15.05.017 Displacement

I think of you while I'm in the sky.
Do you like that, what do you think?

It's an oddly private place-- a metal tube of strangers,
displaced
40,000 feet above in air.

It is so strangely calm--
separate from everything, removed
from the grounding
qualities of Earth overpaved, or bare;
sodden, sun-baked.

I am in a place separate from the
two places
which keep us separate. A null-land
free from the barriers
of borders, space.

Do you like that, what do you think?

I am returning home from a place called home,
the false progeny of my father's father.

Desire for a piece of me, forbidden even in
the falsehood of my progeny:
a chance, perhaps, to meet the other me--
a mediating factor of the Larger Equation;

an opportunity

to unmake the last of these barriers-inward-hemming:

Ego, sea, and quiddity.

Honesty 31.03.017

Do you remember how we fell in love?

Let me tell you.

This is exactly how it went:

It was the first of the year.

I had trudged through the thick and bitter air—

past a graveyard, over slabs of ice whorled like marble,

thick and unforgiving underfoot—

to traverse a mile or so

in a city so unfamiliar to me.

I'd had no sleep,

barely any,

and my body felt thick and aguey.

No pocket-held device to guide me—

my path was planned the day before,

from one unfamiliar city dwelling to another

(I repeated the street names and turns in an endless stream,

the chatter-and-babble the beads of my rosary,

my hangover the blackened, nail-varnished crucifix),

and then I arrived at your door.

Back then, I’d had no knowledge of complexes and lobbies;

door ajar, I walked right in, no need to buzz though my head was humming,

and ascended the stairs, entirely unaccustomed to elevators from the forties.

(to this day— as I write—
I still cannot stop counting:
mumbled numbers a mantra, so soothing)

I knocked, more unsure than not.

Locks turned and clicked, your face

(your face, only) presenting

itself from behind dark mahogany.

A bit of surprise for mine arrival unannounced, but then:
warm smile, insides melting and running like butter; a welcome to the warmth within.

[Flash Forward]

We lay on your bed, bathing in the sun:

faces half-buried in blankets,

eyes meeting only for moments,

but with intention,

and for the first time

(in four-and-a-half-years, but for once let’s stop counting)—

and like pendulums swinging, every arc growing

shorter exponentially: our eyes held those moments,
meetings, longer with each ling'ring sweep of the lash...

[no, wait, go back]

We discuss our New Year’s Eves,
smiles disproportionate to our monumental hangovers,

our gladness at this presence of the moment

betraying attempts at civil small-talk.

I decide I need a shower

(because I want to be naked near you),

but we opt for breakfast first. Again,
I brave the cold, but with you to lead the way.

[Flash Forward]

Your apartment: a humidor of uncovered South-facing windows and unobscured January sky,
thick and dreamy with the fumes of oil paint curing.

Your bathroom door— unhinged, and baking in the rays—
is receiving its treatment, so I disrobe without any protection, though—

like a gentleman—

you sequester yourself to the opposite side of the room, 

lest your eyes or your feet wander where thou wilt not

(in here, with me, I want you).

The water washes away the grease, the sweat

of a night I am glad to have gone from me.

I wonder if you are looking—

your curtain is but a projection screen, upon which my darker self plays.

I know I cannot rightfully ask anything of you.

You were with Him last night.

I must neither tempt, nor intrude.

[no, wait, go back— please, let me go back]

Imagine a diaphanous veil of light, the lulling
hush of your radiator hissing;

gilded silence falling about your ears;

your body draped in amniotic warmth;

promises of the primordial sea;

the Zero-pointe:

No crucifixes, no Hail Marys.

No numbers, no counting, no
seconds marking moments passing.

Just a moment.
Breathe in.
Golden.

[go back]

Do you remember the moment we fell in love?

Let me tell you:

You lay at the head of the bed, crosswise. On your right side.

I lay at the foot, on my left, my eyes meeting yours, unwavering.

Perhaps, for the very first time, I was fully honest, fully present;

the first time fully in the sun’s light is harrowing.

