Alone, the gesture means nothing,
with no eye to see and no mind
to consider it, it is only the motion
of dust beyond the light of any
star, only the twitching of an eel’s
slick and hidden body in the labyrinth
of caves below the lake, where there
has never been sun and will never be,
unto the end of the world.
Alone, the gesture cannot signify,
when even the maker cannot say
with surety what it means, and
would not readily see that meaning
in others, but even motion disarticulated
from meaning has consequence, like
the mystery of the Catholic god’s
tripartite spirit, like the final, unheard
utterance below the gallows, like the
ominous gleam in a black bird’s eye
outside the window pane.
Alone, the gesture is a pressure wave
upon the liquid of these unshared
realities, these crowded individualisms
held hard against the soft flesh of the
belly as we all flail blindly in our own
labyrinthine cave, caught between
being devoid and overwhelmed,
between understanding and mysticism,
between the dueling singularities of
being born and dying.
A Haibun The sound of the hawk’s talons as they click against the cement floor is sharp and crisp. The raptor moves carefully, head duc...
We have been dreaming in unison but those dreams have fallen into disrepair, eaten away by the persistent rust of the many days here...
This ringing silence this house, once filled a place of voices now gone silent, a place that once echoed with the laughter of the...
Note: I taught a poetry class at Fyrecon this afternoon, and we did a few challenge poems during the participation segment of the class. Th...