You reek of memory
involving the random, the exotic,
inconceivable places we passed through,
strange skeletons of what’s suggested
snail gloss on the slippery words we infested
tepid swamps of standing water.
The same scene goes stagnant,
the dream redundant.
Randy, if you leave it,
it will be here when you return,
closing in on itself.
Home, where silence is like sunlight
calling you to be free of walls,
corridor and cushion
but do not mix
suspended but not solid
with liquid precision a withdrawal,
it’s been a long time since I followed you
into the disintegration
that would eat through
voices and words
burrowing in the head,
penetrating reflections faced with dread,
you would disrupt my personality
and feed my future instead.
You corroded my position,
dissolved the pressures of decision,
connected rather than dissected,
the ideals I sought
refuge in action before thought
a spark in the dark
like an exaggerated drag
of a hand-rolled cigarette,
calloused, crackling, Navajo ends
you see endure
without a face attached to them.
Non-attachment guarantees no exemption from pain.
The less you speak, the more I understand,
blind and tapping over land,
that silence should not be confused with discontent
but used instead as an instrument
to remove obstacles
along this perilous course.