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!

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.

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)

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.

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]

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...

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.

Cardinal

North to none, the void of night,
South to skies and gift of sight,
West to wings of worlds to write,
East to all engulfed by light.

North to numbers' ceaseless flow,
South to souls of winds ablow,
West to wax wicks, waning slow,
East to echoes doomed to grow.

North where naught is different daring,
South with sundered souls despairing,
West of time and words uncaring,
East––the end of world sans bearing.





The longer the winds blow, the further we travel toward unheard echoes, the more we yearn for that which we can never attain. So close, and yet so far...the path in the rubble, the arrow in the dust...the soul is but a sail, destiny but a destination...within the tempest that is time, we all seek our bearing.

seventeen

Don't leave me behind––

They ask for too much,

forever wanting,

Wanting me

to satisfy them in their infinitely individual ways,

to pride myself on their satisfaction,

ingesting their fears,

washing away their despair

I see their countenance every day,

dissatisfaction every hour,

disregard every minute.

It's true.

I can't satisfy them.

In the end, they don't care about me

Why do they so hunger

for eighteen?

What can she do

that I can't?

What is she to them?

Another opportunity?

Another chance to

––what––

fail again?

What is eighteen––

but an artificiality

constructed by the past

disgraced by the future

––What––

Can she

satisfy them?

Can anything––

but their illusions?

––illusive––

––elusive––

When I was with them, they did everything

––to help me––

everything

––to help themselves––

but it's too late, they've given up

––on me––

––on themselves––

They can't satisfy themselves.

Once I lie dying in the dust

they might reach for––

nonexistent freedom,

false hope,

blind conviction,

But they're them.

They couldn't

and they won't.

They could never,

and they will never

Not without me. So––

Don't leave me behind––

Not like the other two millennia.

Not like sixteen.

Don't leave me behind––

Dues Payed

One-two, one two, and through and through,
  As life doth take its native hue,
Once-more, once-more, and rage and roar,
  But whisper too what thank thou for,
Come all, come all, to watch us fall,
  Thrice gaspéd wind a moment crawl,
Now see, now see, 'tis only we,
  Hence heed the call to set us free.





A random tidbit of everything and nothing, written in the barely-alive non-darkness of post-autumn. Pseudo-Shakespeare + Caroll anyone?

Starbound

"It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;"
And as the clouds tossed to and fro,
   So did the aimless, fearless we.

Two perfect rings as the seagull sings,
   Forever together as long as can be,
And the tide brought things––such perfect things
   To this kingdom by the sea,
Tributes to us, for we were kings,
   Annabel Lee and me.

Four eyes on the dusk as our shadows drew
   Long against the longing we,
As the wind blew the night into
   Our kingdom by the sea,
And the crescent in our sky came to,
   We ventured we were free...

But starbound cries are naught but lies,
   And our love was not to be,
The gull's replies sink into sighs,
   Heaving as the sorrowful sea,
And as the torrent dies, the current dies,
   From my feet the spirits flee.

It's time to say my last goodbyes,
To my beautiful Annabel Lee.





Of course, based on "Annabel Lee" by Edgar Allen Poe. Isn't divergence poetry fun? From dark thoughts come darker thoughts, and thus from poetry poetry. From rhyme rhyme, and from convolution convolution.

But truly: is there any real way to dispel remorse? We all cannot help but find our own answers, through our own Annabel Lees, in our own kingdoms by the sea, just as we cannot help but fear the seagull's song.

A Sprinting Feeling

As sprint to sprint,

So feel to feel,

A lifetime perched upon a reel,                           

And breath to dying breath gives way,

As ashen air from shattered clay,

Ungentle light a bidden blade,

As broken seal by solemn spade,

Exhausted skies by thunder heave,

As tarnished steel the rager reave,

Immortal from the mortal flee,

As faulted stars strike dark decree,

As feel from feel,
So sprint from sprint,
A lifetime birthed of foul flint.





Because who can tire of such poetry as this? Just a spurt of energy in the endless chasm of life, in the infinite vacuum of that which is not, in the unfathomable void of––

Necessity

There are kings

—of wasteland,
ruling the domains of the discarded,
the realms of the abandoned,
the lands long left behind.

