“The moment exists only in silence…” – Søren Kierkegaard
I like our silences,
those shared moments
transcending the hungry gaze,
that float into
a simple but absolute attention.
I like it when we're quiet
because then, when
our eyes meet & I see you seeing me,
I can believe
in the existence
of what you see.
Your silence is still & speaks to me
like star-light speaks of intense heat:
defined by perspective & proximity,
revealing in concealment,
traversing immense distance
to bring colour,
In silence, as in soil,
slow roots grow strong,
& the dilation of every second
the depraved authority of time; we
cease to be a complex pattern
a fabric of neurons
& electrostatic dreaming,
something I am only sure exists when
we twist together between & beneath
sharing our body heat,
giving the prayer of our attention &
seeing beyond the iris reflection,
to where it lays waiting
in the silence.
* Attention and Will – Simone Weil
Today gave me a vision
of what could have been; I saw
between all the mistakes
there in your home where
you & your children live:
an echo of
the lost future that could have been
life had treated us differently,
what we really wanted.
With so many questions lacking answers
& too many others
as days slip past us
faster & faster:
once again King Panic* wins.
Thin layer of foil beneath the skin**,
& as if in a dream
wind contributes to the scene:
the rain hard & wild against the window,
& the Sun fleeing the grey sky
as tired eyes
shrink from the fading light.
Sullen shudders of self-awareness &
of desperate measures.
Sensing this, the
tachhyonic voltage between us
prompts you to ask:
I fail to convey it to you
language is not all that we need
for us both to believe
that the other understands:
the calm of your hand against my neck
& the questions no longer matter:
without an answer
there can be no question to begin with.
* Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams – Sylvia Plath
** Leaving the Atocha Station – Ben Lerner
The days flow away & through me;
body submerged completely
in the river,
where the light bends
bringing with it
a form of seeing
beyond deceiving perception,
not just appearance,
which only seems to have being.
& as such
is not so much a nothingness
as the presence of an absence:
that which lives in me is only a dream.
The tragedy lies only in what I
the rest is a beautiful,
“We possess nothing in this world […] except the power to say ‘I’.
That is what we have to give to God – in other words, to destroy.
There is absolutely no free act which it is given us to accomplish
– only the destruction of the ‘I’.” – Simone Weil
Our concrete existence
must suffer; though it gives pleasure
the flesh decays,
the mind feels pain
& must endure
thoughts that crawl like worms through the dirt
of the mind,
to where the “I” resides
on a permanence
that could only become
an affliction without hope
Everything of value,
doesn’t derive from the “I” but arrives
as a gift
in the form of
pure & perfect attention.
The “I” knows it cannot live alone, but
to temptation & attempts
to see you suffer,
which is really only a hand trying to cover
a mouth that wants to ask:
“Why don’t you forsake me?”
to destroy the “I” we must release it;
to detach itself & so accept death
as a gentle friend,
wanting only to welcome us
at the end that comes to catch us
as we fall.
We should destroy the “I”
so that we can leave behind deception,
& search for something different
despite the desperation.