Conductivity and Rhythm

The bass was low all day,
the only thing that resonated
was my deaf ear toward the treble.

When my eyes bulge with tears,
it is time to surrender,
when the bones feel metallic and leaden,

light notes miss their harmony.

A dread tastes sour and acrid
in the back of the mouth.

An idea of where one is and
what must be done is conjured
in a line, the music keeps time

alive, lightening the load

a feeling carries a tune
echoing the heart and human
need to be moved by sound.




Painting by Johann Carl Loth (circle of) (1632 - 1698) – Painter (German)Born in Munich. Dead in Venice.Located at the Palace Museum in Wilanów [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Elders and Elms

Officially adopted at the age of 38
by the man married to my mother.

The man's mother and father
put me to work on their ranch
over the summer breaks 

from school.

My mother was a strong woman,

I knew this
even though she worked in an office.

Until I turned thirteen
the man had never been afraid

of losing control

of a woman.

I remember the fear in his eyes.

He slapped me across the face.

I laughed and the man's eyes changed,
forever.

When I mentioned this occasion
to the man's mother,

she slapped me too. It felt the same.

This must have been touching to them,
genetically.

When she died, 

her husband, the man's father

molested me before the funeral.

Still-I lie there-

Since we were not family,

the father died a happy man.

Instead of bears, I take secrets to bed. 

My mother was not as strong as I thought. 

Painting by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Like Life

Life is only understood in reverse order,
philosophically,
we trust the disasters and miracles
as necessary catastrophic shifts
and dramatic scene changes
the curtain drops
the Act is up.

When the world as we knew it
once hovered in equipoise-
disintegrated and crumbled before
our thin-soled shoes,
we thought of tides
and how they rip the earth
from undertow,
and leave us
to balance
less.

As chaos is to entropy,
we stand our ground despite the speed
of orbits and bullets
hoping to break the spell
of wait.

Pen and ink drawing by Henry Fuseli (1741-1845) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Marker

It occurs to me that a threshold

is essential for crossing over

leaving one place, entering another.

A transference or transcendence

if done intentionally

the past stays outside.

It occurs to me rather suddenly,

despite making plans and beds,

tucking corners and ducking blows,

this was all about some body, 

a place to rest

and what to do with what remains.

I have reconsidered 

that it may be the most selfless thing

to be buried in a plot, or swallowed by a sinkhole, 

instead of scattered

to sea, disbursed widely

without

a mark(er), a fold or ripple,

a place

where others can go

to meet with Memory.

This is the last thing I can do

for those whom I held the door for,

for those that may be missing and seeking

my presence-

No body

needed more than a place to rest. 



Painting By John Singer Sargent [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Open Doorway, Morroco, c 1879.

Vessel

There is nothing about
a something of which
nothing can be said.

So each support beam gave way,
broke hold, splintered in the grooves-
except for this one,
strong enough to grab ahold
of a pen,
despite the fear of failure
or plain truth.

Enough is enough.
We all get fed up.
And then are left to pick up
where we left off-
our stuff, the baggage, the mess
we left when it all went wrong
when we turned away.

When the pillars piled up
we were promised
the worst was over.

Nothing is over.

Levitation is indecision.

There are times we feel the time
tap our skin, seconds like rain,
and this time I felt like screaming
so I did,
only sunshine poured in when I opened
my mouth
and the light flooded the empty body
reminding me
to stay afloat.



Photograph of the Ruins of the Aduana in Intramuros (Red marquis at English Wikipedia) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, taken 2012.

Season-ings

To witness growth
one must take a step back
but not remove themselves
from speculation,
change, like belief and bubbles
alter in temperature and light.

As the gardener cannot see his progress
the bloom feels its way,
leaning on its stem,
aiming was its own reward.

Mothers are often blinded
by this slim proximity
notice the pulling chord
that is heard as heartstrings
plucked.

She knows all things grow over night,
the young years thunder on tired legs,
over time, the smell of blooms and bodies
become intoxicating,
telling.

It felt like Summer,
it was Spring by morning.
the light rushed in
ahead of the sweeping breeze,
but we knew it was coming,
we smelled the way
things change.


Painting by Frédéric Bazille [Public domain], c. 1866-67 via Wikimedia Commons.

Look (it) up

Anyway, it was a woman

who actually spoke first.

“I smell a rat!”

said no Henry or Hamlet

Hard(l)y a Thomas, nary a Richard but a Jane Doe

made this first lament 

despite the great efforts spent

assigning credit-worthiness, 

sighting the source, casting quoted blame

upon small creatures.

And ultimately, it comes to require

repetition, a mask

of sense-ability, or sorts

of ilk and stank disguised with must.

The woman slips into the cloak,

it spreads across the floor.

The folded entity

has been

erased from the scene. 

A mole scurries out from the hem

leaving a mark of beauty 

above the spoken word.

Painting by Giovanni Segantini [Public domain], c. 1891 via Wikimedia Commons.