a little mortality music

drip drip drip
cells escape
flying over their aerial tricks
of sonic dulce
adagio, legato...hidden beneath
sudden hits
the pulse
that no longer sparks in my
just phantom limbs twitching
if i could turn the corners of my
eyes upwards,
fill impossible vales, crevices
with good humour
---ah but there's always
beauty een in the shadows and cracks---
what i cannot face settles in
the pit of my stomach as home and hearth
here. here. here. here. here.
5 steps more
the heart stops
she learned that move in the mountains over blistered fingers
she -- heroine of cinema alone
in a box in a box in a box
projected on a 2 dimensional box
geometry confounds
the architecture of my soul
seems limited by the skeleton
it cannot imagine as my breath
what age was she when
the cells rained down in
cantankerous form?
are we there yet?
possessed of pen
of heart
of mind
of breath
where is the spark, the phantom limb
the small voice
"it is because you are a small
you are useful.
how do you know?
how does a heart break from
so much love, from the
surrounding of potential
deaths in the bodies of
beautiful life. there goes another
like hummingbirds, they don't
hover, linger without stopping
"stand still!" I can't say it
unless I am standing on a chair
wearing the suit of the love
of my life
(and it must be a metal folding
chair, red and black and slightly

drip drip drip
music peters out, the ears might
not discern flight anymore
the eyes might not make out
the smoke until it's too late.
what do you and you and i do then?
hold on to each other
like hummingbirds
like super novaic collisions of
geese in snow flapping over
Manhattan -- or maybe it's
Brooklyn --
like the hardedged line of fog
beneath the bridge
that is the end of this known

where too many types of rocks
have funnelled into one
another and mountains are made
to slide to their twins beneath
the ocean.

if i could just breathe that air
forever -- or even for a couple
of weeks
i might close my eyes
without a tear --

(june 17, 2010)


Popular posts from this blog

Peter Chin: Cultivating a global view, building a dance centre

Adeene Denton: Astrohumanist

New York/Toronto Project: Jeanine Durning in her own precise words