sketches (march 2011)

"In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery." - Cormac McCarthy

deep enough in the woods
that night
could be found, boys
young and unafraid
turning into trees
huddled in front of the campfire

arms outstretched,
as if to wave into being
a canopy,
they stand irregular
as an adult flits between them
an elder amongst the alders

there were words, then
something to give the fragment
context:
the voice of a father
speaking of snow, or spring
of weather and motion
of something logcabin old
but new as the turning of the seasons

no doubt, the words were lost
on them, as to time
but, in those hunched firelight moments
when, arms resting at sides
they were filled with a temporary wonder
at the world around them
leaning in on their tiny spark of flame,
some deeper seed took hold

and they were
for those crackling seconds
saplings, vines and roots
flowers and mulch
bark, branches, leaves
the sky itself
and could shed their arbutus skin
and be those fragile creatures
we recognize only
in the smoky firepit glow
of a half forgotten memory:
ourselves
at an age when all the woods
were deep,
the caves and moss
hummed of mystery,
when the fire blended
with the stars,
and our fathers spoke to us
out of the dark.

faith (february 2011)

God.
for lack of a better word,
and that's a funny concept
not a word fitting for the Word
but when it comes down to it
I don't know a lot about it-
you?-
because whenever I go looking
I can't find you anywhere
but when I turn my head away
closing my eyes in resigned frustration
there you are
seen ever so briefly-
because when I feel out
and find this fragile world
to be ephemeral
I fall back into the mist
and I'm caught-
because when I speak
and ask questions over
and over
and hear nothing back
nothing. nada.
I surrender myself to
'hear you in the silence of my heart'
and still get nothing
when all of a sudden
you're speaking through my pen-
and even though
I don't claim to be looking for answers
I tell a lie
but I've come to know
that when given a binary 0 - 1
you always take 2
and though I know it is foolish
to anthropomorphize you
I always have to remind myself
that the god I don't believe in
is different from the One that I do
and that
for the fractional moment
when the universe cracked open
that repeats second by atom-smashing second
I could see
that nothing I ever believed was true
and that you were always telling me that:
the Most Beautiful thing in the world
a word
your name.

in foxholes (february 2011)

and this is the moment
that I think we can say something,
where I'm getting
a little bit closer
to dialogue

maybe this is just a flutter
a contraction of muscles
and the fire of synapses
but for just a moment
things were tilting on their axis
and I knew.

that even though I'm playing cards
and you want to play chess
and
that we all here move
so frustratingly close
and mind the gap so well
I knew.

when we tilted the world
dropped it on its side
and saw, knowing it for the first time again
I could not help but wonder
if we should set it spinning

and you whispered
loud enough for me to miss it

and even as this madness recedes
I might recall what you said
if only I could get past
the medium

because
if I say I draw inspiration
from the mountains
or the sun through the clouds
or a crying child loved
or the hope of young lovers
I would be lying

for I have never confused
a speaker
for the sound of his voice

definition (october 2010)

This is an idea
that can't be written down.

There, right there
did you see it? -
lurking on the page
on the brink of decipherability.
No?

It didn't manifest as a comma,
splicing the semantics into the syntax.
No, nor was it a matter of breathing
an emphasis.
And even in the gravid space
between words and the lexicon
it was absent.

But I swear to you,
it may not be evident,
but it was there.

An impulse, stuck in the subvocal space
between thought and word,
a feedback of the phonological loop,
a collection of neurons firing
in response to an unknown impulse,
a demand to be realized
as a fitting description
of a void
full to the brim.

fiat lux (january 2011)

you creep and emerge
silent beyond a far hill
and I am breathless
to every second of your surprise
your slow unravelling
and scattering of photons

and this happening
at over a thousand miles an hour
conspires with the speed of light
to be a monument to alacrity
but from my window
it is only a slow creaking
the subtle breaking open
of a hidden pearl beyond my furthest sight

you and I are locked in a perpetual moment
a gradual processing
and for a brief eternity
I can imagine that moment in Genesis
took ten thousand thousand years
and this secret fire was shared
drop by drop
with the young eyes of the universe
and each flake of that fire
gently released into the deep darkness
sung out from one to another
fiat lux!
fiat lux!
as they collided into that first dawn

then love (august 2010)

my faith is a small faith
my belief, tiny
my hope, hopeless
my body, dust

my voice is a small voice
my heart, frail
my time, fleeting
my soul, questionable

I only know a few things
a small number of facts
which seem constantly whittled
broken, relative, one-by-one

and I look for meaning
in a world seemingly meaningless
devoid of point or direction
purged of all permanence

and so I question why
why ought I to laugh
why ought I to smile
why ought I to be?
what a funny thing it is to be
how strange to be formed from clay
and to have life breathed in
how strange to be a pulverized star
set into the motion of seeing itself

and each question unravels an answer
and each answer poses another question
until I lie
alone
unknown
meaningless
adrift in the liquid chaos of thought

even as I lie in despair
infused with existential angst
I remember things I've been told to forget
and come to learn for the first time
that which I already know

a word
out of time, out of space
utterly transcendental
obliterating the oblivion I'm told to live in
vaporizing the untamed wilds of the mind
making everything have a place
fearless in the face of the unknown
Important, with a capital i
Meaningful, with a capital m
a Real Thing, all magiscule
so tiny,
perfectly imperfect
a voice in the wilderness
to love

transitive, intransitive
a verb, noun
preposition, compound
subjunctive, indicative
declined and indeclinable
conjugated and infinitive
infinite and temporary
me and you and everything in between
above, below and in any impossible way
defying all things
outside of all things
inherent to all things
beautiful and heartbreaking
love
love
love
until I can't anymore
then love

‘a song like your name’ (march 2010)

I'll call you up when
you're here again
when the stars are in
their perfect place

I'll call you up when
I meet a friend
that reminds me
of a look on your face

with towers, lines
grass fields, blackflies
slowly sinking down
breathing water in
weathering
remembering
and forgetting
this time

fly

you're a ghost who
I'm always speaking to
a ragged clash of skin
holding your bones

it's a hard time
to think back - rewind, rewind
to a time when
your ghost had a name

like a lullaby
sung to a greying sky
to the poisons and sirens
in the spring
to the broken bones
and the empty homes
the forgotten
and the strange
to the dying
to the dead
to the living
to the upset
and least of all
to me

your name
to sing
a song like your name
to be near you
again