still is the written word

Tag: poetry

I’m sick with time

I'm sick with time
dragged over jagged rocks, the current
leaving bits of me on the shore

this time this quanta this bit before the other bit
one by one an unyielding chain
forcing the gears of my undoing
fragrant as a house fire
billowing into the light of the sunset

part of me is there
the rest of me is here, stretched taught,
the veils of time fall year after year,
invisible snowfall
blanket of no return

eyes in all heads, to be looked out of

off the coast of Japan
she put her hand upon my back
unfettered, she sd
unfettered.
 
the mountains roll to the North, wearing the clouds,
and I come to the geography of it, the
biology of my place my city
      (and I wonder)
where and when and why, and
the city spread out beneath the sky
      (where we went wrong)
 
 
the mind mirror gasps at complexity, seeks out
those exquisite minutiae that mean food shelter or replication
how terrifying when the mirror met its match
when
the two mirrors facing each other, exploding
down into one another
as the mind turned round and saw itself
 
this is what it means to be sapiens
 
 
 
I'm a poet.
I've no time to argue the necessity of empirical observation.
my obsession are the liminal lifelights
when we stopped thinking mammal
started singing God.
 
      the particular path to revelation is without meaning
      the journey is all
               readiness
 
 
So I come back to my city, my geography
off the coast of Japan
Place is my home.
Burrard comes up, splitting the city
and the diesel tankers glide between the lions,
gorging their bellies on wheat.
 
Hometown, even
my bones know it—
like an old lover
new and familiar, always
 
 
still it comes back to her word
unfettered.
Trapped in the explosion of mirrors
 
self-awareness is.
 
 
Beyond the traffic of it, beyond
the honking whining bitching
in the heat
Downtown, there is Place
beside the concrete courthouse,
to reflect
 
the Buddha sits with right hand on left
all others opposite
because the right is the hand of action, must be still
      here's something
 
we know here, off the coast of Japan,
the penalty of action.
we know it more ways than I have words to write them
 
it remains then, to live
left-handed.
 
 
* * *
 
 
Dr. Maud sd
'no-one wants to learn any longer, for the sake of it'
I leaned across the table, sd
'I do'
 
the consequences are, of course,
enormous
to commit is to dig your feet in, not be
budged.
 
Escape? go ask the bean sandwich
Prozac possibility delights not me
no, nor woman neither; though, by your smiling...
 
      The trap is not that we have problems
      but that we have problems that we have problems
 
      off the coast of Japan
      only a small step to India
      the mirrors' echo:
      BAOUM BAOUM
      repeat ad nauseam
 
it is not to solve problems but leave them
o my people!
those caves would shout back silence
and with silence comes
peace with peace
bliss
 
this, my people,
is what it means to be God!
 
 
off the coast of Japan—my Hometown
she put her hand upon my shoulder, peace
she sd
bliss
unfettered
 
the lady, Orlando

yellow rose

a world that could have been
like the world of music lost in this broken dream of keys
time's veil falls gently every year
i can no longer remember your scent

all that remains is the wind swishing our rose tree
so here -- a yellow gift to your memory

In Flanders Fields, Inc.

In Flanders Fields, Inc the smelters glow
Between the access roads, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The carbon soot still deathly flies
Scarce noticed amid assembling weapons below.

We are the Rich. Short years ago
We inherited everything we know,
Profit and more profit, don’t care who dies
In Flanders Fields, Inc.

See our margins endless grow:
To you from wealthy hands we throw
Disdain; from our 1% on high.
If ye stop making our bombs that make people die
We shall not profit, though smelters glow
In Flanders Fields, Inc.

trauma

ghosts don't exist but hauntings are real, more real than this
reality, these
tears every day

relentless nothings, a voice
from an empty room
a scent in the shower
dream of a curve, the small of your back

or that lost sister, because i was so young
driving the coast highway with mom, till she pulled off
and we face the ocean
face… i'm too young to know what this is
i only remember the egg was hard-boiled
i would not eat it
spoiled little shit, now
she's gone

or Beth, the little redhead
like she was, fierce facing life
not the bloated monster the doctors made before her end

or father, that old bull
wanting your end so the struggle would cease
guilt spreading like a bloodstain
wanting, so watching the struggle would cease

or brother, my brother
Triumph Bay, 183 magnetic
fate an old Greek God, big and merciless as a
mountain
knocked you from the sky, a modern-day Icarus

or that terrified old lady begging for water
broke my back

"Are you thinking of hurting yourself" they ask
desperate mortal eyes, thinking:
maybe if we don't look at the monster in the closet
it won't see us

but seeing you is all it does
a schadenfreude Universe

"Of course" I answer,
every day is slow-speed torture
every night my lost love says "I love you"
my niece roars her laugh
sister makes the perfect egg
dad says something encouraging
brother, oh brother, soars into the sunset
and mom sips a glass of lemonade
each day, each night, each moment -- can't you see them?

ghosts don't exist but hauntings are real, more real than this

DNA

DNA

dnA And
possibility
first breath blown
fragile flesh bellows
verbs contracted in a puckered face
a line of empty bell graphs
whispering potential
smiles of happy progenitors and a little
apprehension

dNa aNd
everything else
a child’s cruel laugh behind the school and
spelling bees
curved thoughts Vs words
the clockwork tick-tocks a fate
ranges of bell curves must
curve the belly’s appetites
or violence
              dried blood the mouth

Dna anD
this straight wall
world lines like
p   b   k   d
r   a   e   e
i   r   c   a
s   s   o   t
o   l   l   h
n   i   d   t o a curved
double helix

so metim
espos
sibi lity
ca nbeap
rison

Snowbirds

Snowbirds

grace
on wings of white and red
over a sea of bemused consumptive pleasures

in the hot breeze
punctuated by coconut and iconic cola
the gentle grace of snowbirds
soothe my berate mind

how unlike the Angels, Blue
brute force and phallic hints of blue-blood violence
to titillate the bloodthirsty stirrings
at the base of our brains

these soft snowbirds
to take weapons of war
and make something beautiful
     this is poetry
with jet fuel and aesthetic smoke
     to reign Beauty over violence

and all of the steel
the pseudo-bombs and exclamations for violence
the Pride of our Engagements
over Saddam's sorry desert
     none of these things prepared me
     for this gift I would snatch
     from the steel jaws
     (a gentle pearl,

here, in Abbotsford
on the hot tarmac
amid the implicit violence
and excited semi-hard cocks
     sniffing for the scent of blood

here in this place
a space where peace may fall
from the sky

over a sea of bemused consumptive pleasures
on wings of white and red
grace

Snowbirds

i’ve been Angry

i've been Angry

my heart is nuclear reacting
radioactive fuel rods
ignite
my heavy-water blood

this keeps me alive, moving
this cold blue power
an artifice of heat

somewhere inside this concrete-skin fabrication
tiny atoms clash tirelessly
running on a soul's half-life

clutching radiation burns
(the perceptions of my engineered enemies)
squinting through the heat-shimmer of this intensity
at those who don't listen
screens of blood and black

through a concrete-framed window
my radioactive sun blushes welcome
home is where the (h)e(a)r(t)(e) is

how do i get out?

shrouded in this Isotope of Anger
my Hate 238

you'd better get back—
i think i'm reaching critical mass

© 2020 kim aaron