The Past as Parallel


In the darkness of isolation

In the void that was the mind,

it was like entering a vast mangrove

decaying under the skin of what’s left behind.

Discovering the discarded

words reverent with sweat,

rain-wet and intimate

beads coarsing over mossy limbs.

Stream swollen red runoff

from slopes in a deluge of thoughts.

Once inside, you reach for the quiet.

Lost in a riot of bramble

held in the chaos as you scramble

along parallel paths.

The air is thick with flies

forbidden fruit feast on echoes and cries

carried over from emotions

that which is all too human.


Quivering in a pool of your reflection,

hidden faces barely seen in shifts of light

emerging from a canopy

dense enough to hold out the sky

porous enough to bear the sublime

pit pat pattern of droplets

like unseen footsteps all around you,

trickling to accompany the past

that parallels this stunning topography. 


The forgetting is everywhere.

Become partner to the trees

so it won’t leave you bare.

Your roots meander

in tendril searching over the floor

with jungle longing

for something solid

amidst the rumor and folklore.

This insatiable siege

suggests the answers will be relieved

into the ink-fed precipice of words

spreading at your feet.

Going over the falls

and through narrow ravines,

down the halls of hidden trauma

into hollow caverns of forgotten dreams,

the scarred remnants of its impression

seems to inform your progression.

Going deeper by broken fingernail

darker by heavier breathing

deeper where the blood runs colder

in the currents of the largest ocean,

you won’t stay afloat much longer,

sinking beneath the surface

of a pull that is much stronger

than any resistance you could muster.

Deeper where the sun won’t shine

darker on the underbelly of the sea,

where I’ll still be scratching for the light

in the night you give me.


The ocean sometimes spares its knowledge

but holds a secret share

of shells to contain

that which remains vacant,

claimed by accident

gathered by the net

you set beneath the structure

of its perpetual geography.

This ship is bound for the imaginary.

Its dimensions wound in a translucency.

When the faith of its course

gets severed from any link,

it spirals down the drain

like a tiny fragment

in a giant sink.

Before vanishing,

before being lost at sea,

your vessel got tangled in the Sargasso,

scattered in the brightened debris.

It goes where the sun dies,

radiant was its last expression,

bobbing on the horizon,

its final ecstatic recession

into the night.


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