I cannot make sense
Of the words you have not spoken
I cannot make sense of your absence
Nor the tenderness with which you politely walk away
I cannot know
So much of you
And so I search the words of poets who have seen more than I
In hopes that one of them has seen you before
Thursday, December 7, 2017
4/1/15
I wish to live in a whitewashed house
Perhaps by the Mediterranean
Where everything smells of late afternoon sunlight and nothing reminds me of myself
Where the only ghosts are lovers that once spent a summer there and let a candle burn down and scorch the windowsill
Where enough indulgent asceticism will bleach the voices from my head
I wish to live inside a slightly depressive modern poem
So jaded and self-important
As though the world exists only when we think of it
Perhaps by the Mediterranean
Where everything smells of late afternoon sunlight and nothing reminds me of myself
Where the only ghosts are lovers that once spent a summer there and let a candle burn down and scorch the windowsill
Where enough indulgent asceticism will bleach the voices from my head
I wish to live inside a slightly depressive modern poem
So jaded and self-important
As though the world exists only when we think of it
1-13-15
The quiet days
The momentous days
Impressions of one person and weather
Storms, gravel, waves
Dandelions celebrating their allotted existence
Next to a ragged telephone pole
Waving in the dappled light as we walked by, laughing
Such are the gently insistent memories
Unpredictable, mundane
Such more will come
I have fortune enough to be found by them
And talent enough to keep them
Even foolishly, but gloriously
For hope dies last, as the Russians say
The momentous days
Impressions of one person and weather
Storms, gravel, waves
Dandelions celebrating their allotted existence
Next to a ragged telephone pole
Waving in the dappled light as we walked by, laughing
Such are the gently insistent memories
Unpredictable, mundane
Such more will come
I have fortune enough to be found by them
And talent enough to keep them
Even foolishly, but gloriously
For hope dies last, as the Russians say
12-30-14
Number our days to give them inconsequential names
Diagram my soul, give it an anatomy
Eviscerated and neatly labeled
In order to expedite it to mundanity
A poor parody of the scenes inside my head
Violated and plagiarized, bleak in its commodity
Make me stand and write and repeat
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human.
Diagram my soul, give it an anatomy
Eviscerated and neatly labeled
In order to expedite it to mundanity
A poor parody of the scenes inside my head
Violated and plagiarized, bleak in its commodity
Make me stand and write and repeat
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human
I am better than human.
12-24-14
As though our daily explanation were buried in the script of a lonely nebula
Singing its comfort across impossible years of distance
Unraveled and transliterated, would it blueprint my heartpatterns
The mathematics of our poetry
Transcribed in inorganic dust storms
Or is perfection too regulated for such trivialities
Is it instead the tainted soil beneath that curates the mundane probabilities
Do I seek homogeneity with the breathless
To reason away my own precipitate breathing
***I wanted to see how many multisyllabic words I could cram in. As it turns out, a lot, and transcribing this now was like eating seaweed salad with a spoon.
Singing its comfort across impossible years of distance
Unraveled and transliterated, would it blueprint my heartpatterns
The mathematics of our poetry
Transcribed in inorganic dust storms
Or is perfection too regulated for such trivialities
Is it instead the tainted soil beneath that curates the mundane probabilities
Do I seek homogeneity with the breathless
To reason away my own precipitate breathing
***I wanted to see how many multisyllabic words I could cram in. As it turns out, a lot, and transcribing this now was like eating seaweed salad with a spoon.
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