The Trial

Wear your robes & have your trial.

Find me guilty, don’t

believe a thing I say;

don’t believe it could just be fucked up sincerity:

make me the monster you need

me to be:

I’ll be your Narcissus, your spider

& you can be the fly, you can be

Echo

If that’s what you need.

“From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.”
― Franz Kafka, The Trial

Parallax

From viscous to liquid; a silent

eruption behind the iris;

beyond language,

not 

knowing how

or when or from where.

Do you remember those mornings,

the breathing trees observing a

moon fading & sun bleeding 

across the sky,

        your arm

linked with mine?

 

How time dilated &

the gaze was so benign?

 

Now,

two seasons

later & nostalgia sharpens that strange

blade: a weapon that leaves no trace

except for a particular posture;

glazed

eyes seeing only spectral projections,

the way cats seems to see

into some hidden distance.

 

From liquid to viscous;

the cat is not vicious, the blade

not dangerous;

 

our parallax view has changed &

separated. 

    

        One for

me & another for you.

Poetry

“Words are beautiful” Che said “but actions

are meaningful”.

 

Defiant to the end, 

before a bullet broke through his skull.

 

The man of action reduced to such beautiful

last words: 

 

“You cannot kill a revolution!”

Or is that just a myth, 

am I remembering it wrong

as I have done

so many times

(too many times) 

when

we spent those stolen moments together?

Why am I writing poetry

while you are on the other side of the

city,

living a better life without words like 

these:

 

only noise thrown into the void,

another waste waiting

for rejection.

 

Why did I choose words

over actions?

Tell a truth, or tell a lie

“I get hammered, forget you exist / there’s no way I’m forgetting this”*

That city turning pink
in the sun’s slow descent;
the night air still vibrant
yet gentle now
                      as if
in its old age the day
had finally found a way to be kind
& calm without losing all passion for
the fire
          of summer;

your hair, shed like feathers discovered in

my bed,
a mess of tresses untangled
& tangled again:

now all only a memory

of a scent & the slope of your shoulders
at 5 a.m in the morning;

photographs of long lost days

when we still adored each other,
before the decay became
                                       poison:

the silence, the speech, the years of peace

& warmth
& war
& lies
& tired eyes
& not fucking any more

& bored

            so bored
of the performance;
                                another
dancing monkey
out of sync with the organ grinder;
a comedy without laughter,
a tragedy without despair,
only anger.
All this & more now lives below
a gravestone with no
inscription,
as our dream begins to decay
beneath the surface,

where the remains may let new life flourish.

* Scott Huchison