Category Archives: inversions

Sunder

She knew that she wasn’t there to be herself. She was playing a role. Perhaps she just helped in some way. Perhaps she was the home base for journeys on which she was not invited. Perhaps she was only small. Perhaps she was the coffee table, sentient and dreaming. Something was off, just enough incongruity in the dialog and timing.

She’d argue, because she knew she was substantial, tangible. She knew. But there were solid terms of her appointment. Her words possessed a gravity that was made of hope and ideas of what could be, but were weak against the absolutes, the larger forces. When she’d break out, occasionally, she’d breathe, but eventually find her way back to that horrible equilibrium that was dancing delicately on pins of hunger and abstinence. Back to the same stage. So much for rearranging the furniture, rewriting the dialog in the next scene.

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Tracing

Having been so careful to
follow the connections
and trace the web
to its center,
the question sticking
to my finger tip,
in the end, holds no
answer I need to know.


Involuntary

I can read minds.

This is no carnival trick.
My veins run with
Enough gypsy blood to
Remember your thoughts.

That’s how it works.

I’ll latently feel your
Heartbeat, your rose water lips,
And your memories as if
I am vital with them.

I will become full of you.

I will mumble your words,
Know every truth and fabrication,
And I will slip, lose my hold,
Return to now, to me,

I will be different.


Frame

This frame doesn’t fit the image,

where the living oils penetrate deep into the scene,

imbibed directly through the taught canvas skin,

pulled through a thousand pores by an internal gravity,

tattoos in pigment and electric spark,

flowing through a million capillaries, thrumming,

performing mysterious alchemy in the depths within,

building motion in the surface trails of strokes across

the indigo sky, the sapphire sea, and

the golden knots adorning the purple cloth,

dark as midnight, of a sultan’s turban.

 

Still, like ill-fitting shoes, the frame is misplaced construction,

constriction chosen in an alien space, apart and irrevocable,

defining the rigid boundaries of this world,

giving nothing but distraction and discord to

the gathered gallery, the librarians, and the art collectors,

fixing the horizon at the edge, building a ceiling on heaven,

and stunting the arc of the breeze over the rye fields,

a shallow window, a cellular prison, a selfish governor,

that keeps the gravity from pulling you in

whole.