At first, a tremor beneath the souls of my feet
Blink, a story millions of heartbeats away
Dark clouds over a field as acidic purge falls over us
Venomous mist seeps, humanity weeps
Blink, 18 stars bent and watching
Emitting rays pointing their random strikes

Blink, glorious earth temperate in her rotation
Marble folds on her maternal veil drapes us
Close to her breast, we heave in time with each breath
Blink, sustaining life in the chambers of her deepest ocean
Breathing air across the tall granite mountains
Distressed, and yet still here

Blink, ancient footprints track our journey
Not what we envisioned but “the enlightened ones” foresaw.
The need for understanding,
The need to cause conflict and agitate,
Blink, the need to protect,
The need to heal and mend.

Blink, you are here now, in your full extravagance
Delighting in fracking and disruption
Sleight of hand, our blindness is your reward
Blink, remorseless as you divide us
Along the fault line, we fall

Blink, with loved ones snatched
We turn on one another tossing
Handfuls of poison into the wind
Blink, triggered fingers pointed
Volcanic anger flares
A fist on a horses face
Lawlessness a momentary lapse

Blink, where will you strike next?
We suppress you
We support you
Following the artificial sun through the cracks
You rise again
As we turn on one another
The elusive phantom, a master chameleon
Spawning and stretching into an unknown vastness

Blink, yes, you are here to stay
You can’t be killed
You can’t be destroyed
Blink, neither can we
You will be tamed into submission
You will be a mere quiver beneath the souls of my feet
Blink, vitals diminish and you crawl away
Powerless and a mere symptom as you look out from a rock
Eye blinking.

all my life i have been bound by the letter c
how fitting since it seems
to be shaped like manacles
ready to clasp around my wrists
around every corner
every turn i took i found her unchallenged in her rivalry  
she chose to haunt me
down to the colour of my eyes
i could not escape her
she was always there, a shadow in the corner
for have you considered
she cowered in every single line
of this poem, reflected within every word

there are some things
that are just written in ink.
the books that line my shelf
the music I play with my fingers
the startling waves I attempt to hurdle
my surfboard over
the recipe my abuelita passed down to
me of her famous tamales
my subscription to Bon Appetit
these constants anchoring me
when characters sketched by
pencil become too faint to feel,
its these delicate yet sturdy constants
that yank me out of sadness
with a "remember me?!"
with a "remember your abilities, young lady!"
"remember your divine calling to perpetually grow!"

muse,
she/her has no master, only a mastery;
she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding,
a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine,
which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing
of a principled particular “present participle,”
write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.

a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey,
submission; write freely but not free, compose or
decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered,
demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving,
can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?


<>

wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint
protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced,
repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the
white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting.

eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto
a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests
a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a
world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism.

this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor
a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward-
bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory,
a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity.

this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis.

<>

the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference?
none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and
verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always,
different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness


                                                     ­     






7:13 AM Thu Jul 29
2021
S. I. Sound