Along the dusted edges
of a world unknown
bodies trailing by
I walk as though a secret
as though a memory
an ivory mist between the fingers
a dream of a time to come
not promised, not spoken of.
We hold onto hope the way we bow our bright eyes into the fog, made in the image of ghosts, made of wisps of fading photograph delirium, the glow at the tips of fireflies against water in the dark. Reflections. Illusions. For everything we hold we wish were something else.
If we are not lovers, if we are not bound together by vein or tongue or country, if our visions eclipse each other but do not touch, then let the world be brought into eternal solitude, let the earth beneath my grass wet feet weep only to be alone. There is something here we refuse to see. Something intelligent, calling to us with its mouth, a wide gray ocean, fingers tearing open knees, rain pricks stiff along the neck beneath the trees.
And we drift, we are adrift, we grasp for what we cannot believe only to fall again upon ourselves. This is me against me. This is you against you, and every mirror is another hall. The rolling thunder of this bone longing, this desperation. Press your palms to mine, I can feel your heart bleeding into time. And as the sun turns down her body to blue sing the mountains to sleep, I am a wanderer inside for the way we do not see. A vessel for the silence crawling along the seams.
All the ways
I did not know
how to love you
catch fire in my throat
wounds poured into salt
along my matchstick tongue.
What was that beautiful pain
sewn to the hips of your acrid words
I open for the taste
of tears tucked under the edges
of my sleeves,
this heart for you
bleeds of longing
wet with need.
there is nothing more sincere.
How the colour drinks its own skin
just to twist in the crush
of its thirst.
What is this poison
you treat me to.
In this darkness, I will write the sounds of you from the back of the voices in my body. I will close my mind around you as the twilight haunts the neighborhood, the streets underneath the sidewalk all lead to a single window, glowing full of the sky above your heart. My eyes close around your silence, sleeping in this dream of life, eternity in a cold black place without walls, a room without beginning on a bridge overlooking the end. Baby, where are we, where is it we are climbing to.
But you do not speak. Hair all shades of the wind.
In the dream, pieces of the body and face were coming away, large portions of the jaw, craters of flesh had been removed from the arm and the leg. Hair was coming out in plastic clumps though I did not appear to be losing hair. The full breasts were bare and whole, the abdomen white and shining. Teeth were coming out. Fingers crumbling away. It became impossible to function with effectiveness in the world with a body which was apart from itself, disappearing, disintegrating. I had become a film of myself as if projected on a wall.
Upon waking the joy of feeling whole was a deep crimson warmth. Some visions reflect light, some absorb. We are a constant, though everything is birthed to be swallowed again by the waves of a sea which heaves and vanishes. Each curl, each star, each hand to the mouth, an opening. Many will interpret dreams, they will have their own words, their own made up diagnoses which if you listen will tear your throat away from your voice, the only voice you need will be severed, rusted. Sink inside and reach with your mind into the heart, unearth yourself, till your soil, your seed, drink your own rain water.
The being which is the self knows. The being which had been closed off again returns, quietly. The human creature can dig into its own body and resurrect the spirit of secrets, the gauzelike whispers of things we have held bound inside the tissue for centuries. The messages pounded and spread into us through anguish and ecstasy. Grinding of bones, wails of anger, greed, unfathomable torture and pleasure. Those things which float within us which we clutch and release, everything we reach for we reach for inside this place no one else can see. We are coming apart in ways we have yet to understand. Collectively, privately. We have not yet begun to touch all we are designed to touch. The falling out is the beginning. Where we crumble we consume ourselves; bodies, shadows, servants of light.
When you came to me your eyes were bloodless fire. Something had caught you in its flames, was burning you electric as its teeth dug in it was changing you, and I could feel it in your mouth when I tugged at your lips with mine. Black licorice, warm whiskey. You were becoming something I could only recognize when you would speak, your silence was born of another species, something evolved, too evolved to be seen. Perhaps you were getting ready to go. Into the sun. That’s what you told me but you were already there. Even trembling in my hands you were wind rushing through the dry embers in my heart, everything I was made of was kindling.
