Darkness has pressed up against our lattice windows. Classes start again in the morning. I’m being reabsorbed by college life. I’m a planner. I’ve been going over my syllabuses, repacking my bookbag, charging my power banks, checking and rechecking the assignments due tomorrow. After watching me prep for hours, Peter said, “You’re not going to the MOON.”

Peter asked me last Friday, “Are you excited for Monday? (I’ll find out if I get my fellowship.)
“I’m more excited about tonight,” I said, “I like going out on the town.”
“Wow,” he said, “you’re so different - not like the other girls at all.”
“No!” I said, laughing, “We’re stuck in a rut, we only go to one or two places, ever - if we go out at all. When people come to New Haven, I need places to take them - places besides pizza. At home, in Athens (Ga), I know twenty places - this is RESEARCH.” I assured him.

Peter settled back into his doctorate-fraternity-house yesterday. Tonight (Sunday), there’s music in the suite, the crazy noises of people and the comfort of returned friends. All the roommates are back, greeted with hugs and kisses, as they dragged in their luggage.

Lisa arrived with dinner, for 10, from Dominick's, in Manhattan. Spaghetti, salads, rolls, extra sauce - in six, small, suitcase-sized insulated bags. It was a logistical marvel. It’s only 90 minutes from Manhattan to the residence - we didn’t need to rewarm anything. “I KNOW we could have just eaten in the dining hall,” she said, shrugging, “call it zany - one last hurrah.”

Everyone seemed happy to be back. There were travel stories, questions, and laughter. Oh, and Zeppole, little powdered sugar custard desserts that seemed the worst for travel. Everyone seemed to have an eye on the clock though. By 11pm the suite was quiet. Très unusual.

In the waste hour
Between to-day and yesterday
We watched, while on my arm--
Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone--
Dabbled in sweat the sacred head
Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange:
Till the dear face turned dead,
And to a sound of lamentation
The good, heroic soul with all its wealth--
Its sixty years of love and sacrifice,
Suffering and passionate faith--was reabsorbed
In the inexorable Peace,
And life was changed to us for evermore.

Was nothing left of her but tears
Like blood-drops from the heart?
Nought save remorse
For duty unfulfilled, justice undone,
And charity ignored?  Nothing but love,
Forgiveness, reconcilement, where in truth,
But for this passing
Into the unimaginable abyss
These things had never been?

Nay, there were we,
Her five strong sons!
To her Death came--the great Deliverer came!--
As equal comes to equal, throne to throne.
She was a mother of men.

The stars shine as of old.  The unchanging River,
Bent on his errand of immortal law,
Works his appointed way
To the immemorial sea.
And the brave truth comes overwhelmingly home:--
That she in us yet works and shines,
Lives and fulfils herself,
Unending as the river and the stars.

Dearest, live on
In such an immortality
As we thy sons,
Born of thy body and nursed
At those wild, faithful *******,
Can give--of generous thoughts,
And honourable words, and deeds
That make men half in love with fate!
Live on, O brave and true,
In us thy children, in ours whose life is thine--
Our best and theirs!  What is that best but thee--
Thee, and thy gift to us, to pass
Like light along the infinite of space
To the immitigable end?

Between the river and the stars,
O royal and radiant soul,
Thou dost return, thine influences return
Upon thy children as in life, and death
Turns stingless!  What is Death
But Life in act?  How should the Unteeming Grave
Be victor over thee,
Mother, a mother of men?

A chest of boardwalk
and nails unscrewed,
an arsenal of rusty
marching faceless
graffiti, musty
multi-eyed designs and grinning
tiny men right beside,

with lips rose-pearl, sharp-end.

Right beside small carriages to lend.

Wall art wiping off like a fresh tan
once winter comes, scrubbed
with air-carried sea salt,
reabsorbed into brickish mortar and tin-ringing
structures that overlook sweezshing shoals;
dough-rolled hats kneaded on shake-grain shores.


This is where the wolf pup goes
after it snatches the children of my wide-eyed games,
figments of nativity babies
and their red-cheeked discord.
Wailing betrayal
in a swaddling maw,

Vanishing into these walls,
and like that, more pinched-lipped mini-men
lull this predicament into a then-ling
ceased, ignored as the child-pile
rises in the wolf's den.


