bliss
Only to imagine
A thousand fears
A thousand falls

                     A
                  coward's
                  eyes--
                  what's
                  wrong?

Eyes to eyes
A preterm pride
Ears to ears
Canyon-bound
The seeker's creed
Without the heart
A thousand lost--

A thousand found.