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SN Mrax Jun 2012
what does the river say,
her eyes and mouths and fingers
blinking and glimmering in the light
forming an endless flickering web
traveling up my legs and skin, never quite

what does the river say,
running fast through trees on stones
rippling and pulling

what does the river say,
carrying the lonely barge that floats
into darkness, his long face
looking forward into obscurity from high above
what does he know
(where does he go)

what does the river say,
her body arced and wide
and waiting, never quite
SN Mrax Jun 2012
a hand in the waterfall
the river sliding over my shoulders, down my sides
the memory of waves rising in my mind

closer than a thought
ghost standing inside me, looking the other way
a secret known to no one at all

If you give me your glittering pieces
I can make you whole
you speak from inside me
SN Mrax Jun 2012
This is not a night to immortalize in words, merely a quiet evening--and there is no great success or fall here. We are more ordinary than we expected to be, yet more odd; and these autumns of our lives are light in fruit.

I feel always like a bright shadow, standing aside--a tree in the garden's periphery, planted as a counterbalance for the side of the eye; paired with a contrasting element and yet waiting to be paired more directly, and to be seen more directly.

My desire has no grand meaning, I am neither deprived nor fulfilled. I am protected, and hurt by protection; for the most part left untended, yet not strong of will or wild.

We are the garden in winter, waiting to be entered and enjoyed; for without you, we are not quite empty, yet not quite full/real. Will spring make me soft/sweet/welcoming again? Will it come (to me)?
SN Mrax Jun 2012
some stories are too small to tell
but for the finest eyes to observe
and the widest mouths to recount.

some journeys are too small to take
but for the most patient
and the most determined.
SN Mrax Jun 2012
strangely, i live in a world of equanimity
even though I am not equanimious.

quite the opposite: I can even loathe good things
and crave terrible things
and everything in between.

when i am at peace with my longing for it, i come out the other side:
the absurdity of it all is no longer new,
and the sense of possibility
torments me so much less.

long ago, i betrayed any manifesto
i could possibly write.
i am one of the absurdities.
i am not what i am.

good and bad are the boots we need to walk.
one step, two step.
we need more than boots to travel;
and, indeed, you can stay still;
in a sense you could fly instead;
or run, barefoot, calloused, and wild;
either way, the land-sky is,
walk or not, move or stay, see or forget,
it is.

it stretches on, so terribly samely, round.

that is why i am lost
because there is nowhere to go
only to move

and i am alone because
the land-sky is with me, in me, is me, not me.

a place is not really a place
a thing is not really a thing,
nor is it
its opposite
really.
SN Mrax Jun 2012
I was once at the tip of an Arrow
then it pierced the wOrld.
When you reach the end
the end and the beginning are one.
What then?
SN Mrax Jun 2012
everything is littered around the living room
while it rains softly outside.

you walk around
while I sit tired.

all the objects in this room
wish for someone to care

as they lie, unable to move
to some place better;

instead they are where we dropped them
or where the cats last pushed them, in play.

and they all
wait.

wherever I go,
I never seem to be there.

only the things in the living room care.

— The End —