The umpteenth hour:

i flip through old calendars and
fill in the boxes of dates and
reassemble daily fates
in my head with pink marker
tracing my palmsandpickingupsomethingwhatisthat—

oh.

just child #62
all plump and fat

growing in my throat,
rapidly birthed
with a nasty cough.

spit in my lungs.
and she cries
and then it's novoctuary (or just june)
and the paws claw kindly, schlep-ripping
my featureless form like knocking at a door,

and this is the departure
of my never-was newborn.

You pace a room full of forgotten thoughts
And find yourself hanging
Down
From the peeling wallpaper
It is yellowed and crisp
In your hands

A tangled man
Made of Spiderwebs
Asks you why.
“why,” he asks. “Do you always fall parallel to the earth
But perpendicular to everyone else?”
You toss him away on a puff of breath.
You tell him you like falling, thank you very much,
And fall out of a shattered window
And you are reabsorbed into the nighttime.

When we die
We sink back
Into that from which
We came

We reconnoiter
Our stuff
With that from which
We were delivered

And it takes
A bit of time
No one
Can be sure
How long

Because
Well
The process
Of reconnoitering

Starts with our rotting away from what we are now  
Involves some process
Or another
Of our being reabsorbed into the Earth and her elements  
Being redistributed  
Here and there  
And everywhere

Over that period of time
I am fairly certain
We cannot know
Ourselves as we are now

That is to say
There will certainly
Shortly after we die
Be an ending of neural pathways firing
And a stillness of thoughts
Even those that let us therefore be

And given enough time
Some of those elements
That were
Within us
Will certainly
Be without
What we now
Call us

And all of the elements
That we now
Call
us

Will
have
to
deal
W
i
t
h

t
h
e

p
r
o
c
e
s
s
O
f
B
e
i
n
g
W
i
t
h
o
u
t
N
e
u
r
a
l
F
i
r
i
n
g
s
A
n
d
W
h
a
t
W
e
N
o
w
C
a
l
l
u
s

And given
Even more
Time
As much as
random
Dissociated time
Needs
Elements
Of what we now
Call Us
Will be within
What we would now
Call other
Living things

Or, one living thing, viewed not through the lens of time.

As a poem
On an
Infinitely long
And strange
page

It isn't for fun and games anymore.
That excuse wilted away.
In fact them are my very downfall.
Back then, **** was only a refreshment
And chosen were the days on it.
I was on guard and after
each introduction
Every reabsorbed indulgence
I walked it out of calling range
Chose not to be what I am now.
Financially funneling my nonexistent,
To make my way through **** work
**** pay, always broke...
Weak without; Penniless with it.
I need out.  Have little lapses.
I am not going to be a great loss.
Just one that couldn't let go
As fast as those that dabbled back then.

I’m anticipating the day when I wake up with no eyelashes
or when the four ones of my clock turn into two’s
or when all the stars are reabsorbed into the blackness of the sky
because I’ve used them all up

I’ve tied a wish around every lash, number and star
and sent it off into the space between us
in the hopes that you have done the same
and our wishes will collide and be real;
tangible

on those four ones, I wished that
tonight,
more than any other night,
I could hold you in my arms
in my bed, or a bath, or a fluorescently lit parking lot,
and melt you into me;
grasping at your red t-shirt,
inhaling your scent
tonight, more than any other night,
I wish I could run across the distance that separates us
and just simply touch you,
run my fingers across your skin
and feel you flutter and sharpen when I reach your heart

all the fibers of my lashes;
tiny hairs of my DNA,
are covered with wishes
to see your whole body move in sync with your voice

and all the ones are wrapped with the hope
that I can see the expanse of pink and purple sky sitting next to you
and to no longer look at the same one together
but from afar

and those stars only brighten when I think of
how badly I want to kiss all the words and symbols that cover your body

but
I only have so many lashes
and maybe one day my clock will skip the ones before I can see them
there are only so many stars that remain
so I only have so many thoughts
and hopes
and wishes
to attach them to
before soon enough,
I will only be wishing on blank stares
and ticking stares
and tar-coated skies

I only wish on these because I can feel the memory of your escaping me
some days I can’t remember what your laughter sounds like
or how your fingers felt across my back
or how your voice quivered when you asked to kiss me
those moments are escaping me
and I want to be reminded
I want to expose the film of all the photographs I took in my mind
of our time:
T.O. and B.C.:
you and me
and I want more than anything to take more pictures
and record your laughter
and put paint on your fingers as you drag them across my skin
so I am never apart from you.

and so my lashes and ones and stars are laced with thoughts
and hopes
and moments
with you
to come back
to be near
to envelop me.

