Perhaps slow age
they were pockets,
where magic appeared
to gently comb
the rye fields.
when light evolved
that could burn
at some stage
leaving the plot
unhinged and atomized
in the air.
At some point
and any thing
became a boat
a vessel pushed
by the pull
that the tides
tied to the ideas
Then it sunk
but nothing died
the wave continued
busy with bubble
Nothing but songs
instead of signs
the ear was as good
as any door
facing the journey.
You carve your bone
you carve the row of toes
you carve the thickness of your hair
you trace the sphere of your eye
you carve the curve of the flow
You open the space for light to grow
you polish the air that swells with sound
you carve the ear that apprehends error and crime
you carve the place and the scene
you carve the men and women
that carved the ground of the past
You carve the song and the curtain
that draped your childhood
you carve the tiniest details
you stare at your carvings
you stare at shade and form
You grow like a branch
you carved that branch
you have carved the root
you have carved the earth
you have carved the light
that shines upon us all
You are the carving
you are the branch
you are the growth
you are the leaves that shiver
in the cold wide wind
You have carved the thoughts of this
you have carved the innocence of unknowing
you have carved the knowledge that you carve
you have carved this memory
you have carved this ignorance
you have carved the light
that reveals your creation
you have carved the flame
that burns the infinite
your light has carved my face
your light has made this journey
your eyes are cosmos
your eyes are tight against
my own light.
There is in
my shadow a rock
that seems to be a rose.
to be brief,
the reality of an appearance.
The field of mist: life.
In it, a hard substance
that imitates the softness of love.
I am spectator and hungry stage.
Everything is busy.
As I am.
Trying, I am trying to be a place
for things to dwell inside me.
I only see the there.
Otherwise to taste nothing
and find it so sweet.
I can look at you, you’re it
that piece of motion that
clings to change.
So am I, besides anything essential.
Here is in that one shadow
a tiny stone we can taste.
Yes, it is really a cloud
without hope of being
like a flower above the sea.
Suddenly a soft drunkenness came over
not knowing if late night
or the glass
I just needed to
and leave unattended
Our existence is an exercise in fiction.
And it’s through a perversion of this art
that fiction becomes simulation of reality,
The task is to comprehend
the problem without attempting
to provide a solution for it.
The greatest actors convey
an understanding of the problem
and are applauded as heroic
because they continue thriving
in contradiction with the unsolvable
(fictitiously real) problem.
This is theater of the mind
and valiant acts have been written
with the futility of blood.
The tragic hero’s only
certainty is his ineffective success
and our only consolation is his
acceptance of suffering.
This is our pathos.
The tragic man makes the problem
his only audience.
He must feign suffering until its pain
becomes as real as the simulation of the problem.
He then says that the salvation is unattainable,
that freedom is nothing more than
the purest state of fiction.
And in the irony of his language, he’s dead right.
Take off your clothes.
Peel off every last layer.
Squat, further down.
Place your left arm over your left knee. There.
Bend your upper body to the right. Just there.
Right foot a tad over to the right. Lean forward
the other arm straight down touching
the coldness of the earth. Don’t look
at me, look down as if something
great and heavy was pushing you down
restraining your mobility, locking you
with the awkward chain of the body itself.
Untighten your abdomen. Relax the brow,
look defiant as if you’ve been angry
for years, but tired and nearing hopelessness,
like an irrational animal that’s exhausted
from growling in its cage.
There, let your member hang. Let the
pain of the bones and joints led
to convulsions, feel the crush and the pendulum.
Begin to accept this position as your end,
as your skin’s predestination.
There, that’s it. It will be over soon.
I almost got it.
It will be over …. soon.