Sin Together

I who think
I am a creature of the solid world,
a shadow without a final shape
a blurry wave in the night
given form
through the dark art of succession.

I have slowly chipped at the map,
the map I was given
the map I didn’t create
and I have blurred the lines-
what has no lines around it
cannot be defined.
It becomes a language without words
and changes its shape recurrently
and dissolves into the dream.

It is Tuesday morning
and there is a curvature on the wind.
The sidewalk ends and we lock eyes.
I have seen her before
But not like this.
There is a sound somewhere
and then there is white, and then blue.

I do not assume the triangle.
I do not assume a body or a breath.
We fly simultaneously,
breathing in a response to each other
that which is not yours
is mine.

It is Wednesday night
I hear her footsteps
coming towards me.
The door of my room opens
and I jump towards it
I scream in the darkness
and she throws herself on top of me.
She is heavy on me
but not so heavy-
I could push her away
If I really tried.
But I don’t try.

I know it is her
so I stay where I am

The road we travel
begins somewhere beyond the doorway
and once on it, it is difficult to return.
We have sinned together
Sinned against the rules of the surface,
Sinned against the most fundamental laws.
We now move like silk waves in a lightning storm.
Only the mad know they have sinned
and we just dance
recoiling
retracting
hysterical.

Then I have a thought.
I have never seen her tonight.
I don’t really know if it is her
All I know is a shadow in the darkness.
I feel as if she is biting me
through the sheets.
I offer some resistance,
I try to get up,
I push with all my strength.

I who think
have found a new center of gravity
a center in the storm
a storm in the dream.
And what is not hers
is mine
And what is not mine
is hers.

Eye

 

I saw the main stairway of the old house
But it was closed, cancelled
The stairs continued into the lower darkness
into some kind of forbidden basement
a place I had never seen or been aware of.
This place was also closed, cancelled.

I looked downwards
Into the darkness
And I saw
Or imagined I saw
an awakened eye
which was my own.

I went to my room upstairs
it was more like a small apartment than a room
With a living room, a bathroom, a bedroom.
And on the white wall,
The one that faced the street
I saw
a single colored teardrop
seemingly fresh and alive.
Then I heard a loud noise
and the tear splattered
all over the white wall.

I spent some time
making sure all the doors were closed and locked
I was certain there were other people close by
Wandering around the house.
I had some trouble locking all the doors
since I wasn’t sure
where they were all located.

In the middle of rushing around
closing and locking everything
I heard a sound
That I somewhat recognized as my name
Then I heard it again
And I just heard it as a word
A word without a meaning known to me.


I walked down a long hall
Surrounded by gardens of grass and stone.
I could see other gardens in the distance
I saw a group of children
Led by two or three adults
They were all carrying candles
And raising them above their heads.

The man who was in charge approached me.
He talked to me as if he knew who I was
And why I was there.
“It’s a beautiful house…”
He said.
And I responded:
“Yes, it really is..
But it’s a bit dangerous…
Specially for kids.”
I was thinking of so many levels,
So many ways to fall.
He said:
“It’s ok.
As long as you keep your eye on them.”

Then the children came to me
And carried me like a precious jewel.
I became pink and new,
With a touch of purple
Maybe brown or light blue
Always on the verge of crying.

Pillow of Darkness

 

I lay on a pillow of darkness

Pure black

Except for the tiny flecks of light

Moving in random patterns

I imagine intersecting lines

at 35-degree angles from each other.

they fade intermittently

and form other shapes

I cannot remember the shapes

I cannot describe them

 

xxx

 

I feel as if I disappear.

perhaps for a few moments

perhaps forever.

I become invisible

a thing that was

but is no more.

 

Xxx

 

I hate the graveyards

the long lines of tombstones

lawns overgrown with weeds

decaying presents for the dead,

weathered teddy bears and deflated balloons.

I hate the roses left to decompose in the sun,

To be later thrown in metal dumpsters

like forgotten dreams

unspoken conversations.

I hate all of it.

the sales people

the ground crew men in dirty pants

the people looking for solace amongst quiet bones.

 

xxx

 

i want freedom

water

waves

I want to slide into oblivion like the other nameless souls

come and now gone.

Will anyone find our music

our words

our small attempts at transformation?

 

xxx

 

I lay on a pillow of darkness

floating somewhere between ocean and desert

between hot and cold

between life and death

The desert now blooms with newfound moisture,

purple flowers and panting lizards,

mermaid clouds.

The oceans begin to sing,

singing of sun trees and orange fruit that drip with sugar,

forming puddles

lakes and creatures that would become myths

and great dreams and nightmares.

 

xxx

 

I will become nameless

i will descend into the chaos I came from.

Into the blood,

the dirt,

the blackness

the specks of light in strange patterns

the nothingness that somehow becomes something.

