back before the jading
i wore trust on my sleeve
heart portable,
to give away free
but that was
back before the jading
might i carve to whale
with the piling up
of so much green
had i the skill,
i might carve to whale
but time has drifted
and i, a drifter from dream
suspicious of dealers in jade
unlike those days
without whales
back before the jading
chill breeze flowing
through open windows
and everyone sleeping
in this sleeping house
my own mind slumbers
too
and i wonder if it
will ever wake
There are more times of late when I feel more simulacrum than person. This is one of those times, where I am quite content in not moving forward if only this moment could linger. Stop the simulation, let me sleepy-slumber with late summer (or early autumn, I suppose) on the morn, windows open, bare legs cold, the faint bird chirps without rhythm or meaning, the highway drone from a few miles away. Coffee mug in hand, ignoring the turmoil in the news. Watching cats watch whatever and not feeling too much pain in the joints until I move.
I could be that simulacrum, my brain says — for a while longer. Record and set to repeat. I’m tired of most everything else. Add a section when I lay atop my bedding and sleepwalk in half-remembered dreams, maybe program a section where I catch chill and nest underneath too. What about a companion? While a nice thought, I’m not sure such scenes allow for companionship. The slumbering simulacrum seems a solitary affair, doesn’t it? Or maybe… but no. We’ll leave that for the dreaming this simulacrum might have.
If it were possible to have this half-dream state of existing, I might even stop writing. It would be my gift to the world.
Hush now. I feel another dream.
I’m going to be posting less often over the summer. I think so, anyway.
Why?
I have a couple of irons in the fire, among other reasons:
(more…)
the peopling ages raw
meat hook hanging
— don't pretend to kiss me,
this savage morning hurts
let me dance the razor's edge
the deaf talk my broken digits
the blind point my way home
underneath, i weary stone
to quell all dreaming
long black snake riding
writhing at land's end
days i tire of thinking —
must be something more
just around the bend
pull over waysides
drinking travel mug brew
to stare at what daybreak
sends
overdone & unmoored
sent adrift & becalmed
uncertain of standing
or taken sitting down
wondering what was
done to deserve these
days
you're due for holiday
they say, but where do you go
when even going away
makes you feel like this
on these days
i am lost and
i need to get
more lost to see
a way through
for the forest and
also the trees
on a long and
winding road
is where silence
begins
only ever illusion
seclusion the only
solution to retain
a sanity amongst
all the confusion
burning acres of
this heart, if one
might be found...
regret the mirror ugly
spider cracked look back
past pig gaping jaw
to claw that face off
fade skies out black
we break everything
until there is only empty
