In the Afternoon

central park

The way we make heads spin, yours and mine,

gyro-scopic, demonically bone-mind entwined,

two dizzy dabblers in the kind and physical arts,

like the moon-lit chase one night in central park,

sleeved knife steel shiver your pace emboldening,

as I dodged trees and cats, tree’d cat spit-hissing

like mongrel mad dogs, mad-dashing as we were

half naked, stumbling drunk, gamboling jig curs;

where that night ended and this afternoon began,

I cannot unwind the tale, follow the threads’ end,

twist-tied in silent slept breath now we’ve become,

once more, one more lie, one last undoing, un-done.

 

 

 

 

The Art of Becoming the Latest Me

“Your perspective on life comes from the cage you were held captive in.” 
― Shannon L. Alder

  
credit: upload.wikimedia.org

Pure sound, entirely un-mattered, 

voice and air I was, intoned grief
laughter inverted all-in deranged
9th dimensional twisted despair 
shattered lines in flecked powder
bruised cilial cringe at the edges
ears only producing me, my being.

The howl I had become was vast
as wide as a woman’s crumbling
cry thro’ ancestry pierced endless
millennial fear of falling in losing out.

Coming undone, not always so sexy
by another’s fullness, sentient sea, 
the wailingly frothy palpable spume 
when the other subsumes, absorbs
light and time, screams in unfolding.

When I disintegrated, a pupil mirror,
you witnessed naked sound as sign
death knelled body downed into dust
no thud when the shrieks hit ground.

You hold me now, recombined anew,
not in tubes of echo or image’s flash
the grimace of dying inside etched in,
but in re-sight devoid of formed words,
broken past filtered through particles
ionic and clear, trampled and repaired
in memory as manifest born, a human
with skin sensate to the pelted stones
now mere flesh weighted walking on
descended far from aural awakening.