 

xxx

 

Out of the chaos I am whole

for a moment,

such a short moment.

I am a sentence,

a name,

two sentences and then another,

and then one year, and then another.

I emerge from rough ideas

and soft kisses

from pain and chaos

from dirt and blood

from stories that were lost by people I never met

from stories that may be told long after I’m gone

I am all the people that are now lost,

forgotten,

buried in the blackness

in the darkness

in the soil that made me,

the waves that quenched me

the sun which fed me,

the same sun which crushed and bruised

and landed on my lips

that touched my eyes

and made me whole,

the sun that pulled me out of the darkness

for a moment,

such a short moment.

 

The Climb

We eventually dug our way out of the tunnel. It was bound to happen sooner or later. If we worked hard enough, we were bound to be successful. We had talked about it long enough. We had dreamt about it for so many nights that were like days, and we had sung about quietly during the days that were dark.
One night we clawed through all the muddled dreams, through the bright geometric nightmares, through unspeakably complex puzzles all made of dirt and branches and dust. And we did it with our own hands and we did it with our own voices and with our newfound language which easily disturbed and broke apart the thick walls of our established identities that had turned into heavy pieces of rock.

I could feel the heavy force of gravity the entire time – pulling us down, down, down. I saw old symbols carved into the walls as we passed by and kept on moving and many times I slipped on the outstretched forms of a few equations and algorithms for which I had no understanding or explanation.

Something may have helped us along the way, something that sometimes pulled us up, something leading us along through barely visible silver threads. But it had no name and it had no voice so we would never speak of it and we couldn’t have said anything about it even if we wanted to speak. We would never acknowledge its presence even among ourselves.

Our improvised songs travelled out ahead of us like guides, then came back as echoes and told us of the future. We wouldn’t let any force stop us. Not fear, not hunger, not exhaustion. Nothing would pull us back, we wouldn’t let anything pull us back down. Sometimes when I looked ahead I saw the same nothing staring back at me, nothing behind, nothing ahead, nothing below us, nothing above. But I kept on digging, and I kept on singing and I kept on speaking.

I awoke on the other side, naked and red with blood and bruises, encircled by cold and darkness. Bubbles clung to my skin, and the past dissolved behind us in a black puddle.

We all walked away in different directions then and I never saw any of them again. I never even tried to search for them. When I think of them now, they have no faces and they have no names. I am not even sure that they ever existed at all.

The Quince Tree

The quince tree stood in the distance,

at the edge of the dreaming desert.

It stood illuminated in the moonlight,

And its fruit glowed from within

like tiny candles in the night.

All around the tree

the ground was dry and cracked and cool.

I had become invisible to those that once knew me.

I had disappeared into the hot nothingness long ago,

into the dry wind of blue and yellow.

I was brittle now, but I was also an explorer.

I would hitchhike on the edge of sentences,

and merge distant worlds for a moment in the dark.

No one knew I was there.

On the edge of the dreaming desert,

I remembered a children's song from long ago:

little darling fruit

you make the perfect pie

I wrap you up in sugar

and let out a little cry.

Little darling fruit.

I was alone now,

a lone dreamer within a vast dream.

The silver light lit the desert floor,

alive with tiny creatures of the night.

The dark leaves shook,

the fruit on the quince tree dangled restlessly.

I felt fear hiding in my body,

in the void explored in sleep,

in the places where words hung suspended

like fruit in the moonlight.

I knew that all the secrets were everywhere,

In every direction

around every corner

all around me

all the time.

So I rubbed by naked body against the bark,

and I lay on the ground.

I closed my eyes and

I was still in the nothing.

Then I felt the invitation

and I let a response emerge
from my mouth.

Two ancient species spoke that night,

And they made a connection

at the edge of the silver light.

I would never be alone again.

Into The Nothingness

He disappeared, nearly naked,

Dressed only in a long white garment.

A white cloth

covered in numbers and geometric shapes.

He slipped into the nothingness,

into some place I will never know.

(If I were to follow him,

the me that can know would have left

and I would be left as naked as he was

unable to understand whatever I was seeing.)

He broke with the language of our world,

and left behind only scattered fragments –

A poetic line

A shopping list

An idea for a story

An argument not fully formed.

He left in a succession of slow breaths

Which carried the old melodies we once sang together,

our voices strong and cracking.

He took with him

A thousand stories we will never hear,

food we will never taste,

so many things I wish I learned,

but I didn't.

His face now appears on maps,

The kind I sometimes look at

but mostly I try to avoid them.

His face is quickly losing its shape

even though the map lines tend to converge.

The story ends

and I cannot contain my wailing.

I am left without numbers,

with only a drone of ongoing pink noise

and a few mechanical glitches

now and then

a kind of broken rhythm,

irregular pulsing.