all the things you surround yourself with sit and gather dust
the landscape of your past
shadows, icons, only that.

a room full of objects
but empty of meaning
the ins and outs of your life as if on display
but in fact, no,
they are hidden away.

the energy that once filled these shells is long gone
without this,
their relevance, their spirits moved on.

sometime ago you acquired that book,
that candle,
that objet d’art
and you thought “look at this”
and you thought “this is me”
and you kept it.
And through it, you kept yourself,
frozen,
and apart.

1.
One beat at a time,
Sound
Reaching in, pulling your core out
until you are exposed, open,
expanding.
Your chest flowering into eternity with the vibration
Following a stream of being
Mapped out by chords and rests,
pulses, breaths.
The sound navigates you through the waters
Avoiding obstacles
Demolishing barriers and erecting bridges to shores unknown,
so far from home:
Someone else’s epiphany, piped into your lungs and heart.

2.
You’re being pulled out to the event horizon
Stretching towards a black hole
A place of possibilities, not of endings:
Your own boundaries are blurring, erasing.
You, as you float out in space:
You are only your heartbeat, your blood,
life force being pushed forward in time.

3.
The sound
Dissolves your body, shakes apart molecular bonds,
temporality becoming vibration and simple infinity
You are nothing, obliterated
You are everything, integrated
(Perfectly,
Ultimately)
The sound

4.
You find yourself, alive
There in the deep, bass bones of it
And up in the high treble cry of it
And all the substance/flesh/marrow/meat
in between

I started a little fire
on the fire escape.
Felt it burn my tongue.
There was a creaking above me.
And white smoke below.
The creaking made me feel
guilty
lucky
and lonely.
All at once.
As it grew louder
it made me want to rip my hair out.
Maybe my heart too.
The fire has left me.
It bounced out into the street.
I saw four wheels run it over.
It made me think of when I smashed my fingers in my doorway.
Of when I used a plastic bag as an oven mitt.
I felt all of that
But this-
This was it.
That feeling you get-
When you wish he wake and hold you like he promised.

We knew him well
his jest
most excellent
alas, not infinite

Where be your gibes now?
Your gambols? Your songs?
Your flashes of merriment,
that were wont
to set the table on a roar? (Hamlet, V.i)

We laughed,
we cried
amused and touched

Borne on your back,
anguish unspoken

Poor Yorick.

r ~ 8/12/14