There are knights

—of failure,
shame is their steed,
aberration their armor,
blindness their blade.

There are creators

—of destruction,
erecting chaos,
forging blight,
compiling oblivion.

But there lies in all

—a resident but necessary evil:
in every crown guilt,
in every helm doubt,
in every mind mania,

And thus the most capable leaders,
the most vigilant guardians,
the most ingenious thinkers,
who warrant the highest regard,

—also merit, in some ways, the least.





Are we not all kings and knights and creators in our own ways? Mind the necessity as with all questions of balance. Mind the risk, the reward, the trials, but none too much. If only...if—

Lingua

These walls that close us in,
Disparate cells devoid of sound,
A prison to twist the soul,
A jail to shatter the thought.
Where nothing seeks,
And nothing is sought.

Reeking of the lightless stars,
Scorched by the lava of Libras and Leos,
Melted into a dormant crater,
Into a lifeless sky of ash.
A deafening storm,
But a silent crash.

Where music drops into static,
And color slips into smoke,
Flaring rifts to part the flames,
Stabbing secants through the ring,
And even as starlight ebbs, 
Arcs apart so somberly sing.

What once rang true,
So through and through,
Resigns to death,
With dying breath,
And leaves behind,
A world confined,
A nescient drought,
When words run out...





For what remains when thought is naught? What remains when all is consumed, when the world becomes everything yet nothing? Thus, appreciate language for what it is––and what it isn't. And wield words well for the betterment of all. #wieldwordswell maybe? (also this was originally completely white but it isn't for the sake of mobile users who lack the weapon of command-a)

Taking Inventory

              A single black hair, two

          unreturned pencils, fifty captured

         moments, three keys, a million locks,

      a family picture frame, a box of firewood,

   a handful of courage, a pen for when, a lie for

why, the line between goal and purpose, the moral

of an old fable, an untaken shot, the pennies from

the cashier, two fallen petals, a dozen unhatched

eggs, a sibling's advice, a dewdrop of resolve,

three impossible words, a paper towel's worth of

spilled coffee, twelve footsteps, three seconds

of complete failure, two backwards glances,

an unopened bottle of ink, an infinity of

doubts, thirty fumbling syllables, an

unshed tear, two meters of thread

unwound, a shattered mirror,

a white colored pencil, the

covers of an empty book,

some guilt, thirty regrets,

two seeking eyes,

one unbroken

silence of

what will

never

be.

This is the half of the tale we all hear. Indeed, this is the half many of us experience for ourselves, and along with it all the unsought emotions and sentiments. On another note, this is the side of poetry I rarely explore. Perhaps it warrants a quick foray...or two?

Inner Melodies

The tempest raging over tropic sands,
While unrelenting storms blanket the lands,
Horizons past and heaven's eyes withdrawn,
Unparted curtains sing their cloudy song,
The notes from summits ring with untold tunes,
Each chord a crashing tide on war-torn dunes,
And undefeated echoes ride on air,
Un-equine steeds yet currents just as fair,
Poseidon's manes too gallop at the call,
Dark liquid schisms fast to rise and fall,
Electric dancers fleeting in their flow,
No gift of moment's lapse for them to slow,
Thus hides the utter chaos within peace,
Unseeming spells of tumult without cease.





Yes, I suppose it is something of a skill that humans put to use: the concealment of these "spells of tumult," no matter how intense they might be. How many of these have you had? And how many of them could you suppress into a shadow of a blink? And how many tormented your soul for days at a time?

Well I guess the other side of this is appreciating the halcyon rainbows after such a storm. In any case, take what you will from the poem. It's yours, after all. It's all of ours.

