Abstraction II

[12 July 2019]

Nothing can ever be just itself. We stretch, we long, we crave to reach that point just beyond ourselves, that point just out of reach, the point of almost discovery, where the ivy clings to the moonlight and your brown stone walls and the plum blossoms in your hands.

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Abstraction

[11 July 2019]

Longing,
the sea,
and, at the final moment –
touch

A conversation

[10 July 2019]

Remember when you told me that life cannot be made out of ideals?
It was summer. Sweat glistened on your brow but your skin was cool.
You said that life must be lived on the ground, in the dust, in the dirt;
that life can never be more than it is right now, today.
I said I disagreed and left it at that. You walked on in silence.
But now I say more – I say that life is the pursuit of the unreachable:
a series of unattainable hopes and dreams
(chasing after a solitary Point we haven’t yet fully discovered ourselves);
I say that life is lived in ideals and made on the ground,
fashioned in the space between the falls and the failings
and the moments of longing and imperfection, surrendering everything
and banking it all on the next sunrise, while the stars wax and the moon wanes.

Trellis [a character sketch]

[8 July 2019]

He sits there, on the park bench overlooking the lake. His legs swing back and forth, absentmindedly, not quite touching the ground.
It’s summer. The lake water and the sweat and the dew and the water in the air mingle back and forth, exchanging themselves with one another, condensing on empty bottles and dark windows and skin, reaching a holy homoeostasis.
It’s dark.

She lies there next to him on the bench, her head in his lap, his small coat on her body, bright green and yellow and purple and racecars against her denim shirt. Her eyes closed. Her hair tangled and damp.
The air smells of freshwater and moss and long grass.
Kick kick. Kick kick. Kick kick.

He feels her, her warmth, the rise and fall of her chest, the moisture from the dew and her breath seeping through the leg of his shorts and onto his skin.
It’s still dark.

A wave breaks against the shore, spraying foam and mist on his face and in his eyes, becoming brackish. He wipes it away with his left hand. His right hand strokes her head.
Her weight bears heavy on him. His leg is growing numb, but he doesn’t seem to notice, or at least he doesn’t seem to mind.
Kick kick. Kick kick. Kick kick.
Just keep the blood flowing.

Kick kick.

He takes off his shirt. Dinosaurs. He folds it up into a ball, gently lifts up her head, slides out from under her, and rests her head on the pillow.

Blood rushes back in to his legs.

A breeze blows through. Cool air. Dry air. Washing over his skin. Soaking into his lungs. Washing away the sweat and the grime.
He looks to his right. She stirs a little in her sleep. Her head is cold. She reaches out for him.

He touches her hand, gently holding it in both of his own. She calms, and he puts her hand under his jacket, still on her chest. He strokes her hair from time to time, feels the wind and the water against his body, waiting expectantly, watching the skyline as single star appears and the surface of the water changes from dark to white to gold.

Kick kick. Kick kick. Kick kick.

The Rock of Horeb

I thought that there was time to do the things I needed to do. I thought I needed time to do the things I needed to do. I thought I needed to do time. I thought I needed to do the things time needed to do. I thought there was needed to do. I thought I was I. While you wait, may I suggest the pomegranate?

CANTO III

Maybe he will come out of this feeling something. Maybe. He will come. This feeling. Maybe he will come out. Of this feeling. Maybe he. Will. Come of this. Maybe something will come. Of this.
Maybe.
This.
Feeling.
Will.
Something.

Something red and cold and spreading. Doubtful. There could be a similarity between this and that. Something could come of it. He said. To someone.
Something.
Said something. To someone. Feeling someone. Doubtful. Feeling doubtful. Feelings of something. He felt something. Felt this. He felt this.
And that.
Felt this and that.
Maybe.
Maybe he felt this.
Something red.
Feelings spreading red.

THE REALISATION

I think there’s something on my arm.
Yes there is.
No there’s not.
Yes there is.
No there’s not.
They said there was.
I disagree.
They agree you disagree.
You say no.
No there is.
Yes there is not.
It’s in my arm.
It’s on my arm.
Your arm or my arm.
There isn’t time for this.

If you like what I have to say, why do you run away? The parlour room is just as cold. The innermost outermost stripped of garlands and blue bonnets. Nothing shocks me anymore. First and yesterday. The kilo is heavier. Yesterday than it was. Something feeling heavier. The arm feels heavier. And cold. Just as cold and heavier. He is feeling cold. The outermost is stripped and cold. The innermost is blue bonnets.