I was born with curly hair,
a bubbly laugh
and a blue eyed stare.

I was born with freckles on my nose,
always a need to know
and a reason to share.

I was born as part of a vanishing twin,
always preferring to be by myself
and always knowing I wasn't alone.

I reabsorbed my other twin, the
chromosomal abnormality, a blighted ****
if you will.

I put my duality down to this abnormality,
yet, always wanting to know,
my curiosity always on show.

I wonder why I came to be?
With the other me fading away.
I look for others with my freckles, blue eyes and grin.

I've never found her or him.

I was born a half of a whole,
maybe it's why sometimes I'm light, other times dark.
My twin left its mark, but, I think I'm the dark half.

One nineteenth century muddy long step up from street level there's a resting chair. The hollow sound of heels on plank could wake an old dog, dreaming of fields and brook trout, just enough to raise its head in recognition and smell its groundhog day. The lazy bell inside the entrance is quiet still, unlike the pattern etched glass chimes hung in breeze's timber that moves the billowing sheets of clouds pinned to a rotating sky.

A locked, bone white door, side window pane view, with a clock's jovial yellow face staring, tells, "Open at nine ante meridiem." Skinny pillars, remanent of ancient Greek palms buttress the wooden canopy and hanging sign advertising, "Barbershop", written in Old English script and painted red on white candy-cane pole. A drop of red lists beyond its circling ribbon illusion, as though the barber's razor had nicked the white neck of the cylinder's turn.

Peering  through a window of yesterday's photographs spoke rust and gears of farm equipment, reabsorbed in time, back-hoed into this earth's grinding gears, twirling in slow motion through a cosmic expanse so vast that only sleep can douse. A bird's cheep-cheep, brings home the tree's leaves and sway of grass while underfoot a Terra firma. Reclined now, behind old growth stands the ready scissors' clip-clip of the cut and trim; back lit by a Super-Nova lamp.

≈ cec

Underlying
fields.
Fields of
energy.
Fields of
consciousness.
Quantum
fields of
intelligence
permeates
spacetime.
Permeates,
parallels
all parallel
fields of
existence.
Always was,
always will be.
All that appear
mere ghostly
potential,
manifestations
of
possibilities.
All at once
everywhere
every time.
All at once.
Material
appearance
bubbles up,
exists for
a time.
Reabsorbed.
Echoes of
intelligence
consciousness.
Fields of
understanding,
infinite
fields of
consciousness.
Quantum
field potential
everywhere,
every time.
Manifestations
of potential,
momentarily
appearing then
vanishing back.
Reabsorbed.
Back to the
fields of
quantum
consciousness.
Personal illusion,
consciousness  
does not die
simply
reabsorbed.
Death,
merely an
illusion
of quantum
field dynamics.

I sometimes speak
words I don't comprehend,
throw the names
into the wind as
tears
make their way
into my eyes

I remind myself
of the phrases
I keep holding on to

and the fears
start creeping in
I swallow them
with my saliva
only after then,
in my intestines,
they'd be reabsorbed
into my blood

they travel
through my arteries
and veins
and settle in my brain
control my heartbeat
and my nervous system
and I shiver
with self-doubt

On days
I want to stay in
I don't wash my hair
I never mind
how I look like
because I love my soul
and I love my body
and I love my face

But tell me why
I wash my hair when
I go out
tell me why,
when I do that,
my body screams
in uncertainty,
demanding to know
what my
plan
is

I don't have a plan
on most days,
I wallow in self-pity
and sleep amongst regrets
and I wake up happy

they tell me to never sleep
when I'm sad
but it soothes my soul

I want to be loved
but I assure you
I will reject love
when it comes
knocking in my door

I will recognize love
through the peep hole
put my fingers in my ears
and go to the other room
and when love
calls me
my body will shiver
because I don't know
what to do

I'm not used to love
I'm not used to being given attention
and wanting it is not the same
as seeking it

And wanting it,
never harmed anyone

Contradicting myself
is my biggest talent
and I sometimes
wonder
if I have ten brains
fused into one

