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Posts Tagged ‘destruction’

She keeps from going to pieces
by visiting the world
and seeing the stars
from the top of my car
above moon roofs but
below the reflecting surface
of lakes
and when she goes
she takes me with her.

We see where we are going
in the puzzle in the sky
and written in cracks of trees –
the wrinkles on an old man
with pieces squeaking
when they grind against themselves
while tending his garden
but through a thin smile
he remembers the war
that shattered our world.

No, she won’t go to pieces
even though she is made
of them. Not this girl of
wire and cogs,
string coiled around
a computer chip
and memory.

She visits the world,
he visits the world,
and when they do they bring me
to watch it fall apart
into new wholes
with new homes
and new names.
He pats her on the back
as if to pass her
the inherited mess
he wouldn’t let fall to pieces,
the mess he and his wife
tended,
that they let fall to pieces,
to hold each other.

So when I go, I’ll bring her.

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Watching Woman

She made short pauses in speech,
of the short this was the shortest
because she was in great haste to stop.

Her eyes widened to catch words from the air
felt fragmentations were in reach –
that is what called her to stop, and wait.

Shrapnel remaining from some big bang
tiny seconds ticked and removed from clocks
separation around her, and therein a history.

This moment, still defined as an instant
had refocused those sky light eyes
into beacons at sea, or trees in a garden.

More like trees in a garden actually,
tall twins reaching above the rest and whose
fruit would fall like blessings and curses on the land.

While one eye saw life and goodness all around
the other cupped its tender wisdom and through it
saw the naked truth – barren reality devoid of fragmented seconds.

The shortest silence was a complicated one.
Perhaps why she filled it so fast, with last second pleasantries.
But she and I both knew of time’s brief embrace with her.

Clarity aggressively inserted itself into her perceptions
revealing the destructive nature of creation – the circle
around her pupil – the circle around her eye.

But such circles were horrifying, and assaulted her sense of romance
it was the dance of endless endings. Her shoulders dipped from the weight
– her eyes squinted against the harsh light of beacons too bright.

Her hands tensed and gathered the white fabric of her clothes.
The climax of the instant was at hand and within the folds of delicate silk
a tremendous strain – a tempering – a steel heart.

She blinked and straightened her clothes thinking I hadn’t noticed a thing.
She pushed away a strand of hair from those glorious but tortured eyes.
“You looked lost for a second.” I said.
“I was just thinking of you.” She replied.

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Black and white cons. Tattered jeans. The t-shirt with a band’s name. A hoodie. A cloudless yet thundering sky above. A soulless yet sacred pavement below. Amidst an elegantly constructed rubble there is an art. Sharp angular buildings carve a new sky – one determined by arithmetical precision of point A to point B – a skyline where once there was an arc and a horizon. Eyes catch a self walking beside them in the mirrored side of a headless building.

The shifting doppelganger pulls his hoodie ever over his face. It hides a pumping pocket music box the artificial heart tucked neatly into secret space. Its droning muse redefines things around by altering moods and emotions. It at least distracts one’s self from grunting street folk, yelling children, angry men, and domestic assault. Hurried people bump the ghost in street clothes as they splash by in lingering puddles – the aftermath of a deluge worthy of Noah’s arc.

Pascal outlined how distraction only served to make us forget about death. The music pumped on. Death is not nearly as scary as purposeless living some would say. To fear death would be to fear what you do not know otherwise called a phobia. So distractions might as it turns offer salvation from the natural elements that otherwise bind us in a prison of flesh. Life, after all its pretensions are stripped, would be an error without music.

A hand reached out to grab a hold of its corresponding doppelganger only to find smooth glass. Its firm skin coldly resisted touch. How sound could easily cut the infinitely regress into fragments. Destruction, it turns out, is linked to creativity. Destruction’s angel of justice, Entropy, only exists as an accident of presupposed organization. An organization that means nothing without an organizer. The difference between life and death, science teaches, is a few misplaced neurons, a couple of atoms, and timing. What brought life to that unrelated mess of parts is still unknown – but it wasn’t music.

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I

I have never felt a baby kick
I know only my mother tongue
I have never lost a loved one to tuberculosis
nor a nation to exile
nor my life to myself.

I have lost faith to philosophy
only to arrive at a new faith.
My generation has never been tyrannized
or oppressed – despite my contemporaries’ belief.
I don’t understand how a tree or stream
Is more eternal or beautiful than a woman’s body
though I know very well that a woman’s eye
loves a flower because she can see herself in it.

I lie to get honesty. I am silent because I wish
to echo. I think speech is a symbol, humans are images,
and humanity is a metaphor. I think people are foolish to fear
what they do not know – but I fear death.

II

I like the smell and feel of dirt,
old newspapers and books, basements and babies.
I read Plato like the Bible
and the Bible like a dialogue.
I talk to myself in mirrors.
Sometimes I lie. Usually I just make sounds
I don’t let anybody else hear.

I love women but don’t understand them.
Though I think if I did, I wouldn’t love them.
Why such graceful ghosts would ever attach themselves
to this nitty gritty world is beyond philosophy.
Why these pure patrons would bestow on envious nature
such honors when waterfalls and whistling winds
cross within them more perfectly is beyond this world.

III

I have written. Now I am empty.
Having removed myself and others.
Again to the trough of reality
with my sister and brothers –
A waterfall of shifting mirrors.
Fullness calls, emptiness cries.
I claw the nitty gritty to be near her –
I wield fables and lies.
She doesn’t mind my voodoo
she likes to smell and feel
babies and basements too –
She wields satin and steel.
I write, she cuts paper to the floor
creators and creations never more.

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