they say a distant
call of conscience will
bring the valuable
back to you.
they say this call
comes from within,
and an opportunity
to embrace guilt comes
by - an opportunity
filled with the
all and all you have
left, as weight that is
not present, a call
of conscience to
bring yourself back.
i fear i cannot see
where i am going, you said.
so i told you
there is nowhere
to go. perhaps
the call is all you
needed, and now life
will take over. bring
you where you should
go with an
awareness of where
you’ve been.
the deepest layers
in the path are
ignored in being-in,
an ever present
continuity with
a definite end, he
says, an end which
makes us aware of
ourselves in these
deeper layers.
well her friends won’t come
they should have told her
as he told her, as he
mentioned she knew that
her mistakes were
condemnable - perhaps
this is why she pursued
religious paths, gazing at
possibilities to
fix.what she had done.
irresolute, she carved
the path for him and
herself, laying bare different
horizons through
the possibility of the
new futures their
end created. grasped them,
because that is all
one could do, and
she
remained quite
alone in the understanding
of this finitude once she
understood.
he hadn’t reached
the end with her,
he had started anew.
spring time
was supposed to bring
something, what it is
i can’t recall.
it’s at the tip of
my tongue, at the
outset of
lips.
it’s at the tip of
my fingers, at the
slide of
touch.
spring time
was supposed to find
us, breathing faster
and warmer.
it’s borrowing flowers
from different
seasons, it’s not
growing its own.
the birds don’t
chirp, and their songs
are holding me
stronger than he is
spring time
and i feel myself
moving towards
an end
Cradle of the
sun, of
the wind, of
the moore - of
the unconstituted
laws in the statutes
that last, the time it takes
to make a mistake
takes twenty more wings
to erase.
and the little
butterflies you saw
by the waterfalls as
a child, you did not
really see: they are images
now. That is how
you see. forgotten,
and right. And that
is how it is,
now.
entering darker
periods in my
life, you tell me
that there are
some things that
need to change, entering
darker paths, passages,
areas of exploration,
you dig me out.
entering the sidelines
of what-was-to-come,
the sunflower sits
absent of its
sunlight,
devoured by an
animal, eaten by
plague. entering
different keys
on the piano, the
melody transforms
the story, the steps
of the tango less
predictable, you
let me stumble,
but always find
your way.
often and at times
when looking through
the paths among
the roads or trails
or encounters between
two - I am left
wondering
where the ground beneath
our feet has gone. Where
the tip toes sink
into, or where the
heart flies off to,
Often and at times,
I am left wondering about
the places we don’t look,
the places we forget as we
try to make a living
on these paths among
the roads and trails we’ve
committed.
staring at him,
you wonder where
the imagination has
gone, why the
looks you give him
are empty, the
lack of sparkle
in his eyes
staring back at
you - and a sense
of void enters
into the channels
of your body, where
the buddhists begin
to gather their
winds at the
core. There he
is, the void
staring back at you -
and you wonder
what you can do
to see the
shine unobstructed,
the hope
glimmering,
the voice kept
silent inside you,
probing the
reality, and
wishing for more
that he won’t
give to you.
the terror runs deep,
deep into the failed attempts
and discoveries of
choice and decisions - where
the choice and the decisions
are a mystery. They somehow
appear and personality takes
the ultimate responsibility -
so as to be able to brush it
off onto “another” person; somewhat
different from the one you’ve
become or will be becoming
in the future. the choice never
ours, decisions always
due to that personality
we no longer are.
there is no
break.
the information
received
goes on, and the mystery
of how you came to be
seems to take on
new meaning
every time - but i am
starting to realize
those who know the
truth with me, always
put on their boots
and disappear until one
day they re-appear with
a new uniform that
describes their
new self - and I,
wearing the same shoes,
with repaired soles
and bits of material to
cover up the holes,
gulp it in, and keep
it down
sometimes, some
times
dreams
compel me to
bring myself
to you. somehow, some
how
your presence is
ever-lasting,
ever-present - and
deceit of all
new territory i
have built
becomes the ultimate
goal in your retrieval.
sometimes, some
times
your prediction
turns out true - that
i could never
get away, that you’re
marked on me
like a burn.
somehow, some
how, though,
you are no-where
still. and no-where
for a long time
you shall remain.
explaining the
creases of
color inside
the separations
of fibres - the browns
meet from waves
to nexts. The earthiness
sustains a gaze, an
art hidden in nature.
the wood is
ever-present,
constant, comforting,
regardless of
space and time,
it creates new
sounds as
imaginings of
waves moving
collide with vision.
inside bits of
the simplest, are
the greatest.
a dark flower,
that’s what he
called me.
we proceeded to
clothes taken off,
and pressing
of limbs. before which,
I must say, a thought
occurred to me:
“Why the dark, when the
light?”
Unable to recall
a moment someone
called me a fragile
pink flower, I
decided to like
his naming. Decided,
that furthermore
and before-which
it has always been
so.
a dark flower,
one that drove
my men wild,
I
drove them wild,
unlike her, his sweet
rose, his innocent
tulip.
But I, he said
with my mind
in pieces, captivated. I
carried the light
in possibility, I
held the light captive in
the darkness of
the rose.
His voice calming and
somber, the way a whiskey
glass sounds to modern
ears. That is,
don’t we hear about
gentlemen rooms,
where our grandfathers
and uncles would
play bridge? and don’t
their voices sound
the way a whiskey
voice would? As opposed
to modern men, with
clear vodka, and
a poker game. A class
vanishes in his
voice, a time
beyond mere appearances
continues to live
in its memory.
with hands white, with finger
nails sharp, with a grasp
tight - the abstraction of
element begins. Off the
vastness, to the mere
principle, colors don’t
matter.
world two collapsed
into world one when
with him. shifting
plates, jumping for
safety in the
antarctic of his
will. Bring them to
peace, to future,
to lack thereof.
jealousy is a
confined creature.
as a hand grabs
a body for
ultimate control,
another loves
a body for
the sake of wasted
years and i tell
myself everything
happens for a reason -
we get what is
coming at us through
the things we don’t
do. through the
pieces we couldn’t
see - if we were guilty,
guilt will follow in
abstract ways
we get what we
receive for the
universe’s own
reasons. jealousy
is a confined creature,
and it bites us
once things catch
up to us.