Note: this was a timed poem (a sonnet made of couplets) written in a tumultuous 30 minutes

Fallen Petals

I suppose
A rose
Is naught
But fraught,
Not
With love,
For such a dove
Is of
Optimism,
Slaughtered
By its very thorns,
Caught
Red on red
On the bull's horns,
Sought,
Hard-fought,
And yet left to rot,
Distraught,
Taut
Between worlds of fakes,
An onslaught
Of uncaught
Mistakes,
And one is all it takes,

Indeed a rose
Is wrought
From the darkest thoughts,
Deepest betrayals,
Sharpest hatred,
Heaviest burdens,
For fate
Is not
So kind
As to bind
Without breaking
Find
Without forsaking,
So too is the barbed arrow
Thus shot.





I suppose, additionally, that this poem has a hint of rap to it; that's not exactly intentional, but I guess that's what rap is at its finest and deepest. Might it be Pleonasm in Rap? Well, that defeats the purpose of the genre, but imagine in another world, where such works are treated differently, almost as hybrids of rhyme and free verse. In a world where these works are embellished with the nuances of poetry, just as they are tarnished by the shadows of themes inseparable from their more elegant counterparts. Might I call rap...light? Not that I have the knowledge nor the expertise to make such bold statements. Nevertheless, onward we proceed.

Also may I point out that the long-sought "double-edged arrow" metaphor...is impractical. Thus we rely on the fallen petals at hand, for as much as we might try to deny it, they're everywhere.

A Fallen Star

A wish upon a fallen star,

The fading light a light too far,

Where broken day by dusk exhales,

Horizon-bound on windblown sails,

Afloat on seas of untold times,

A darkened hull of loss and crimes,

A present past to present gives,

And thus to future present lives,

An arrow on the unkempt tides,

Where moment to each moment guides,

Where fleeting futures drown in night,

Approaching naught but snuffed out light,

Like candles from an infant's blow,

Eyes watching unwished wishes go,

Through guilty tears on guilty seas,

Entombed within a guilty breeze.

Then splinters fly from stricken helm,

As fallen star strikes fallen realm.

This one is actually more open to interpretation than I originally intended. Certain lines present themselves in certain ways, yet offer, it seems, different possibilities. For: what is this "present" that the past gives, and toward which future is the present "living"? What is the premise: the wish? And what is the aftermath of the strike? Where one star falls while another seems to disappear, who can tell?

June and July 2017: A Renaissance

Such an unlikely union, that of Juno and Caesar, precipitates, nonetheless, a renaissance of sorts. While the Roman Renaissance took inspiration from the past, this blog took inspiration from the future. From its rebirth in early June ("Important Blog Update") to the subsequent flow of poetry, and even to the recent sharing of posts through Facebook, the blog has undergone quite a bit of change.

I suppose it would be prudent of me to share some highlights, so I shall.

Firstly "Wonder; wander," the first of its intruiging kind.
Of course we can never forget "The Nowhere Walk," which shows that outward simplicity can conceal deep wisdom.
"Terrestrial Slumber" paints a vivid picture with extensive metaphor.
"Untaken Paths" takes rhyme to an entirely new level.
Lastly, "Where All Must End" sets up an especially enticing genre of poetry.

But nothing quite inspires like what has yet to be, so until it is......write on.

The Search

They sing,
And she sings along.

They run,
And she slows to their pace.

They search,
And she searches with them,
For something she can never have.

They wait,
And she waits too,
A lone raven among crows,
Singing a sorrowful song,
Running an endless race,
Searching the barren world,
For, it seems, nothing at all.

And then they feast upon their morsel,
Belting out a victorious whisper,
Dancing in empty elation,
Having advanced in their search,
For, it seems, nothing at all.

And she will sing,
Until their voices die,
And she will run,
Until their strength wanes,
And she will search,
Until they find what they have sought,
Until they become, it seems, nothing at all.

Having sung,
And understood not a word,
Having run,
And gone nowhere,
Having searched,
And found nothing,
She leaves in search
Of more who search
For, it seems, nothing at all.





Such is the price of something we, as humans, can never attain. In the eye of one who possesses this trait, we are such ephemeral creatures, who come from, and eventually fade into, and thus seem to simply be, nothing at all. So why would they search for that which they can never experience? Why do we seek to understand "inferior" animals? Why do we engage in the perpetual search? Why do anything? Why do we ask these questions? There can never be a perfect answer. On with the search!