it is true
that we are
covered
in skin and clothes
and roles
outfitted
with names and disguised
under accesories
we use to perform
the rituals
for the gods
of the day
but here
in this space
bathing
under a dark moon
light honing the edges
of each word
illuminating
these margins
here we are naked
as beasts
with transparent skin
revealing
the source
and destination
of every streaming vessel
“these poems are nothing but howling and should not be read as words”
in this experience i am looking for the item i
i walk back in my own tracks lost due to short attention span.
taking the exact same steps i was forgetting to watch
my feet pointed
in the opposite direction the further i went walking back
entrusted to the one of us and dropped it somewhere along the way
the greater the time since the losing i will not find what was dropped
the longer i spend not finding so i turn my feet around
the less i believe i ever will and when i decide it is lost
the more i forget what it was and i look for the first time, again
or why i was looking for it to walk back forward again
the faster it stops be-ing after walking there and back
in my forward-backwards mind the details will all switch places
working through each move i made when i trace my steps a third time
forward the first time the object lost is no longer
along the way i’m walking again be-ing, now replaced by memory
for the first time again the presence of the thing missing
the other way that says, saying, this is not so.
for example
what was red is now yellow and in that memory’s memory,
but yellow is a memory tagged
with a confusing clarification,
untrustworthy, worthy only to fuel
inferior composite memories
an indulgence, useful in a pinch,
which changes the mind
to assume that what was merely lost
actually never existed. it no longer does.
the trick is to never walk backward but if you do lose it, it will be
or forward with the feet reversed. to make yourself believe
this is the trick: you will find it
to keep walking forward. to convince your self
to keep holding on to all it will never stop be-ing
that is in your hands. or becoming something else
and watching the others
so they don’t drop it. until to you do.
“by doing what he did” ”by doing what he did”
doing what he did what he did
what he did by doing
he did he did
by doing what he did
what he did doing what he did
“by doing what he did” ”by doing what he did”
rocks tumble, empires fall
left to struggle
effortless as they crumble
down, broken up
particles of meaning
in their great motion
to be reborn
in us,
the great storm of change
resurrected in our faith
.
suspended in the medium
of that which moves
to create life,
the present struggle
to be
in each moment
unites all time,
unites the being itself
of which time is made
sign of an ancient line
abandoned
barking mad
blood pump of creation
our songs seeking something new
in creating you
unleashed sleeping creation’s potential for change
the virus of time
rising from the sea
a remarkable dream
the old, delightful song
a partner who knows his steps
the great work begins
.
anything i want
someone who desires
stomach rumble wakes you in the night
his desire made prayer
his prayer made angel
the weight of you
a missile from outer space
plummeting down towards the earth
very strong and beautiful
the angel is not human
and holds nothing back
.
the hall of justice is completely empty
whole villages of empty houses
windows missing in every edifice like broken teeth
no such place exists
the well-paved entrance
long descended
freedom is terrifying
and heartless
a moment of incredible fear
the note set so high no one could reach it
a city
overgrown with weeds, but flowering
the shaping of the law, not its execution
it’s not the verdict that counts
dispersing the complexity in some unsatisfying decision
justice is god
nothing but a shell
its entrance into the bloodstream
its virtue is that it lacks everything
.
everything’s closing in
manifest first as tremors in heaven
forward motion, progress
paradise itself shivers and splits
too much lost
towards what we are progressing
poor, blind children
groping terrified
over fields of slaughter
there is no zion
your battered heart
bleeding life in a universe of wounds
vessel of the book
the sprawl of life
too much to be encompassed by one theory
but you can’t live in the world without an idea of it
living is the idea
a kind of painful progress
longing for what we’ve left behind
dreaming ahead
.
real love isn’t ambivalent
face reflecting flames
of the burning plantation
a current of blood in the air
terrible rain and showers of poison light
birds go blind, icebergs melt
when we think we’ve escaped
.
