be then as a garden and let ivy round your limbs,
petals falling eyelashes, leaves dappling freckles,
swallowing the sun and dew, creeping green and greener.
be then as the tamed are and sow teeth in measured rows,
reaping but the choking climb of thin stems in your throat,
blossoming despair, and fear, and flowers all as one.
be then as the weathered grave; lie still but for the wind
rustling grass, gifts of mourning spread wild,
but not the body. never the fallow, shaded body.
call all the wingèd, the gray one with the mask,
and set them out a-flying and give to them this task:
that the moon shall cease its circling and the sun shall dim for good
and the stars shall be beholden to the people as they should
I'm tired of waking up whimpering.
but more than that, I'm just tired.
heavy eyes. heavy hands.
the mocking comfort of the sun on my huddled form.
eyes blur head drifts breathe swallow breathe
blur blink blur. eyes again
stained glass eyes all blink and lovely
blink and bring-me-home
contentment more than happiness is what I seek.
forget the highs, the peaks, the rush—
all I want is a place to rest,
and tools to make it mine.
it's the curve of the pen over paper,
the sharp of the black ink on white,
the depth through illusion, and tangles
lit through by a brilliant bright.
another strange rope to a past that I don't think was ever mine,
that I don't think was ever quite anything but smoke, and within the smoke needles
with threads upon threads for tearing and binding.
some thread and some smoke.
why is the rope in my hands?
one standing
one sitting
one stone
the land is uncertain and shakes like a fist
the third like jacks to the roadside is thrown
one standing
one sitting
one stone
the hand of the valley wears lace gloves of mist
the second is sewn in the stitches alone
one standing
one sitting
one stone
the grand gesture is but a wave from the wrist
the third is splinter that will not atone
one standing
one sitting
one stone
it was scattered symbols, mythology, stars,
I can feel the paper in my hands. I can feel the poems in the back of my tongue.
but I don't remember. I was never the one who held the page
wore down pencils
never made it quite far enough. never did quite enough
but I'm not better. I am desperation,
the sand that carries sand.
that's how it is, the rough-hewn words as cornerstones
as the mortar, as the lifting arms to build.
no mine, no quarry, no depth or deposit,
just all I speak. all I carry to its place.
your care, your kindness, all have flown;
you've callous and ill tempered grown.
oh, that my heart were yours alone
and made of naught but heavy stone.
it's hard enough to hold the pen,
to pull it pagewards and begin.
it's hard enough making marks from a mistmind
which falters, falters, and fails again.
but each step is still one less.
it was—to see the world lay bare,
the thin chill of the autumn air,
the colors crunching neath my boot,
the strange domain of branch and root—
it was the smallest, kindest peace
so when, pray tell me, did it cease?
I can't do this sleeping-waking waking-sleep
I can't deal with heavy eyelids and the dreaming shallow-deep
I can't write and I can't focus I'm a rootless ghost at sea
who is clawing for a landhold but there's no rest here for me.
it's something at least, the grin in the night you can't hear, the waiting
for the absent sun, the dawn delayed
and all breathes in and out at once.
this is how the pieces fall, the players sink to rest
the setting folds in downward, the props fly stage to chest
the world all falls to dreaming and the dreaming falls like snow
take your solace in the wintersleep, you've nowhere else to go
where is it all now? the stumbled words, the candlehum of night,
no breath held that it not betray. someone smiled.
someone dug one's toes into the solid dirt beneath.
someone had not yet been in a crowded room alone.
someone smiled someone's smile, held nothing back.
was bright and sure and ran the rope.
trusted one's net. did not know one's height.
it turns out the rope can snap. the net is thin. the ground laps up the blood.
dust again. bugs and dust
chittering, tracking, corner-crack-bound
menacing mock of their mandibles
one spider only, one spider to chase and catch
and guard and keep and watch
and listen.
it's hard enough to string beads, on a fraying line of yarn
or not fraying. beads into a loop. words into a tale. pieces scattered when the knot fails.
it will be clear. coherent, sharp
with edges. corners. it will be clear.
it's time for poets to go on strike!
we will not pen another rhyme
til you see for yourself what it's like oh goddamnit
It's calm here, as I lean against the stone.
The dead around me mingle into air
And no breath stirs but mine and mine alone.
It's calm here. As I lean against the stone,
There's no sound but the broadcast's hum and drone.
No danger to be found, no dreadful scare—
It's calm. Here, as I lean against the stone,
The dead around me mingle into air.
tae the knife and bend it; it's rubber, see? no danger
just amusement, candy blood, pain played just for laughs.
it's rubber, see? it couldn't be sharp against my bone
scraping through
it's rubber. it's slapstick. it's fine.
towertops and tambourines the city of the old ravines
the tumbler of the gray scrubweeds and through it all the march proceeds
to turn and take ten thousand miles torn from self and torn from smiles
at last to reach the fabled spot where each who ever was, is not.
feathercliff, lanternfall, the mist is rolling in
the race is fast and faster and no mind have I to win
no mind have I to wander not and stick my map with pins
but the hand to guide is close now and the mist is rolling in
it's dark. hushed. rain, wind.
the blankets, battle-ready.
cocoon. come to rest.
soon to make the tired words, to string the tired lines.
alone. head forward down, determined, hands hum, fingers fly,
the grand gestures of a dreamed piano's artist
it begins, is beginning, will begin
the blank stretched out for hours, for a month
for ink and idle wanderings, for song