There is no jurisdiction in this enclosure where
Tatters of veiled twine continuously persist
That he, with such a charming disposition,
Should often keep company to a gravity that
is able to move him without moving him
With quite such a persuasive momentum
-and it isn't until he finally realizes his last choice
To then, lay on his back & drowsily close his eyes
against the even span of apathetic cerulean
-and allow the light to be obscured by a delicate set of doors
That everything just finally stops.
2 Confessions:
{First and Final Fear}
A syncopation of cicadas echoes
in symphonic dissonance
through the trees, where a child
scurries scared,
his immortality yet untested—
here is what they seem to scream:
Sure, live undaunted if you must
but should you dare to live with fear,
{again this white noise between my ears}
for therein lies the truth obscured,
and strain your eye upon the dust
which rushes from the future, swarms
your fields, devours cattle, makes rust
your sword, then breeds your mate’s mistrust,
smothers dreams and many nightmares warms—
The child crashes into a tree,
a horde descends,
awoken from its peace,
and like medieval Buddhist priests
it seeks to crack the body like the soul with shrieks:
and should you dare
to bear its unrelenting forms—
the skin-creeping breezes and the crippling storms—
and in your white bare room where you wait for winter air
to crawl in to lick your wind-chapped face,
{something’s burrowing inside this skull
this brain will be as chewed as cud}
you stare into the abyss of your mortal disgrace—
In the morning he awakes
to a certain silent buzzing,
whose source remains uncertainly internal.
Sure, the search party sees him
but can’t comprehend the child’s chatter.
{should I caress my skull without my skin
these shameless bones beneath my seeping breath
that stiffen my jaw open should I scream?
Nature now I feel without you within you}
a cancer spat out
but never born, hoping
only that you’ll let me
crawl upon your skin
once more.
Some nights,
feeling fully alone,
the child disappears into
the vast Emptiness of the forest
to climb some tree
and shake like a cicada.
In a sea of yourself you cannot see who you must be
I will the cloud changes that concrete the hidden,
incomplete connections in my open, sleeping eye.
I will the wind to carry me to where I meet myself
in different form, and proceed to ask the unicorn,
“What is your name?” “My name is my name” it says,
and rams its horn into a tree, one of many, also me.
The tree is fallen, we are fallen trees. You fell, you tree.
Leaves and descends, he who is me, into the depths,
a long journey up into the realm of the unknown,
a tree on his back, his back to the unicorn who shakes
its burning eyes, for you did not understand the truth
in this world of yourself, and the rest of the journey,
whether or not you find a home for your dead tree,
is pointless.
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