Unless you are here for a reason, your presence
thrusting and thrusting, what for?
This thing has no name it does not understand -
its incompleteness, its sleuth for finality. Maybe
when a hand is buried with a manifold of many
others in the fall -- to initiate a conflagration
is to remember it for the first time.
All versions of the same absence. If you are here
for no reason, then what for, what use does the
body subscribe to?
What about, say, the abundance of Balete had you
consciously wearing your shirt inside out so as
to feel placeness? What now that your hand
fastens my entrails? There is no multiplying
feeling into truth. We do not know that the Sun
through the interstices of leaves is a small child,
or a swift woman. No other answer but rue
and rage, across our slanted shadows in the
dank perimeter. Your eyes finagle to annotate
the bow of my leg. Or the curvature of moon.
Anything it has in their own, vicious sights
grappling the flesh now inflamed; anything they
will ravish completely and leave drained. A wrinkled body of a log, or a forgotten manuscript.
These are all answers I have to invent. Intuitive,
unwise, unsolicited. Somewhere, I had to point
out the differentiating margin between
speaking too much and conveying so little,
and the finite amplitude of silence sensing out
something in you, about you, and arriving here.
Why are you here? What are you doing? What must I be when you are not?
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
Unless you are here for a reason, your presence
thrusting and thrusting, what for?
This thing has no name it does not understand -
its incompleteness, its sleuth for finality. Maybe
when a hand is buried with a manifold of many
others in the fall -- to initiate a conflagration
is to remember it for the first time.
All versions of the same absence. If you are here
for no reason, then what for, what use does the
body subscribe to?
What about, say, the abundance of Balete had you
consciously wearing your shirt inside out so as
to feel placeness? What now that your hand
fastens my entrails? There is no multiplying
feeling into truth. We do not know that the Sun
through the interstices of leaves is a small child,
or a swift woman. No other answer but rue
and rage, across our slanted shadows in the
dank perimeter. Your eyes finagle to annotate
the bow of my leg. Or the curvature of moon.
Anything it has in their own, vicious sights
grappling the flesh now inflamed; anything they
will ravish completely and leave drained. A wrinkled body of a log, or a forgotten manuscript.
These are all answers I have to invent. Intuitive,
unwise, unsolicited. Somewhere, I had to point
out the differentiating margin between
speaking too much and conveying so little,
and the finite amplitude of silence sensing out
something in you, about you, and arriving here.
Why are you here? What are you doing? What must I be when you are not?
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