What happens to a kicker,
caught in the threads of responsibility?
with hydra’s heads and a woman’s body,
So he tries to live alone
above shopfronts dealing in abandon.
the squatter lights another candle
saying “There’s no soundtrack for the silence.”
for the writer, alone with the spirits,
or was it wine?
The divine shell of the right word?
Under the spell of the moon,
a voyeur by trade
caught in a strange perfume.
The ever-shifting paths
now at crossroads to illume
the hiker with boots caked in mud
or something immaterial like blood
from warriors felled long ago.
Scars on the terrain he taps with bamboo
staffs left on the side of the path
to one day resume the circle, reborn.
detached and transient
on truck beds and benches with no blanket,
in rot gut alleys with marquee-lit features,
a fractured passenger,
through the shadow
of sunsets and season’s shift,
he’s circles in the reverance,
like wind and gone.
All the possibilities
peopled with walls that enclose
the character in a chapter,
while pages fall
flimsy to the willful winds.
See them blown like feathers
into the atmosphere,
to be hung for ages
from the axis there,
these sages shaving
secrets they do not fully reveal.
Here they leave you stranded
without boundaries of form,
secluded personalities reborn
through fleeting doors.
The awkwardness of finding words
to forge stakes in a moment,
to pinion the motion of flight
to give breath and devotion
to that which is just out of sight.
Attempting to grasp and pin it down,
you assign words and drown
out the sound of interference,
the majestic OM
the wind blOWs,
kicking up dust in its disappearance.