When you came to me you had already been the ghosts flaring up in my veins. I see myself now: no words in my throat anymore, no words on my arms, no way back to whatever madness it was that held us just close enough together to watch us fall apart. How do I stop falling back into the familiar and burying my self there. How do I extract from myself what is safe and make love to the wrench in my chest. How do I crawl out of this skin and turn into something else, anything else. How can I grow beyond the walls you kept me in. I miss you but I don’t know how I can believe you are gone when I’m still not sure you were ever here. People are made of a certain collection of time, though we treat them cruelly, carelessly. We treat them like they are forever as they are vanishing right before our eyes.
Touch me from where you are and I promise I will not let go. Will never let go, will never let go. Not until the rivers have become the flames, not until the life of the last star is a kiss on the final breath of a vast and vacant universe. When you touch me I believe in the end. With a comfort and a grace and the sigh of knowing nothing ever had a name to begin with. In my dark garden you were light, and fire doesn’t need a name to burn.
The words come as I forget to eat and try to catch them
sand falls through time.
I hope you dream bigger than this.
I hope that you do not give up or turn to face
without tucking your fingers into the hands
of the light.
Hold them close when they are madness
let their voices sing in your mind
when they leave you for dead.
The people who come too close
The ones who leave
still teach if you can learn not to let fear
take you under.
This life as she looks you in the eye
is falling away from under your feet
do not stop
do not give up
do not keep the words in drawers
but if you need to
go away for a long time
and let the sea kiss you
I felt an overpowering need to be alone with something impossible to name. It had hands clutched full of the flesh of silence which multiplied without end. There was no one in that place. Everyone had left and they had each pulled one of its doors shut behind them. I was very alone. It was very dark, it was very peaceful, I was afraid. I was very afraid it would end and that it would never end. It was womanlike and dim, a love that could only breathe you out and breathe you in this way. It could only flower in solitude. It would only expose itself one to one, face to face, mouth to mouth.
A mysterious union which was without need for bodies, it was body-less. Forbidden and yet met with an almost primitive expectation. The pain and terror of all the world rested its head in this place.
An apex. A resuscitation.
It was a life invading itself where death had long been its only comfort.
I have carried the buds of a thousand gardens inside of me, many lifetimes have I been caressed against my will. I have produced and offered the milk and the honey, the fire and the water and the abuse. I have been unable to bloom, longing to encircle my thick vines around the precious feet of the marbled gray daylight. All I want now is to be alone with this unknowable thing and to let it feel me, I want to feel inside of it with my tongue, with my fingers, with my body and blood, with my consciousness and my subconsciousness, in waking and in dreams, to penetrate it with the poison which consumes me and give it a punishing pleasure. I want to stretch into its glistening web and learn to obey the strange fluid rhythms of its body-less pulse.
We speak too loudly and too often. We are murdering something which cannot leave. I cannot bear any longer to sleep outside of it. There is a place beyond this one, it lives inside. It hopes no one will come to the door. It hopes no one will understand its words, it wants to close in around itself and return the light to its tomb underground. It gives birth to its own time. It chews its own limbs and destroys its own space. It wants to make love to the darkness and water its wings with the tears that fall like petals from the last sighs of the last stars. It is perpetual. It does not name what it wants.
Has this been the hurt inside of you
these cuts on my hands
the crush of broken promises.
Your static mouth a shrieking fog
buzzing in my head, humming –
you like grains of sand
scratching a desert
in my throat.
Remember me a grapefruit moon
hanging in your rear view mirror
love in the back seat
melon. sunset. smoke.
took a back seat.
Now the morning rolls down her sheets
silicone heat waves sweat across my tongue.
I listen for you but all that moves nails along the wall
are reflections of an empty afternoon.
(my arms reach
for three corners from this corner)
The windows are swallowing sunlight
the sunlight is dangling through trees
traces of a dim lit landscape
you used to speak of