Stay away from the gaps.
I consider these words then intentionally
Step into the in between.
A bird flies on the wing; a branch sways in the wind.
I hear the sharp notes of a violin, the warning whistle of the noon train.
Where are these things In the halt from inhale to exhale?
Snap your fingers, and they are gone.
I am not here. I am not there. I am not.
When I went for a walk,
I came to a fork in the road.
This is not a metaphor.
A silver utensil lay on the pavement,
Tines upward and pointing straight ahead.
As I reached down to pick it up,
I heard the mocking laughter of Hecate,
Goddess of the crossroads.
Foolish mortal, open your eyes.
I followed the branch on the left
Never to be seen again.
This is what happens when we tell the truth.
From our mouths fly gobs of flesh and splinters of bone.
We flay ourselves from the inside out
To stand before others without our skin.
The cuts inflicted by words used with intent
Drip with definitional ichor.
Are you a deity in your own regard,
To leak divine fluid that flows with gifts?
Are you a mortal among the rest,
To discharge weak liquid that drains away life?
However you are, you bleed.
We all see this but choose not to know
That our eyes are open yet blindly opaque
That our hands are dripping with shared gore
That our feet are standing on infinite decay.
And even our quietest voices
Scream with a deafening destructive howl.
Time runs on, but our time is running out.
Agamemnon is returning to Mycenae,
Cassandra by his side.
The sails billow and tauten,
the hastening winds driving the ship onwards.
When he leans from the bow,
Does he taste the salt tears of Iphigenia?
When a sudden trough shakes the vessel,
Does he remember her terror?
Cassandra does, but her cries go unheeded,
Stifled by Apollo’s cruel regard.
The Erinyes murmur with the waves,
The curse of the gods on this family woven indelibly.
Whether he is blinded by arrogance or ignorance,
Small matter either, for his fate remains fixed.
Clytemnestra is waiting with her axe
And a mother’s implacable fury,
While on her is fixed Electra’s pitiless gaze.
O Atreides, each of you is born on a funeral pyre
With the cold laughter of the gods your chorus.
Good will not prevail here,
Only sorrow and sorrow and sorrow.
What do you expect?
Niceties and pretty words
Tied round into a neat bouquet,
Bound with sweet sentiment?
Look elsewhere then.
You can find this with ease
On shop placards and inspirational clothing.
I do not provide that facile comfort
Or join my voice to the specious clamor.
Only seek my work if you care to find
The hidden barb that wakes us in the night,
The grinning skull that lives within our mirror,
The sharp dagger we carry behind our backs.
Kindness, beauty, and truth dance around us,
Held in the cries of dying children,
The perfumed stench of garbage mounds,
And the glint of light off the barrel of a gun.
We turn back to our familiar dramas, our distracting entertainments,
our serious gardening, our daily concerns.
We forget, forget, and forget again.
Of course we do, in our commonplace struggles.
Still this knowledge remains.
I won’t write it away.
Not even for your smile.
No pair of ragged jagged claws
No scuttling across the ocean’s floor
But this
A handful of brilliant stars
Flung against the dark expanse
Only for one moment
But that moment forces to no crisis
A brief nothing yet everything
Glittering web of emptiness
Oh there will be time, there is no time
No decisions no revisions
This breath that pauses the sole measure
It is now it is now it is now
So dare to ask any question
The universe is not disturbed
I walked with the night’s darkness
Draped on my shoulders.
It hung with ragged edges
And glimmers of stars.
I chewed on their bitter words,
Spitting out the husks of judgement
And swallowing the knowledge
Of my own harsh disdain.
Such a winding trail I followed,
Marked by obscured delineation and forgotten counsel
Lured by whispers of elegiac chorus.
With each step I crushed the bones underfoot
And they laughed as they fragmented
Into the minutiae of lives past, present, and future.
So familiar, for they were mine.
Building bridges is all well and good.
But now I stand on my carefully constructed arch.
I’ve posted signs with arrows:
This way! Cross the river here!
And I wait. Day turns to night turns back to day.
No travelers approach; no farmers with laden carts;
Not even a wandering dog.
My bridge becomes a meaningless edifice,
Born of futile hopes for utility and community aid.
I spent a considerable portion of life’s time and energy
To its design, placement, and function.
Sadly I arise, glance backwards once, and depart.
Perhaps someday someone will find it of use.
This is what happened.
I went to cross the street.
I took one step off the curb.
I was in a different country.
I did not know the people.
I could not understand them.
I read their kindness in their eyes.
I hope they saw the same in mine.
I wandered lost on empty streets.
I listened to hear familiar birdsong.
No avail, no avail.
I turned to see a passing train.
I crossed the tracks.
I stumbled on the uneven road.
I was once again on familiar ground.
Nothing had changed.
Except me.
I am a stranger now.
Unseen, unheard.
My footprints disappear in the grass.
and in your time of glory,
be it a public triumph with roaring crowds
or a small glance at a crafted ring,
where do you go?
dip deeply into life’s pleasures and sorrows,
seeking to outrun the whisper of mortality?
memento mori, so live to the limits?
measure your days with careful judgement and thoughtful speech,
the better to hold lightly to this life?
gam zeh yaavor, so consider consequences?
either way, you die.
/