The other shoe, a bundle of black hair,
stacks & rows of books.
How could it make meaning?
I can see them—how they live, the flavor
of their attitudes any morning.
The loss was not knowing past sight
& sound. Summer was on us
against consent, a terror jacket weaved,
worn too warm for July.
So we had to take off,
split time. For a while it was quiet
until something started telling,
unspoken softer than usual.
Temporary absentia limited an opening,
maimed a mood.
Near the static, flat lake
that pretends to be my mind
I’m leaking daily discovery—
light, food, eventual sleep.
Fantasy guides emotion into questionable thinking.
I forget my heart is beating,
that I’ve been tempered by the moon
over the materiality of dark’s blanket,
& I cannot stop the lights from going out.
I am not a saint inventing owls.
My bubble is a ball
of omission. I clip this pang.
I gather the orange’s husk smoke.
I walk to myself, slowly.
Psalmists’ stricken with backstory
will write upon the amalgam of agony
a compilation of elements
to disfigure the dignified,
yet three-dimensional mind.
As tongue’s think around slick gums—
two with eyes closed
remain on the pews of present static,
recollecting shunned exuberance
in the chapel’s mosaic hues,
when the Lord proposes a question
in grainy English:
can amusement be moral revision?
Hexagon & honeycomb—
a cadence of comprehension
under chopped light & interior rain
reflecting flames.
Dull brimstone doesn’t belong
where I have a craving for beauty.
Glass tumor, antsy & mercurial.
I have grime in my goblet
& I could move in anticipation,
prickly worried, vanity tested.
I’ll say they messed it up—
letters shuffling on paper,
on the fluorescent screens, a thousand
ways words can break into ears.
Convenience comes with a kick
& the trick is not killing one’s self
by listening too closely
while listening even closer.
I have an amplified voice
inside a void that’s better filled
with sculpted hesitation.
I scrape the waste, cruel shit
that screams tiresome truths.
My gnostic interludes began
under a soft blue block of sky
& slipping sun, the taunting
threat of midnight’s motor.
Agree with me, this feral dance
is crazy, my déjà vu feet
diving down black stairs
of stiff malaise, stacks of waves
to the shore & skinny trees
shadowing sand. If wanting more
is much too strong, I can label
the doors closed & download
some easy calming light
in the brain’s basement dusk.
All that red to ponder.
Somebody brought me here
& soon I have to rush home.
–Art by Petra
–Art by NiiCoLaZz