A hot summer evening, hot enough
to lay my tireless, unending head
on the pillow for its coolness;
thunder cracking down
my avenue
and the rain slanting in sideways, wetting
the paisley curtains.
Somewhere out in that dark the pine
that surrounds me soaks.
These nights I am not climbing up
the roots of forgotten things,
I am not clawing
for something solid to breathe my air into,
the old familiar ache of
wanting to feel through my own skin so hard
that I push through like a broken bone
because I am here, in a
constant state
of awakening, sometimes only to another dream
only to wake up again
and I stand in the mirror across the room,
and the lightning
floods the black kitchen
and I see a flash of my eyes in the reflection
–my image, so alive that it’s white
heat snags the clouds in a jolt.
There is a calm that never seems to tire,
embedded in my veins, the blood flowing
and I wait
for my mind to revert towards the habits
of self negligence and fear
but I am a cyclical rhythm
that sustains itself
and I know a small part in me believes
that I have won something with
my own two hands and tampered mind
when I had had no hands to grip with–
a blind privacy and a last call out to the only thing left
my will
I had left for dead in the gutter, camouflaged in an alley
as elegant graffiti, crumbling brick, a broken phone booth–
the shards of glass scattered out across the pavement
and potholes–
“did you see the moon? in the pieces of glass?” my will asks me
“I wasn’t looking down,” I reply
“so then you looked up and saw the moon instead, love?” my will is relentless
“No, I tired of dreaming. Hold it up to my face, the glass, and see if I shake,”
My will smiles, “straight ahead then, love, beaten and brighter…”
And my daughter is asleep tucked away
in the corner of the house;
the coffee is off,
and the flowers I just planted
out in the window-box
are getting beaten but maybe brighter;
it is enough to have these nights.
We are not born with a religion in our mind.
We are not born with a narrative or a script.
Tell me you have the courage
to scrawl across your own body
the tattoo of your story,
and would you let someone read it?
*image Noell Oszvald
A hot summer evening, hot enough
to lay my tireless, unending head
on the pillow for its coolness;
thunder cracking down
my avenue
and the rain slanting in sideways, wetting
the paisley curtains.
Somewhere out in that dark the pine
that surrounds me soaks.
These nights I am not climbing up
the roots of forgotten things,
I am not clawing
for something solid to breathe my air into,
the old familiar ache of
wanting to feel through my own skin so hard
that I push through like a broken bone
because I am here, in a
constant state
of awakening, sometimes only to another dream
only to wake up again
and I stand in the mirror across the room,
and the lightning
floods the black kitchen
and I see a flash of my eyes in the reflection
–my image, so alive that it’s white
heat snags the clouds in a jolt.
There is a calm that never seems to tire,
embedded in my veins, the blood flowing
and I wait
for my mind to revert towards the habits
of self negligence and fear
but I am a cyclical rhythm
that sustains itself
and I know a small part in me believes
that I have won something with
my own two hands and tampered mind
when I had had no hands to grip with–
a blind privacy and a last call out to the only thing left
my will
I had left for dead in the gutter, camouflaged in an alley
as elegant graffiti, crumbling brick, a broken phone booth–
the shards of glass scattered out across the pavement
and potholes–
“did you see the moon? in the pieces of glass?” my will asks me
“I wasn’t looking down,” I reply
“so then you looked up and saw the moon instead, love?” my will is relentless
“No, I tired of dreaming. Hold it up to my face, the glass, and see if I shake,”
My will smiles, “straight ahead then, love, beaten and brighter…”
And my daughter is asleep tucked away
in the corner of the house;
the coffee is off,
and the flowers I just planted
out in the window-box
are getting beaten but maybe brighter;
it is enough to have these nights.
We are not born with a religion in our mind.
We are not born with a narrative or a script.
Tell me you have the courage
to scrawl across your own body
the tattoo of your story,
and would you let someone read it?
A hot summer evening, hot enough
to lay my tireless, unending head
on the pillow for its coolness;
thunder cracking down
my avenue
and the rain slanting in sideways, wetting
the paisley curtains.
Somewhere out in that dark the pine
that surrounds me soaks.
These nights I am not climbing up
the roots of forgotten things,
I am not clawing
for something solid to breathe my air into,
the old familiar ache of
wanting to feel through my own skin so hard
that I push through like a broken bone
because I am here, in a
constant state
of awakening, sometimes only to another dream
only to wake up again
and I stand in the mirror across the room,
and the lightning
floods the black kitchen
and I see a flash of my eyes in the reflection
–my image, so alive that it’s white
heat snags the clouds in a jolt.
There is a calm that never seems to tire,
embedded in my veins, the blood flowing
and I wait
for my mind to revert towards the habits
of self negligence and fear
but I am a cyclical rhythm
that sustains itself
and I know a small part in me believes
that I have won something with
my own two hands and tampered mind
when I had had no hands to grip with–
a blind privacy and a last call out to the only thing left
my will
I had left for dead in the gutter, camouflaged in an alley
as elegant graffiti, crumbling brick, a broken phone booth–
the shards of glass scattered out across the pavement
and potholes–
“did you see the moon? in the pieces of glass?” my will asks me
“I wasn’t looking down,” I reply
“so then you looked up and saw the moon instead, love?” my will is relentless
“No, I tired of dreaming. Hold it up to my face, the glass, and see if I shake,”
My will smiles, “straight ahead then, love, beaten and brighter…”
And my daughter is asleep tucked away
in the corner of the house;
the coffee is off,
and the flowers I just planted
out in the window-box
are getting beaten but maybe brighter;
it is enough to have these nights.
We are not born with a religion in our mind.
We are not born with a narrative or a script.
Tell me you have the courage
to scrawl across your own body
the tattoo of your story,
and would you let someone read it?
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Difficult Degrees 