white space

despite the trail of gray leaves, i sometimes wonder what it takes to write a letter--to turn to aging ghosts...

yesterday

how many times have i stood underneath the blooming moonbeams and exploding stars, walked down the long sinuous meadows, listened to the crawling wind, sealed broken hearts with flour and history, opened my window at the crackling dusk, watched a few forgotten images emerge from the splitting sky, invited the timid rain to run across the field, clutched the edge of darkness in my palms, clung obsessively to lost nouns, only to be reminded that yesterday was my birthday.
and, what of it?

absence and thingness

I'm up at 5:00 a.m. and lay awake struggling for some shut eye. Around 8:30 a.m., I begin to fall  asleep, and in-between the grooves of wakefulness and sleep lies absence. I felt my consciousness being assaulted as a falling took place--not of my body, but of my consciousness or spirit, if you will. I experienced a silent, yet extreme and unshakeable weight on my head. I began to sink, moving in a downward spiral as anxiety and perplexity fermented in me. The notion of uncertainty flowed through me aggressively as I was uncertain whether I was falling asleep or moving into utter absence. A formless pressing pressure invaded my night. I wondered if this is what it means to die in one's sleep. There was a heavy force pressing upon me, moving me into nothingness: a sudden deadness and lack of signification. A rusting of the will took place. Pure absence and thingness were alternating, partaking in a strange dance. This opposition was magnified by the realization of my own alterity from myself, where the I became a dislocated material. Is absence a phantom-strangulation? Is it a tightening of the tongue rendering one wordless? Is it an intimacy of interiority? Is it the result of unearthing layers upon layers of self? is it a movement toward death?

rootlessness vs. nomadicism

frequency of buzzards
unanswered questions
falling, falling, leaves

flattening of surfaces
faithless phantoms
boiling poetry in sand

soiled maps
covered with solid curses
of a burning paradise

walls made of dried figs
a mirrored doubling
of knotted tapestries

half of a skip of an eyelid,

and i am in a volcanic cloak
moving against the sprawling sky

on the inside

as if a stranger could involuntarily reveal a fundamental truth; a truth that exposes my insides--a vacuous space. as though this stranger has clear sight--violet-like, temporarily blossoming like fireworks. then, night drifts by and there's something, like tolerance, toward the unknown and the decay of words. the terror becomes a brush stroke, cradling me. i cling to the luminous stars: roadless and halting. i'm on the inside, a vanishing temple.