In the bright white of your room:
the thrum of bloodmuscles pumping
in time; as-yet unaligned, though still
a sensation mutually-felt.

You reached out and fingered

the silver snakeskin bracelet

encircling my wrist.

You asked me a question— I answered it.

Your fingers did not leave, but rested.

Delicate.

Had I too made the band of silver adorning my finger?

No, I said. It was the work of my brother.

Silver is for protection.

We could not,

we did not want,

to further fill this silence.

The tether of beryl green

meeting muted blue

pulled us still closer,

and I met your hand

with my hand;

soft.

We drew nearer the moment,

careful of these fragile tangents:

adjacent axes-- asymptotes, each

approaching
Zero
infinitely;

your arms now around me

the scent of you a cloak

enrobing a moment never to forget— — —

In the heady high of anticipation, there was found a dream encased in glass.

...

...

...

Eighty-two days. I awoke.
In a cocktail of paint fumes and Burberry:
my head swimming, my heart quite thick.

Static Hum of the White Void 12.02.017

Here is the silence I expected,
Here
Is the olde inaction, the indecision, the
Proclivial avoidance;
The silence, the
Silence, the

Ones and zeros;
Wires, static,
Parabolic sine waves proclaiming
Nothing more than data corrupted.

17.12.016 αlpha, βeta

They grow only on northern sides
because too much sunlight will kill them.
Polaris is their false idol, though they’d never realize ----
They follow Her North, leaving behind
the truth of their equatorial Progenitor.
Towards absence, frost, and eternal night, they trek onwards:
heartless, and feeling--
longing for the prick of the pin amidst
the celestial void, the growing icicle violence,
numbness corporeal ----
a realization to be given over to the more distant Heavens:
αllaying + βelying the warmths of the God at their backs,
now South in every direction.

Every moment, I am at my own wedding.
To wed: verb; I am wedding,

I am wedding Everything,

there is no longer Me,
there is no longer capitalization;
everything is equal and with punctuation,
to express waiting.

and i am at my wedding,
i am at my wedding.

and i am at my wedding,
and i am at my wedding.

3:26-3:35 AM 02.02.016 (Into The Void)

Yup I got home at 3:05. My phone died and it *just* charged enough that I could turn it on and text. I lobbed the lightbulb into the intersection of California and Belmont and it didn't break, so I scooped it back up and brought it home with me because that seemed important. I found a beer bottle though and threw it into the intersection of Elston and Francisco, whereupon it shattered and skittered across the asphalt prettily. I heard a bird singing beautifully-- the only noise in the night aside from distant cars and my attempts at destruction-- between California-Belmont and Elston-Whipple. It was a beautiful night, I'm glad I came out. Let's see each other soon :) Sleep tight, fuck school.

26.12.016

Though through forest greens-- through fields,
and streams-- I'd like to roam:
today, I must compose a poem.

Halfway to death, I scared
the poor girl: sharp intake of air;
piercing scream; an about-face whirl

to face, wide-eyed, her devious assailant:
bright eyes filled with ornery glee,
and mouth split in a mischievous curl.

I offered her sweets, sincerest apologies
(kisses of Hershey's, I'mreallyreallysorry's)--
but no such contritious feats would suffice.

What would be nice,
said she,

(swagger in her step,
boots so high-- forever that twinkling smile in her eye

[but not so today-- no, not this time])

would be,
of course,
"a poem."

And as I wandered the high desert
(homeland of sun and humming air),
four weeks came and went.

And though my journey was pleasant
(revived from light, though my skin stayed fair),
mountains took my breath; my words were spent.

Though through evergreens-- through
mountainside streams-- I long to roam:
today, I must compose a poem.

Though I've lain me down upon the loam
in hopes to one day feel the embrace
of mycelium who call piney soil their home,

I know from the sap coursing in my veins
that the trees through which I wander alone
are where I will find my rightful place.

With desert winds to fill my lungs
and the burgeoning sun on my neck, my face--
I hear the cry of songs yet to be sung;

I feel the starkness of open space.

Though through mountain greens-- through
arroyos-once-streams, I did once roam--
today, I have composed a poem.