what they asked on the day I was born

they held my eyes in outstretched hands, asking me to take them–

asking me to see–

they held my face up to a light I could not see, but I could feel, warm on my stretched skin–

they turned me to face an expanse I could hear, an unbroken wave of rise and fall–

I lifted my head to the sound and warmth–

I took my eyes from their waiting palms.

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children of jonah

they stared up from the bottom of the well–

tepid water pooling in the mud of midsummer and the walls arching their backs–

the quiet holding onto the noise that sinks their minds into slumber, peaceful, somber, murky–

they stared at the sky, stars hung, moonshine light and no lantern to amplify the dark–

they shone by their faces, wetted with grime and fixed on the stars–

the arching back of the bottomless well knelt before the faces–

still fixed upon the points of stars, they stepped out onto the curved stone.

the philosphical millipede of progress

I.  IN WHICH WE LEARN OF CHAOS

  1. Formation of Image
  2. Seeking in Imagination
  3. Clouded Sight/Unclear Vision
  4. Collective Unconscious
  5. Universal Consciousness


II.  IN WHICH WE ORDER CHAOS

  1. Breaking of the Image
  2. Imagination Restructured
  3. Sharpening the Senses
  4. Drawing from Depths
  5. Universal Order


III.  IN WHICH ORDER DISSOLVES

  1. Inertia
  2. Dissatisfaction
  3. Limits and Boundaries
  4. Active Deconstruction
  5. Completion of the Fracture


IV.  IN WHICH WE RECOVER

  1. Silence
  2. Light
  3. Sound
  4. Sight
  5. Waking


V.  IN WHICH WE RECONCILE/SYNTHESIZE

  1.  
  2.  
  3.  
  4.  

    Subcutaneous Triptych

    Carry your sounds
    like a wound,

    a camelback
    prophet,

    sighing in whispers,

    the dragging of
    a fractured limb

    on the back of

    a wounded animal.

    Carrying the notes,

    harmonies made
    distant,

    melodium and
    melancholia

    made like a lithe
    figure,

    dancing before
    the minstrel’s post.

    Tied to the
    livening

    of a souless gaze.

    All for the cause
    of a life made happy,

    all-neglecting
    of what lay deeper.

    Plait

    Plights of the blighted
    in the plaited folds of
    communication
    breaking down.

    Sinners of the oldest songs
    sing in unison with
    the pipes beating out:

    One
    Two
    Three

    One
    Two
    Three

    The song is in remission.
    The timbre has dulled
    the key.

    The strings are broken
    and the heads are snapped.

    The soundless sing the symphony.

    No Words

    The feeling is there,
    but the words just won’t come.

    I can’t describe
    how I’m feeling
    because words can’t
    describe it.

    Defining something
    is to isolate it.
    But when you can’t
    define something,

    you feel isolated.

    I’m looking for the right words,
    but they’re not there.
    There are no words for this.

    There needs to be no words for this.

    This needs no words.