The Absence of Wavelength

Compelled, and yet…

I’m sharing, unedited, fresh off the hot mess…

Um

These Skitterings, Mid-Summer

Today the knife was dull, again.
No blade could ply veins rich with iron —
but where steel flows, it does not form.
It seems wet as thick mercury that knows heat —
yet, what lingers inside simmers in colors yet to bleed,
should they hue the bright-lit, mead walls of anonymity.

Something sharp does prick about, like a bored child
with brittle knowledge of a dead, sere stick tempting my mold.
I have been idle life long, past hearing horizon’s thunder call.
I cannot forestall, nor tell what it has wrought —
nor through these seasons what it should bring.

I consider four walls from a sagged recliner, bending straight
a pale form that does not witness the ceiling in ascent,
as eyes fill from imagination-seizures’ mindless skittering.

Leaves could fall tomorrow and I would not doubt to question
this is Autumn, in equinox tumble of dislodged reverie.

Time wheeling past, barely anchors dewed frost —
can laugh, as age-bones could ache, without a meditate
of curvatures narrowing knives’ vigilant gaze —
graphite never flips to orange-rubber-rubble scene,
dust a white, with red and blue angled lot, before…

another thought cranial-crashes my windowless scene —
and how long has it been, with…No! coffee cold? and breakfast…?
I have been ‘low this roof thirty-three days continuous.
When, what have I ate? What chores…fall was here, right?
Or, does summer idle outdoors and not in distant memory?

Where have I been that I have not yet seen a crab tree,
fragrant pink inhaled, barely clinging as buttons
upon a green cloak disguising a stunted, hunched man.

Oh, breezes gently again serve natural reverie
to ease, rise up, reheat mud cup, sip, consider
sun-shunned hues barely dappling a pale paint
and one lone pate, now engaging the wood arm, low.

Lift my dead wood to gravitate with bird wonder
of what blood spills, in sanguine splendor each day that
a sunrise fails meet rumination tomorrow,
every tomorrow. I’ve got time; let’s not waste.


6.12.25
37 lines of vers libre, punctuation in whatever morn.

I don’t know what this is, and yet I know what it isn’t.
What need to care? Why the bard speak?
Again…

She no longer witnesses. One month and two weeks to thirty.
I can’t tell time anymore.
It tells me.

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