Falling as recalcitrance of movement – seeks completion – yet the ground
ballasts.
There is no path that leads forward as I live backwards.
There is poetry in the way
a woman carrying a bilao moves away from the vicinity.
Sound departs.
I took a deep drag and fell into a thick web
of smoke, recoiled to fetal nature, into the womb of my unbecoming.
What seems to contain endlessness: dark.
What punctuates this claim: moonlight.
In a house that continuously aches,
I am grateful for windows.
Night-erased repeatedly, the dance of blades of grass.
There is more stasis when words flay
themselves to pass as something more resolute than there is
the kinesis of life’s steady abbreviations. We shorten like this,
when we curse the destinations upon movement’s mindless
approval.
We collect ongoing afternoons
and cohere to trees. Say falling like you mean it,
the way we commit to breaking though unwanted, feared.
Feel the hands accumulate warmth when propped
into the sun’s permanent daze – face becomes glare,
a day becomes a scar.
This is where I do not know what moves to become fully stationary.
Days crumble like this.
In a poem that is not a poem.
In a sound that is only sound and not music.
In a dance that is not life, but stillbirth.
In notes that are purely rambling, not reportage.
A voice that champions a fiasco.
This is where the throbbing afternoon becomes a part
of me that falls into a chasm of a fateful night,
lassitude of debris in tow,
starting measures everywhere we left and returned –
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
Falling as recalcitrance of movement – seeks completion – yet the ground
ballasts.
There is no path that leads forward as I live backwards.
There is poetry in the way
a woman carrying a bilao moves away from the vicinity.
Sound departs.
I took a deep drag and fell into a thick web
of smoke, recoiled to fetal nature, into the womb of my unbecoming.
What seems to contain endlessness: dark.
What punctuates this claim: moonlight.
In a house that continuously aches,
I am grateful for windows.
Night-erased repeatedly, the dance of blades of grass.
There is more stasis when words flay
themselves to pass as something more resolute than there is
the kinesis of life’s steady abbreviations. We shorten like this,
when we curse the destinations upon movement’s mindless
approval.
We collect ongoing afternoons
and cohere to trees. Say falling like you mean it,
the way we commit to breaking though unwanted, feared.
Feel the hands accumulate warmth when propped
into the sun’s permanent daze – face becomes glare,
a day becomes a scar.
This is where I do not know what moves to become fully stationary.
Days crumble like this.
In a poem that is not a poem.
In a sound that is only sound and not music.
In a dance that is not life, but stillbirth.
In notes that are purely rambling, not reportage.
A voice that champions a fiasco.
This is where the throbbing afternoon becomes a part
of me that falls into a chasm of a fateful night,
lassitude of debris in tow,
starting measures everywhere we left and returned –
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