031213A
------------
If I was the broken sparrow,
you were the cat,
whom I mistook for being an angel,
as you came toward me to play.
--------------------------------------
031213B
-----------
I had forgotten
how hungry I had become,
living in a desert,
of apes, and wine, and bread.
I had forgotten
so very much,
until I tasted the words
from your lips.
I knew I was mistaken
as to believing
that I could find any peace,
while wearing a uniform of flesh.
I felt resurrected for a while,
stripped of battle scars,
the way a prisoner feels
when he is being released.
I forgot for a moment,
that they had sent you,
to break down
the resistance.
I let you slip in for a while,
the way a wedge slides in
under the nail of a finger,
to pry out its secrets.
-------------------------
031213C
-----------
When you make the mistake
of thinking
the world has gone round,
full circle,
and everything is again
what it seems to be,
then that too becomes a myth.
The sorts of wishful mistakes
that lead to an increase
in various types of loneliness,
measured out in bitter doses,
of intrusions and messages
from irrelevant sources
with nothing important to say.
Everything keeps coming,
except whatever there is
that you were left waiting for.
It becomes a game
that you play with yourself,
dodging bullets
made from various fantasies.
The worst case scenario
is always the one most attractive
to a stimulated imagination,
because when it fails to come true,
all that is left is the target
proving where the hit took place,
killing all the possible options.
--------------------------------------
031213D
------------
There are moments
when one feels like dissolving away,
into one or another
final solution,
cleansing away a sullied mind.
Washing away all the brokenness,
into something that flows smoothly
without clots, stains, or attention,
no longer needing any more recognition
than the sea needs recognition.
Leaving less than a pillar of salt,
and never looking back.
Simply carried away
as though on wings of Valkyries
to where it does not matter anymore.
Golden daylight seems too harsh
a penalty to suffer,
revealing all the sorts of absence
that make their appearances
in all the worst possible places.
It is all symbolic, representing
what we do not know how to talk about.
Making it seem
as if we wasted the few words
that chance happened to put between us.
Words always seem to come between,
but never really join anything together,
despite what hope brings.
Languages are the histories of errors,
begging indulgences, pleading mercy.
One cannot make love that way,
erecting various types of monuments
that are then claimed by civilization,
as if it had anything to do with it.
-----------------------------------------
|
|