Posts Tagged ‘perception’

She gave her weight to my arms.
It maintained the semblance of a hug
even while she heaved like a struggling car.
Having become the opposite of flight
the ground was her sky
and I… and I… was gravity.

One hand had already taken flight
jewelry jingled as the tethered charms
soared – each a ring of an easily organized sense of age
now having become folded and tempered
into her Escher body.
Her mind was her hand, and her hand her eye
and I… and I… was fire.

We were alone among people
yet it betrayed the intimacy of her pain
that my head angled. Time was a single point
pushing down and it was not enough
that I alone pushed back.
No, I kept her from flying. I held her down.
Her lips had forgotten the word goodbye,
and I… and I…

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It occurred to me
on a beach in Fiji
that perhaps I think too much.
Through the crystal waters
I could see everything
magnified. Color. Shape.
Everything was clear.
A chance you don’t get
very often in Worcester.

But why is it this way?
Why does water do this?
Why the colors? Why the eye?
Why does the world
rotate and the light bend
to create this
beautiful lie.

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Hung Over

The last fleeting memories
like leftover half-opened beers
are collected for recycling.
Residue of revelry
sticks to the table
soaking yesterday’s news
with sepia tones
like the faux wanted posters
we made in grade school
and stained with mother’s tea bags.
Reward 30 silver pieces
for salvation from
my own bad decisions.

I stand to let my perception
orbit my mind
strange queasy loops
made visible by the drinking
caused by the thirst
of my tongue,
caused by the hunger
of my stomach,
caused by the removal
of my food,
caused by the failures
of my mind,
caused by the God
of my heart,
the God of my feelings,
the God of my neediness,
my fragility, and my insecurity.
Caused by the emptiness
of my last drink.

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Nature knew I would later write about her
in the context of some Mercurial poem –
One that before collecting some dust
just barely missed the trash barrel
that had collected the more ill-formed siblings.
It’s a rather Spartan practice I suppose
to dash such children against the rocks.
It wasn’t their fault their feet were uneven,
that they lacked sophistication
or intelligence.
But we can afford to be totalitarian with ideas –
they are just ideas
just words, just images, just fears.

Needless to say Nature knew all this
so she donned a newspaper gray dress
and unleashed a dull cold rain.
She knew that I would rather concentrate on her.
To linger in the land of inhuman objects
objects devoid of necessity or individuality.
I suppose that’s why I love words
more natural than every raindrop, every cloud, and her hair
far more natural than her hair –
where does she think she is going with that wretched hair?

It was one of those days, or perhaps one of those occasions
where human contact feels unnatural
as if this should all be endured alone like an apocalypse.
Or maybe it’s just me.
I suppose Art has her hand in that
because she knows it’s more meaningful
to have impalpable, unquenchable pain –
it’s more heroic when you do things alone.
Or maybe that’s just me.

Comedy is ugliness without pain –
that’s called philosophy my dear friends,
eloquence, meaning, passion, yet
in no way reflecting the actuality of things
this moment, her hair, the weather.
Perhaps its because we are false,
perhaps we are the untruths in a truthful world –
but no, such is not heroic, such is not natural.
We are the actuality, the history, the ugliness without pain.

Who does philosophy think she is anyway?
Not entirely unlike any other lover –
just more seductive.
The kiss she takes is always better than the kiss she gives.
Wisdom when possessed cannot be desired.
You can only desire what you don’t have.
Like time. We never have the time.

Her horrid beehive hairdo eclipses my vision.
I spent our time together writing poems
that will never be read. Trash – by all accounts.
I loved them all and wanted the best for them –
but desire does not always make something true.
If it did it would be sunny, this would be a birthday party,
the woman in front of me would have a long raven tress,
I would allow my wife to console me with her hands,
and their would be no such thing as poetry.



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She rises before the sun
before I have gone to bed.

My headlights catch her looking upset
something like undead,
As if momentum at some point
will take her body further than her feet
and with the failure of every joint
would accept defeat
at the base of the man-made wall of stones
from whose cracks grows plants still living.

As the car passes I can hear her bones;
the torture that her body has been giving
causes them to cry over the engine.

She disappears like all things into the rear view mirror
A list of objects that appear closer than they really are.
Far enough away to be imagined.
But still too close to be forgotten.

Perhaps she was a dream, or a ghost, or an illusion
It has been too long without sleep to tell the difference.
I am still sixty years from home.
The car rocks in unpaved silence.
I started my trip over 20 years ago
Perhaps only to experience this moment
the sun rises over the forest.
It will go like all things and I will wonder
if it was anything more than  a ghost, or an illusion, or a dream.

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Through the steel rods of my prison
I watch Scheerer’s queasy sky,
Clarified by my glassed prism
Until the phosephene nights arrive.

A sign clepes the room “Ganglion’s Cell”
An indiscernable series of scribbles
Arc along the wall.
Perhaps the famed Purkinje’s cave Image
Or a poor relfection of one of his pupils.

Prophetic emmetropia has rendered me blind
Except in my dreams of Fata Morgana
her hands wiping the sfumato
From off my confocal eyes,
twin syzygetic sublimes,
Crowning my heart of obsidian
Where a parhelion lies.

When finally the night arrives
the flowing dark, freckled with asterism,
can subdue what little of reality survives.
I turn to a bed which
Laughs at fates cruel vitreous humor.
I will sleep there until the blinding light
pierces my confocal eyes.

And as the cold morning intervenes
I have nothing, save the praying space,
For my daily morning call
To my savior fairy queen.

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