Where to go when the words hold no refuge?
What will be sent to take their place?
Dedicated to the transient forms
that shape the time elapsing.
The ink runs to get ahead of itself,
passing outside of bus windows,
leaving you like a widow holding mementos,
lingering inanimate, like dreams
but bound by desire,
put out like smoldering ash.
It glows for a time
before it goes cold as a concrete floor.
The concrete was no longer necessary,
now awash with shadows of selves and no more.
All these shades in the life of a candle,
its gradual disintegration,
eventual integration with the whole,
again it goes dark
until I receive another spark of insight.
Pushed to the edge of here or there,
into the tight chair of words.
All the solitude I can bear,
all the encouragement I will hear
goes unspoken in silent symphony.
This impulse to record resumes eternally,
with the curves of your words reflected in mirrors.
The eyes that read them growing wider,
distorted, out of proportion,
blurring into the next page.
this toiled land.
Something to plant seeds in,
until it has grown deformed,
like a kicked in pumpkin
unrecognizable to itself
and from where it began,
invoking a response to begin again,
from where it flaunts a collective pain.
The mind holds no silence.
Hunched over paper,
eyes dropping from frustration,
thoughts like a vapor.
I’m weary and unaware
of day or night,
all is amorphous and white
as this barely caressed skin
no longer draped with letters,
like walls, all is stone-still.
Even the crickets behind it are silent.
The palms barely sway,
only to clutch at desperate pens,
here for hours and then days,
perhaps eternity is a passenger
in a sedentary vehicle.
Longing for Lozzi’s Monte Carlo
or trains that pierce Sicily,
anything that will not adhere
to this empty time-table,
this sibling to despair,
Cain slaying Abel.
Does the line still survive?
The pen no longer moves,
with a passing wind.
It used to leave fragments,
the charred remains of flames,
it was there and unnamed,
the unseen taking me in,
pushing to reveal something beyond expectation,
if only in words,
running on their own tracks
with the sound of needles that scratch
a finished record,
it seems there are no more revolutions.