a prophet
from the mirror bright halls of heaven
serious, poisonous chemistry
the great vocalist
the tongue of the land
a voice slow to rise
sacred implements
utter flesh,
density of desire
the pulse, the pull,
the throb
engorgement, flow
angelic ejaculate
the joinings of the higher order
the body is the garden of the soul
by nature
we are poets,
we are silent seekers
of the unknowable
we find ourselves immersed in
in the presence of our longing
in our longing for the presence
we disappear
and become:
that driving force
which strives to exist
in the world of its creations,
knowing we are inseparable
from them
in our silent communion,
in our utter reverence
for it
we listen for the voice
of the silent seeker
alone
and longing
to be heard
becoming
the expression of our presence in it
touch me,
feel me,
see me,
free
touch me,
feel me,
see me,
free
touch me,
feel me,
see me,
free
touch me,
feel me,
see me,
free
touch me,
feel me,
see me,
free
the fellow was an artist
who worked in mists
in vapors in miasmas
in emanations in ecto
plasms, on a very large scale
very high up
in extreme cold
and very high winds–
his pallet was slight
ly limited to tones of grey
and various modalities of
white ranging from blushing
peach to pearlescent whey–
it was work, and he sang
offering each whisping
tendril to the wind
to be delivered
into its place to be
next to its fellows–
the fellow stood
in between oeuvres
with hands cupped
clapped over eyes
against the riot ringing
brilliance glinting out
from the cracks in a sky
unable to hide
the diamond substrate
dazzling behind the dimness
he spins thin
into webs stacked
upon webs of gauze con
structing out of spectral
threads these mighty
bulwarks of light
and highlight
the fearful tumbling darkness
and the clear forward brilliance
and the awesome weight
in the perfect visual resolution
of each
exquisite fractal swelling
signifying nothing but
the empty wonder and size
and coldness
of craving
beauty–
still, the fellow worked
blind his figures
balancing acts
improvisational studies
he spun them flinging
up up and over
to hide to reveal
to illumine absolute
ly unique and traveling edges
whole filamentous families
born to the sky
in groups all at once
changing together
without stopping–
now, the fellow wipes his hands
he is done enacting
every move and every vision
in his work
every particle recalled
distilled
in his inward looking
eye into a droplet
that gathers and swells
and pulls heavy
and finally falls
a million miles down
freezing and thawing
in cycles
to match the prayers
he prays open-eyed
beneath the whole family
of his creations
i woke up this morning with yesterday’s pleasure
the velvet of her arm still on my fingertips
and running across my lips, that old refrain
seal, otter, dolphin, deer, dolphin, otter, seal
her various new forms manifesting to mine, but
as i performed the waking rites touching
my own skin under running water with fingers
with the memories still present i remembered
the gestures preceding the union of these animal forms:
when kept alive from each other in fear and hunger
we wrote words into violent concepts at constant war
looping their arms all the way around embracing
secretly reaching out to stab each other in the back,
like this:
thing
thing anti thing
anti anti anti thing, anti
anti anti thing, anti anti anti
anti thing anti thing not
not no not
no no
thing
see how it was perfectly anti septic,
a perfectly closed loop hosting everything
and its opposite, missing only the forbidden
missing only everything, we denied our selves
1
Light catches the obscure quiver of Everysomething,
illuminating vital organs as they frolic inside,
lightly reflecting his movements back to the masses.
.
Your veins parallel his,
pumping parallel blood,
to parallel tempos.
Barren beneaths co-exist to the flow of parallel rhythm,
his rhythm familiar as it beats in unison with yours.
Solitary and uncertain Everysomething sings his song in you.
A synchronized existence, synchronized moments,
collapse in the painful juncture of familiarity.
.
11
Malleable flesh cradles Everysomething’s science,
keeping him whole as the masses distort his figure,
as they make him perverse in an attempt to fit themselves inside of him.
Each man tears at Everysomething’s flesh,
seduced by their own notions of what it was,
of what it is,
of what it means.
.
111
Masses rot in waters of common.
Cradling vulnerability until it dissipates,
breathing easy in assumed waters of self,
assumed waters of meaning.
move it,
play with it,
put the water where you need it to be.
They pour it over Everysomething,
drown his salty skin in it,
attack him with the belief it means something,
with the belief they’re not the same.
.
1111
Frightening familiarity of the unknown pulses inside,
Everysomething, they call him.
