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

Twisted Nostalgia

Do you remember the faces
of all those abandoned buildings,
mocking us
like a metaphor we wanted but could never touch?

& so how we turned to punk & the band that
turned to shit
because we fucked up by being too fucked up
on speed, weed, drink &
the fear
of the stage we were too afraid to admit?
Sometimes,
I miss those days:

There’s a freedom in nihilism
so often forgotten or ignored;

nothing hurts those who believe in nothing
& care only for the comfort of pleasure.

The last man
cannot be turned back after walking the path
for too long.
That place was a contusion upon
the surface of the earth & we
were the worms
crawling in the dirt…

but at least we weren’t alone.

Somehow,
together we created a nostalgia
I can still feel,

& when our mistakes drift away
one day,

they will join the birds

who will sing for us instead.

On peut pas vivre d’amour et d’eau fraiche

For S

The weight of the rain cripples the name
of a person in a place
you swore never to forget or let
                               the silence
& the songs & the long moments
of hands twisting time with bodies
entwined in nights we wish would never die,
disappear:

but all things move toward their end,

& yet time hasn’t taken us completely,
so there’s no need
                            to forget

even as we
let go of what once was.

Some nights we cannot see the moon,
but during others its
dignified light
repeats the silver nights
precluding those golden mornings we spent
bathing, deluded
& content.