Mar 2016
in some paradoxes, space happens when two people
are close but not close enough.
after hours of demand, the presence occurs in many ways.
ubiquitous objects rend the veil of vicariousness.
there will be a repetition of days in here,
an assertive swing of dialogues to make ends appear as though
real and accurate.
in a brief candleflame of silence on a Vietnamese restaurant’s rooftop,
there will be noxious space conscious of: we are waning.
the way words leap from fences of teeth and venetian hairs.
air becomes a fat mound of fools in arcades and then in an instant,
it feels as if there is no more space left to move in, so they wear
each other’s skin and shed right after the ballast’s fall.
when done explaining a dream, sleep goes to belabor a bell.
soundless beside them, stiff as a body dreaming for itself.
in some paradoxes, what is imagined is most real.
there is suspicion that this lacks sentimentality. it is as carnal
and as commonplace as a hint of touch from a closed-in expanse.
that time at the market when you had your hands fretting
for shapes of perfect fruits, taking them in your careful hands
wary enough to not beat them senselessly to the pulp of their
glazed figures – the prices start to inflate and you wonder why
people still remained when at the first sign of difficulty
you start your furlough.
and also sauntering with maimed pace, that of autumn’s slow
reprieve, making your way past decrepit buildings,
you stop to take sunsets not because they’re marvelous,
but because you easily forget – and accept that there are
also things wet under the rain and not with tears.
when in another paradox, things point to their source
when doused with oblivion – starting to breathe on its own,
occupying space
leafing through days when something instantly said
rushes back searching for its holder,
to be given, stolen, or say,
left to die on its own –
are close but not close enough.
after hours of demand, the presence occurs in many ways.
ubiquitous objects rend the veil of vicariousness.
there will be a repetition of days in here,
an assertive swing of dialogues to make ends appear as though
real and accurate.
in a brief candleflame of silence on a Vietnamese restaurant’s rooftop,
there will be noxious space conscious of: we are waning.
the way words leap from fences of teeth and venetian hairs.
air becomes a fat mound of fools in arcades and then in an instant,
it feels as if there is no more space left to move in, so they wear
each other’s skin and shed right after the ballast’s fall.
when done explaining a dream, sleep goes to belabor a bell.
soundless beside them, stiff as a body dreaming for itself.
in some paradoxes, what is imagined is most real.
there is suspicion that this lacks sentimentality. it is as carnal
and as commonplace as a hint of touch from a closed-in expanse.
that time at the market when you had your hands fretting
for shapes of perfect fruits, taking them in your careful hands
wary enough to not beat them senselessly to the pulp of their
glazed figures – the prices start to inflate and you wonder why
people still remained when at the first sign of difficulty
you start your furlough.
and also sauntering with maimed pace, that of autumn’s slow
reprieve, making your way past decrepit buildings,
you stop to take sunsets not because they’re marvelous,
but because you easily forget – and accept that there are
also things wet under the rain and not with tears.
when in another paradox, things point to their source
when doused with oblivion – starting to breathe on its own,
occupying space
leafing through days when something instantly said
rushes back searching for its holder,
to be given, stolen, or say,
left to die on its own –