Touch the softnesses.
An illusion.
An allusion of softnesses.
You grabbed me there.
Pretty boy.
I found you.
You eat filet mignon and grape leaves every day.
There isn’t time.
I thought there was.
You thought there was.
Have a try.
Try. Cry. Cry on my tie. The dishes are clean and not likely to cry. Sigh. Lick the dishes clean.
Prelude to conclusion.
No or whenever.
Birth by conclusion.
Everything goes away.
Ground dirt and glass.
Spreading into the saliva.
Saliva on the bathtub floor.
Down the drain.
Feelings down. The drain. Something down the drain.
Birth time down the drain.
I can birth an illusion in the intermission.

                       A SCENE FROM MY MEMORY.

This is what happened. I saw you. And I lost you. There was a goat. A goat and rain. Many people went to see the goat. I did not. You did not. You did nt. You did but then you did not. There was rain. The goat was raining and wet. Windy and raining and wet. You were the goat. Feeling something. You came out. To see the goat. But it was wet and windy. Consequently, it was a lonely goat. A dark night. With stars. Even though many people saw the goat. We were dissatisfied with the decision. The goat had spots. Ground dirt and grass. If you meant to share what you saw, you were feeling something.

Somehow I meant to say something.
Maybe he will come.
We and I meant to make the decision. The plate is still full.
You look good in a dark shirt.
You look good in a dark pants.
You look good in a dark mood.
You look good in less than a dark shirt.
You look good in less than a dark pants.
You look good in less than not a dark mood.
If you look good in the black pants you’ll like the black shirt.
You should just come out and say it.
I saw them last night.
It was storming.
You see the need for me to share what I saw.

I can attest to the attestation. I can. I can. Attest. To the devastation. You intended to attest to the devastation, but it was storming. The devastation looks good on you. I attest. You protest. I am not who you think I am.

Saint Anthony has something to say about that, all dressed in the dark shirt and the red shirt and the attestation. I can carry all that. Nothing unordinary about that. A star and a moon but not less than a way of life.

         FROSTBITE

.. . . . . …AĄBCĆDEĘFGHIJKLŁMNŃOÓPQRSŚTUVWXYZŻ

Can’t you see the difference? They’re not really the same at all. I smell the attestation. Not to be displeased.

Devastation is feeling something. You will feel something different. Maybe.

As wind rustles in long ríver grass

[2 July 2019]

As wind rustles in long ríver grass,
And settles ín dens and lilies and breast;
As róots spríng, dig deep down and hóld tíght, always guest
When sun mingles with water in glass
And pools in quiet places, in the deep, in the crevásse,
In pass through in journey to sun’s nest,
Blessed ánd dressed as a flutter of sparrows in vest
Of violets and coal and ember and spróut gréen at Sunday mass:

So, too, is your name to me. Your name is the cloud that breaks,
The cool of your hand on my face, your name:
The touch of moonlight against the hill, the kiss préssed on lakes
And breezes and aches to draw nearer. Your name rises in the sáme
Sóng of child’s wonder as bird takes flight and wakes
In last lights of night and búrsts forth ín flame.

The Givenness of Longing

[1 July 2019]

Midsummer midnight air is a sacredness all its own –
The last relics of era when bygones were still being forged,
Cradled in the halls of the forebears of the now,
Suspended in the intransitory,
Illuminating the hale tongue and the meek spirit: not fire,
Not frost, but a light unique to itself and to you.
It moves, and you move: a living being, a bloom
Without awareness of its own self; free. The unimpeachable
Longing borne of love and liberty and ordinary time.

If I saw you again, would I recognise you?
Knowing what you know and seeing what you’ve seen
And knowing what I know and seeing what I’ve seen,
Can we ever say that we are the same people we were?
Moments are built, one on top of the other, like sandstone
Or cake or brick. The roots search for water but come up dry.
The end of the journey is the same as the start: not knowing
What you have or what you came for, but knowing that you must,
Inevitably, start – moved past all semblance of mortality and temporality
(Each of its own will being stripped of transcendence, turning to moth and moss and must –
A crown, battered and worn and drowned but still retaining its jewels: sight and desire –
The dual orbs, the satellites, that lie just outside the realm of comprehension
And serve no purpose other than pushing into something beyond themselves),
In the claws of the tundra or the jaws of democracy.

Even so, there are places that remain unchanged,
Untouched by the passage of time and chance
(Even when the hallowed halls of memory warp with wear
And develop unsightly treads we can’t seem to avoid).
There is their purpose – an ikigai demarcated out since before time
Made a name for itself: something more than vapid
Curiosity or a mishmash of verbiage designed to delude. Selfhood is
Something to be attained, never grasped, nor altered with the alterer.
I find you still in the dusking shallows, the holy mnemonics of the lake at night,
The valse to things that can never be undone, (nor would we ever choose to).
We lay down our swords and our palm branches and our trench coats
And take up the inevitable pastime of being circuitous,
Harvesting the crop we planted long before we knew how to remember,
While the river flows wide under the shadow of the steeple,
Running grain and melting wine and smelting stars of bloody flesh.