Category Archives: still life

come find me where the light ends

Dripping cutouts in reference to the crystalline solid – and its specific arrangements –

Bulk batches of where the light ends –

Vibrant matter from one blue eye  –

Standing with the sun at sea level –

Yes, tell me all about it .

We’re back in the same four walls

 

We’re back in the same four walls

I speculate a mix of phalo blue, green shade, and white

true medium, cool

blue.

Even though the windows are

so small

our atmosphere is light and warm.

We’re supposed to meet again,

and finally move past hesitation,

but I can’t make my way back to your floor.

I don’t know why we left the room.

 

 

The Price of Death

Stoned from the middle eye

centered in a suspension of mercury

and sifting through dune darkness

the combustion as medium

hits a point of placid aquiescence

in the tornadic antigravity of

motionless space.

Under bathwater rain,

you hold back the river

with a bolt from the blue.

More than the altruistic levity of a wistful recline

we change and are changed

waiting for a resurfacing that cuts through the cyclone.

The burial used to commemorate them,

looks

at

through

and into,

still,

unobtrusive,

and cosmically undisturbed.

 

Tub of Colloidal Silver

It’s strange how only part of my body floats in the bath of water.

It’s as if my floating arms aren’t actually floating,

that,

this feeling is yet another mirage within a series of mirrored half truths,

refracted at the point–

where the water displaces the air and sinks to the bottom of the basin.

As if

because

my arm is still attached to my body,

the origin of free-floating buoyancy cannot be severed from the tipping point of it’s anchorage.

I know it is somewhere within the boundary of where my shoulder hits the bottom of the tub, and my elbow feels weightless.

But

because

only one piece of my body is floating,

I do not believe I am floating.

Sensing the capacity for colloidal buoyancy reflected within this incomplete gesture,

greedily,

I need my entire body to be both submerged and supported by something more dense than me.

Missing, Missing Persons

I’m waking up dizzy in an empty nauseous sort of way,

where the blood is flooding from my head to my stomach,

I know if I try to go swimming I’ll faint in the water.

There’s only so much blood pumping through these veins.

.

I haven’t cut my nails in a month and now they’re curling over my fingertips

but from straight on you can’t see the bowing.

I have claws for my own protection.

.

Sometimes I think I don’t breathe deeply enough

like the air I take in can’t fill out my lungs,

and I’ve only ever used them at maximum capacity when running for dear life away from you.

.

But as I come to the staggering point

right before I keel over,

I feel a sharp cramping

from most of the discrepancies

seen within interpersonal relationships-

of when to connect and disconnect,

how to gracefully miss the mark

of the absence in a missing

and barely feel the restless shuffling

right before falling

at the bridge of being your own person

101

Mirage, Drops, Lagoon

The far off stare in which my eyes can’t quite meet yours–

at the late night disco fever,

insensibly & unconsciously,

gives away my inability to grasp

the universal type of connection

within this individual phenomenon.

.

Surrounded by the changing gradients in light,

and the low rolling mist,

my indifference in conduct suggests

some evidence of design meant to

withstand these turbulent markers set in motion.

.

It stings.

The cloudless clime at midnight

illuminates the reflecting pool

with a vision of the moon,

galvanizing the atmosphere

with its waning pressure.

.

All of this can be seen

midway between a handful of universal truths

and the beauty of a mirage.

011

Buzz

After stepping out of a long shower,

the kind you take alone,

while everyone is out of the house,

and it’s dark since there are no lights on,

just so because

it’s even calmer that way,

there is succinct ringing buzz,

a humming heard at the break

between silence and the downpour,

at the threshold,

finally stepping past

the wet ground

to the cool ground

it’s the wafting sound of readjustment

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