Vulnerability
is my greatest treasure
and it will one day
eat me alive

I promise you,
I will learn from my mistakes


Being aware of the effect
is not the same
as causing it

and on days like this,
I blame my hormones,
I blame things I cannot control

so that I allow myself
moments
of weakness

I can’t believe I’m back here.
I genuinely thought I was done with this.
I remember the first night I sat on the floor with a glistening blade in my hand,
I turned it back and forth,
It looked so new and unused
Just like I once did.
But soon it was covered in blood
And slipped from my hand.
I stared at myself in the mirror with tears rolling down my face,
Trying to convince myself there was another way.
Was there really no other option?
There was… one.
I felt bad for mutilating myself.
But honestly,
I’d do it again.
I wish I could.
I know it sounds silly to an outsider.
It sounds dumb and confusing and insane, actually.
Not one person I’ve told has understood.
People say they get it, but if they wouldn’t do it themselves, they do not get it.
These tears come out like acid
But get reabsorbed
And corrode everything inside of me.
This whirlwind of insanity leaves me paralyzed yet running at the speed of light in every direction crashing into everything that has ever hurt me all at once ripping every fragile piece of me to shreds and leaving nothing salvageable to remain.
So,
A different kind of salt water pours out
Crying for my helpless heart
Instead of my hurting heart.
And the stupid thing is,
This isn’t normal at all.
It doesn’t matter if it was a person or a thing or a hope or a dream. It is what it is and the pain is unavoidable!
How do they handle it so well?
Maybe I’m just inadequate in the strength it takes to deal with your own emotions.
Because most people don’t jump to this
Or fantasize about quitting
They **** it up. Move on with life.
Grow. Challenge. Change.
But truth is
I’m so hopeless.
I’m done with school
I’ve given up on the career I thought I wanted
The life I thought I wanted
I don’t want my friends
I don’t want my family
I don’t want my job
I don’t want my city
I don’t want my country
Hell I don’t even want this world sometimes.
I can’t sit here and pretend everything is okay.
Every day I wake up and focus on what's in front of me
But I’m still living with this internal countdown
This clock that won’t reveal its hour
But reminds me it’s just a matter of time
Till the batteries stop moving the hands.
Please
Stop telling me I’m fine.
There seems to only be a certain anecdote
To make the sun stay
But it’s just one bottle
And I guzzled it so fast
I didn’t have any time to enjoy it before it passed.

I really think I need some type of fix.
They know the cure to cancer..
But they won’t let the patients have it.
So they drug ‘em up instead,
If thats the case,
Now it’s my turn.
I’ll need something strong
To fix all the **** wrong in my brain
That nothing else will heal
So hopefully I can make it to another country
Instead of the bottom of the Pacific
Cause I’ll tell ya what
I can’t do it here.
There are no amount of beach days or Sundays or fun things to get me through this now.
So what pill should I take?
The ***** on the shelf is waiting.

We are formatted
and are recycled
into different segments,
change our form
to experience different
planes of life existence
from that one breathe
into our being.
Souls don't die
they actually goes
back to the universe.
Absorbed back
into the divine,
the Almighty,
the God head in
the abode of heaven
where he dwells.
We are his extension
and must go back
to the universe.
Like the waters above
the earth,
beneath the earth
and on the earth,
flows as the ocean,
the sea,
the river,
the brook that meanders
and finally flows back into
the ocean.
This mystery of the soul
are like the waters trapped
inside the rocks,
some freeze like the ice,
some are free as the air,
most as steam and,
some trapped
beneath the earth,
so is all souls freed
from the earthly
tabernacle where it hides
within the cocoon,
and must end up,
reabsorbed and
contained in the
***** of the divine spirit.
Man at the end of
everything has only
one man nature.
The same breath and
the same spirit from
the same source and
the same nature
in different bodies,
with different blood types
of the same blood from
the same source,
in different geographic
areas of different countries
with different tongues
but in resonance to
the same oneness.
So do not be like
the dead sea,
but be animated by that power
that works in you,
be alive and be
generous and useful.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

It vaporizes.
The past
just fades.
Fades
away, like
water when
a wave passes.
It’s remembered
or so
thought.
Memories
hold,
reinforce.
Yet, the
past
no longer
exists.
No longer
tangible.
It’s gone.
Like a wave,
once past
blends back.
What’s to
come,
wells up.
Welling up
from the
ether.
Energy creates
then fades,
reabsorbed.
Reabsorbed
back to
the ether,
as a wave
to water.
Back to
probability.
Back to
a different
place.
A place not
understood.
Back to the
origin of
things to
be recycled.
Recycled
either here
or there.
Reused by
creation.