a series in progress

I. present

reading ancient runes
in ruins of the future
believing too strongly in repetition
in a world where nothing is ever the same
twice much less again and again and
again on the parchment of memory
the stylus sinks into the wet clay
the sign is pressed into wax
molds are cast
the hand always a different hand
having a different say

impresses impressed upon me
the body slices through them disturbing
strata setting off small landslides

now is the only and it is
alltime
past and future residing in
the alchemy of now
and cellular structure

I feel the thrum of my universe
and faintly – come closer
I feel the thrum of yours

I am looking at a sky
uniform gray overcasting the unseen blue
I recollect being there

there is wind and leaf fall
the furnace ignites now and again

this is the newest leaf
in the sheaf of autumn weather
out my window
a cursive V of geese heads south
I remain behind with the crows
given to and giving in
as impressions continue to impress
setting out in the labyrinth
of infinite ways to the center
of infinite dead ends
new settings down
upon my slate

II. no telling

once upon a
no voice
no word flow
no hot desire to sing time
the thread with which her lips
were stitched

think alchemy. think immortality springing
from the manipulation of shit. the arc of going
up and coming down. the bliss and damnation of
degener-/regener-/degener-/regener-
ation. think memory fused with imagining.
the skin thins. on its way to parchment.
and lackwit. cold callus feet seeking the comfort
of ancient slip-on rubberized shoes. separation
of sole and heel incapable of keeping out the damp.
outdoors while I absorb what remains of the season’s
declinating sun. the crows convene in great
multitude. nearing the end of the let-down’d
leaves. drying cracking breaking
shattered by ice or snow weight. spring’s new soil
in the making. I wonder: what I will shed?
what will arise from its dirt? what seeds will germinate?
what will dissolve the thread of my sown tight lips?

desire bides on the tip of my silenced tongue

III. distance

paradox rules:
the farther away the object Other
the greater the desire
until within reach
at which point
come closer
desire piques
and appetite gnaws the bones of reason bare
the line of sight narrows
the burn of the beam limns
a smolder of line
draws upon the wanting soul
a maze embedded within the mind
sovereign the empress here
of hot need
wanting more mother to obsession
than having

IV. underworld

dark faces curls and breasts
lame halt blind and deaf
seers of visions
the dispossessed

the ferry man in revolt
has left them
behind refuses to wash away
their memories
settlers just this side of the Lethe
still in the marginal state
waiting it out
in makeshift shelters
waiting to return
memories intact

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