There is no tension between the tree leaf and the shadow wavering
wind breaths blowing from beneath disheveled hair.
The writing volcanoed from out of hiding in its tiny alcove,
from its universe of all I behold clandestine
to any attempts to control or mold from experience.
All the rusty artifacts of antiquated memories
await in dusty sheds for my
cracking open a corridor of light.
Recollection, that collection of meaning
laying dormant under the rubble of echoes.
Words, broken letters,
strewn in the aisles of an elusive narrative,
now raised to the touch of probing fingers.
There’s often more than just this flow of thoughts
to allign one’s attention,
this subtle ascension
intercepting sun shafts,
bearing the spare impression of invisible footsteps,
the muse exists partially formed
in its dim-lit reality of far off glances.
It’s keeping distance
with a cold kind of charismatic resistance
to the information I volunteer to it.
this aka body extension,
akin to a staff that reaches out
and taps gently over condemned ground.
With unsteady spontaneity,
akin to Coltrane,
taking a simple progression and improvising,
seeing what can be accomplished inside of a circle,
making the edges appear nonexistent,
awash with sea they disappear overboard,
seize the harmony, the discord,
fractured or polished, it knows no reward.
Poetry in every paused breath
confronts the poverty
of endless mechanical death.
Paper never proposes the limitations of its illusionary borders.
The abyss is at the foot of every table to peer into,
to reach through and pull out a dripping fist
from its ink-black mysteriousness.
Now holding seeds and waiting for instruction.
To cast the lead in this loose production
of reason usurped by desire.
Balanced on this tightrope,
perched bird on the wire,
full of repetitive motion, initiating fire
creating this illusion,
like a conjurer’s shadow
on rust colored peeling walls,
a suspension of belief willingly follows.