as my energy
dwindles
down to a
sponge migration

/
the dogs
have abandoned
/this
/day

i have composed
myself
this day
from a set of
misunderstandings

i have
refined the
argument down
to a
toe

the complexity of the
other mourners faces
offered no refuge
until he found himself
-standing
-staring down at a
couch
where his grandmother
had sat
after the
last funeral

he remembered her
then
he found her in amongst
the old stories
and platitudes
withered
but still holding court
as another set of mourners
shuffled in and out

the man had
stood
taller than this before
and while
he
resisted the urge to
bow
he found
nonetheless
in the simplest
actions
/body movements
reflections of
the cringing/reflex

she turned to the
inspector
and started explaining
to him
about the fault she'd found
-the hairline fracture
subtle and delicate
almost imperceptible
almost nothing, really
I mean, to most people

but she didn't consider
herself
most people
and while she had
at first
bravely tried to
ignore the issue
-as the years went on
I mean look at it!
when you hold it up to
the light
/no, from the other side, silly
well it just
ran
the whole length
of the object
-it altered the lines
-it upset the balances
-it ruined
the total effect

as the inspector held it
up to the light
/just so
a gateway opened up
to him
the lines were spreading out
disturbing the
mechanisms
and he imagined them
reaching out further
-to the greater world

he saw the object
fall through its
purpose

the fragments
are frozen
as shards

the hours
are in therapy

and
the monsters
are retiring

everything is
worthwhile

all the smallest
details
all the complications
of movement
present opportunities
to dance
in unique rhythms

to find
silent
jubilation's

to express
abstract formulations
of gratitude

all responses
are hollowed out
in the aftermath

-this landscape
she said
-has become too
rich
in texture
to sustain us

small embers
of hope
and confidence
respond to the afternoon
breeze

unsettled
but still at
play

i am all that's
left over
from an encrusted earth

i am all that
remains
after the obliterated pages

i am a drifted
assemblage
of details

i am a tablecloth
stain
making its passage
along a terrible landscape

all sound is
reduced
down
to
a
murky
soup
of
battered aspirations

the stop-sign pulsates
with the evening
gradiants

it is
falling from grace
in the small
community
of whalers

it says:

the salt air
has encrusted
my eyelids
and
each time i bat them
in sleep
(or expressions
of humility)
they grow
heavier

I have come to accept
the salt as my
gentle ally
-softly guiding me
towards
the
/original
/state

a soap-star
with the Yahoo Serious
haircut
signals some kind
of new
reckoning

perhaps an
eyepatch
will restore
balance
to the universe

I push my toe
out
against the coldness
of space
and the
music of air
responds back
with a gentle
nudge

everyday
there is something
unique
and delicate
that is
/given up
/reveled
something small
and visceral
to be observed
and thankful for
something
to be held up to
the light
and squinted at
until it dissipates

the hours respond to
gentle prodding
casually stretching
out
towards the
horizon
gradients

he mapped
his future
out
in the tire
tread of
a dusty
road

but then the
rains came
and
washed this
future
clean

he had
no choice
but to
stop

tabula rasa

he wouldn't
sell pressure gauges
for a
living

he wouldn't
meet that
girl
who was
drunk and
wore a hat
too big
for her

he wouldn't
plunge his
arm in the
water
retrieving
a
watch lost
while
ice fishing

his car
keys
scrapping
against
ice

his nose
pressed
to the ground

and
he wouldn't
need
a haircut
every second
tuesday

listening
to his barber
tell stories about
The
Lebanon
and wondering
why he kept
returning

instead
he
stood
and watched
water
seep into
fence
posts

pale colors
becoming...

the woman
in the leopard
skin
coat
who
barely
see's over
her steering
wheel
cut
through
the
inside
lane

from the
disjointed
entrance
(grand in its
compromised
perspectives)
the ideal
method of navigation
is through
perforated
dance steps
we are all
guided by
stone
textures
underfoot
and it is
only
when the
soles
are rough
and raw
can we find
our way
home
when
legs
buckle
under
and knee's
crack
against
serrated
edges
does
perspective
find its
place/again