word by word

There is nothing but the body behind this sheen of self. This compound of trillions of seperate trusts,  chemistry and the usual concussed thoughts. The seething of the ancients, marrow mouthing the sounds of all the gods and ghosts, moving my lips as if they had a choice. The ruined country of my own invention, words left lying all over the page. All joy, all sorrow the staved in skull of freedom. Smiling with the teeth of ground gears, weeping with the tears of clockwork I write out my lists and plans. Unproven claims of exception, the sunken stone thrown so close to reason. The soul of poetry just another affliction.

I am the child of indolence and ineptitude. I am the words unfurled from tears. The welcome worn, the miles wandered. The cage of inaction and the course of history. My mind now weak, my body a shambles, and still I cling to this empty name and direction. The sour stomach and the hungry heart. The blessed bitter taste that lingers in every single thing I say. The way the world moves on, however wrecked or broken. The words released, as if they were ever held at all.

It is early here. It is even earlier where I am from. Here the morning sieves through the poplars, not the pines. Here the dreams are run aground before sleep even has the chance to fail me. The words ignore the hiss of my breath and the sputter of my heart, the hum of my blood another symptom of this afflicted legion. The ache and sadness just so much dissention in the ranks. This drooling, seeping, barking meat coddling his last conceit. I wake to find each wound waiting, the price of this subtle magic greater every day. I wake to find the loss I always arrive at watching for the first spilled tear. One word then another, the plaintive tone, the want of grace. It is the disease that documents each last poem as it breaks me word by word.

insufficiency

I pace the earth like always, worn-through shoes and worn-out bones. I drag my shadow through the dust. Flies light on my limbs as I still them. The world escapes me when I pause. The loosed arrow, the haunted hall. The weight of the sun burning at my flesh. Aimless, I scuff my soles away on the pavement. A lost child too used to the wild myths spun by the heart. A fool driven by flashing teeth to fall from the edge of creation. Everything flight until it isn't.

The brittle needles and the pine limbs sweep the ground with shadows. The wind leaps and pauses, giving life to dust and smoke. The heart wants to beat and breathe through all this ache. The press of heat, the push of this reckless fusion. The blue of a sky so full of birds, the breeze creased by wings and need. Another brutal summer as gentle as a kiss. Another brutal season, made painful by this broken witness. There are no reasons as the trees sway and bow.

This is the fever as it wakes the fleah. This is sickness as it earns its stripes. Every sup, every morsel turns to ashes in my mouth. Every blessing, every bounty is weighed against the crackling of my poisoned heart. It is a habit of madness. It is a choice made of bolts and blood. I seethe and spit, all the beauty of this wide old world an accumulation of dust. Another waking into this failed flesh. Another dawn coming down the lane, the sun as blameless and bright as any beloved child. The day breaks in waves. 

structure

The wind unwinds, slipping on the skin of the sky. The plane trembles as it ascends, a silver cypher, a spark in scattered clouds. From tarmac to heaven, the rumble of this miracle of bouyant metal, this husk of wait and wonder. The pressure leaves the inner-ear, the lit window burns with the ache of unalloyed light. We climb, rising like the lucid moon. We climb, like the bounty of summer stars. We cling to constellations, skim the skin of this sea of mountainous clouds as we cling to the seams of the world. We rise until we shine.

We are dull and we are ungracious. We sneer and scoff at the miracles we unfurl. We ride the sky, we court the wind. The words come loose in our greedy mouths. Give me more light, give me a longer lever. Our intransigent hearts beating time with their hard heads against the hollows of our ribs. Each repast we judge against our dreams and not our hunger. To always want, ever empty, ever fasting on the glut and ruckus of our insatiable wounds. We are made of holes and wells. We are the howl of the forgotten engine, this suspension of mass before the subtle fold of metal and the wild riot of so much thrust. We are the plan abandoned for the mapped out treasure of our half dreaming desires.

Night falls and we bend the sky above the sphere. Cities stretch and sprawl, the shimmering fire of other lives. I am a song, I am a stone, I am the ghost of a crow that cooled in my hands so many years ago, its precious lifeblood sticky on my open palms. More wreck than right, more loss than art. Here in this contrivence of love and lore I sift through these moments of sharp surprise, my heart heavy rememebering my belly sore with glee. The great clown has passed, his heart stilled, all his days gone to the past and shorn towards never more. We build against the breakage, wings trembling like the touch of a lover, hands pressed wide and firm against the barest intentions of the air. I feel the tears as they well, the way the words take and give all at once. My window open to the world below, my life yet another light passing in someone else's lovely night.