Whatever beginning there is, it’s true that it might be something else’s finish.
Lines for the hollowed.
Lines for the haunted.
Lines for the courageous.
Lines for the surged.
(fractal, despite cortisol, despite confrontation)
Veteran, as an image. As an image through our personal histories. Go back. Unlock the cortisol: the boundary of that which is known, kept, and that which is unknown, abandoned. Unlock. Begin.
The embrace is a fragment of light
and to know is to breathe infinities.
Radiant is the way the surge goes:
to surge, to rise up, to open up:
Oh s s
A surge a surge assurgance assuage
Halt. And let
the passage expand
like an iris purple or a pupil black
Belief in stability requires roots of sharing.
Forgiven. This world shall be forgiven.
Muse, let us in: let these ideas in. Where we have been, where we have flooded into. Our water experiences.
Our watery gazes. This frigid gaze, these chilly eyes. The lanes driven. The paths pressed beneath feet.
Eyes expanding open. Foothold and footfall for the veteran and their breath.
Winding up and down, an elastic boundary. A breath of rubberized bands.
down to the center of
for me, a certain Renton Avenue
a certain curiosity
explode of the curios
an orange hue lastly
within all of us
Let us in these eyes of experience
shining like the crazed eyes of the auto,
the headlamps smote with rock,
we have hit the cliff,
we watch the waterfall splash upon our heads,
stone of cliff thrown from palm of a being larger, longer (amassed, choral, the weight of the unknown force)
The dream begs us to wake up.
Please let me take one more moment, one more spoke, one more twist, turn, gyre, functioning blip on the evening’s radar.
It was from atop the valley, upon the vista where I thought of the suffering:
In this landscape, in this holy roam of the ghosts in the tunnels of the streets, we keep heads down,
keep pushing, the gravity, of ourselves, off of ourselves, this gravity, this heaviness,
off the sounds of the edge of asphalt, tarmac, the language of the street, where we are, where we sit,
an if, logical statements, situation of logic, if and then we are here, together, torn apart, ragged, survival.
Words collected like refuse. Words collected like refuge.
I remember meeting person after person
individual after individual
back from a landscape of loss,
back from a wildness in rouge,
whether war or wait
the blood was already spilt.
Meeting them in the parks, along the streets,
within the bars, or the cafes,
or the planes, or the living rooms,
or the libraries, a landscape of spilt blood,
long line of friends, sufferings, and joys.
only understand that which could arrive
despite the blood and the bone
Love’s collage is a continuation of the self.
Think of how we abandoned ourselves, or each other. I think about what I abandon all the time.
I think of glazed looks. Imagining again the rainfall and the cliff through the windshield.
Long sensations of sighing and an echo.
To act as a pitfall in the jungle, to keep lashes perked like ferns, to sit up and shout at no one in particular. The landscape sucking us down, keeping us within, an entering of chasm and cornerstone. The sense of the I, individual, looking at experience like giant, triumphant, or tragedy. A blend of realities, hybrid existences. Image to image, like a necklace.
I think: freedom through imagination. That we could all be so special, that we could all be living our day to day confluence in harmony, and in agreement, if we didn’t lack that which has to be sturdy enough.
blood and streets fading into and out of memory and the books of the dead crumble in small libraries scattered across neighborhoods and cities and farms and what else do you know of the scattering?
a poem, a chant, a ritual:
scatter shot ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: scattered :::::::::::::::::::::::: embedded piece of fracture
the image of a bone splintered
an image of a family splintered
the way we walk across the ground in a fragmented sense open
purple talons clutching books
the pages torn like skin
torn like our lineages
To write is to offer the sacred to the other and the self, at once.
In a chat I chat: “there is so much more purpose here”
and it is the second revision of this poem
and I stare at the lines I wrote last time, before thinking of purpose.
I wrote: as scarred as openly wounded
a plant, watered
(and the lines broke down, or built up, vibrated, beneath the energy)
th th thin think
Sound comes. Plays. Enters. There is room for play.
There is survival. There is room for play within survival.
(and so: playing)
Muse. Muscle. Mortem. Mastery.
The idea of the: Veteran
Vet err an
Not errand. Not an err. Not vet.
A word that sounds like a wing full of feathers.
Like a gruff passage through a canyon.
Or like having to sit down on the curb.
is a surge
if it is a surge
then it is a surge
surge of water through a flood
surge of the electric to blow up the room in light
surge of fog and surge of warmth
if it is
but a surge
I stare at it
and a meek sense of buoyancy greets me
in a blanket
waiting for me to rise
For the dead,
Veteran’s Day, 2016
and it is
and the shattering consequences
of a vase
in New England
Where singing is:
the song of the flesh
the song of the body
the song of the brightness
the song of the damp
these are the words
that keep me (myself)
these are the words
that keep me
despite a weakness
they keep swaying
and bear jowl
the body and then the path
notice the path
notice the way the roads creak
notice the longitude and the latitude of the being
as it sits upon the axis
we have survived
we have been strung
we have been strong
and it gets crazier, crazier, the shifting
the splintering, the sound of history being rewound
sings like a serpent
my head rumbles
for a choice
and an understanding)
but I know not
survival is beyond options
a scattered survival
with your eyes like clams
tightly shut escaping water
in new strokes along the scalp
new wraps at the door covering my face
that which is, that which we see
I see a favorite flock of geese, I see a mellow tarpaper strip
I see women whose smiles will overturn the many lengths of miseries
I see men laughing and overturning the tables of our daily keep
I see grating and wonder what’s within and I see the knots in the cords we keep close
I see love and I see the way this love gets seen, allows itself in
upon the shoulders
of the people
we have perched
upon the shoulders
of our selves
our falling body
in widest arrays
in wildest chromatic spectrums
the heart full of flame and ice
equally of light
an expanse electromagnetic
can be heard
can be received
a transmission as throbbing as the wounds we carry