Everynothing is his name.
for example:
at 12 midnight the sprinklers in the park
came to life, just as i was passing,
not watching where i was going, as my eyes were turned up
to the southeast tracking venus in her mid-night rising.
i checked my phone to verify the time, to prove to myself
that this world and its men are ruled by time.
it was midnight alright when they started spraying
and that hiss hit my eardrums and zinged my spinning mind.
in suddenness it showed me i was not in that time or that place,
that only my ghost could hear the sound and read the clocks.
in that moment it seemed that my ghost and you might be
in the same world at the same time and suddenly i learned
that the clock on my phone is a communicator,
that instantaneous communication is actually time travel.
and in your world of time, the rising of the sprinklers
instantly conjured every other moment we shared,
and we shared them all again, in reverse: in the moment
before, you paid the bartender using bills folded twice.
and before, you stood with your three girlfriends on the corner
of an outdoor mall after the stores were closed, but
you have already forgotten that i passed by. you never knew
it was me though the chain of my bicycle fluttered its oily links.
and before, sitting on his lap on the train, you kissed him loudly
while i sat observant, facing away, not actually thoughtful,
and out the window, i saw that 7 of the 9 second-story lofts
had been sold. but only one of the first floor lofts.
and before, i observed that the furniture in the waiting area
was massive and so real in its corduroy slipcovers.
and next to that couch, the bricks were also real, painted
in countless layers, now mostly pink but still scabby.
but next door one of the windows had been kicked in
and i felt the presence of sleeping people in the darkness.
before, i had been scared of the statue of two little girls playing
it seemed out of place on the square at almost midnight. and then
i was jarred by my connection to the lifeless, to the immortal
to all that is cast in bronze and whose patina is factory sealed.
so walking at midnight i am finally forced to admit that this poetry
is the only work i’ve felt i could actually do in the past 5 years,
that i have no power in your world except to notice and to feel
and to grind the richness of that experience into dust, into this.
at first, this seemed hopeless. but then i reframed it like this:
alone, i savor a beautiful life and leave a record of experience.
it could be worse. i could have ignored everything indefinitely
and stayed put in two places at once, fading, haunting both.
hey.
you’re not screwed up.
even though when you try to tell
like you have
after you’ve tried not to
it hurts a little
and it’s confusing
like you knew it would be
but it still helps.
in my most recent studies
i’ve discovered that
when we are the most honest
and the most willing
to let the others see
deep into our
pure, mediocre, normal humanity
it always sounds worse
and it is.
so thanks.
for not denying me,
for inviting me in
to see you in those moments
where you’re sure that
the magic in you isn’t present
even if there isn’t any choice in it,
thanks for falling.
i don’t blame you
and i’m still saying yes
while i can’t possibly imagine
the world there is
to be said yes to
until you show me
where it is
while you’re finding it.
maybe it’s stupid to try.
maybe in this space
we’ve finally found some escape
from that suffering
from that kind of trying
and maybe we’ve earned it
maybe we’ve won
the big prize
and we should just accept it
and reap the benefits
and plunge into this space
body mind and soul
and forget about all the other
s
it’s a sin to think that?
i’ve been programmed to think
the only righteous action
is to engage in mighty battle
with the others, to do everything
anything to keep them close
while working all the while
to maintain the belief
–to increase the belief–
that we can’t be close
even as we draw ever closer!
to try believing
that letting ourselves
actually have this,
each other, actually
we would end up
fighting the same battles
we fight with the others
amongst ourselves
that we would end up others to each other.
that in the intoxicating communion
in the luxury of having
in finally be-ing in the same world
with an other
we’d eventually learn
to take it all for granted
to forget times were ever otherwise
to forget that these spaces were once empty
to forget the gestures that say yes
while letting those quiet no’s
that seem so inevitable
right now
–the resignation–
slip into the daily
routines and concerns
eventually saying no to ourselves
to one of our selves
then to each other
and turning a little bitter
and turning the gaze away
and sitting in silence not communing
and fighting about the price of food
and weekend plans
and ignoring the changes
and sowing our wild oats
and settling down
and deciding
and “growing apart”
and seeking the other
presences
again
and again
morally we’re supposed to believe
that would happen to us.
we’re supposed to be afraid
of each other
even with all we’ve done
to say yes.
 | Gryff Grigorovich on I want to be a silentist |
 | sadunkal on I want to be a silentist |
| Gryff Grigorovich on discipline |
| Gryff Grigorovich on the principles of chance (afte… |
 | Joann Hertz on reaching |
