that which is; the pictorial

it is an inhalation.


i am without sway; nurture in the place of that other one.

i am coal blackened; i shall remain a figure of ill omen.

you are awakening from a dream of sickness; the table removed from our kitchen.

i am not the original table. you are not the pictorial tableness/tability/ of the historical.



we are the words on an old chimney. we no longer wish to be the colours we once knew.

celestial bodies (post the age of discovery)

and then you ask me if
i know how to make
a compass.

i close my eyes, wrap my locks into a tight braid and dive deep;

into the oblivion. into the unknown and the even lesser known than that we have been shown to map as true.

i have reached one thousand miles one hundred times over since 1300
and i am seeing seaweed in this bowl.

i have lost the needle i sold my tail for and they don't make corks like they used to.


and then you talk to me of the reversals and of (perchance) ten thousand years
and i imagine me
and you
moving around the
earth
in a mirrored synchronicity

colours on repeat (or- the first spring)

let's wake up in the middle of the night just to see if we can finally understand the tree.
see
if we can hear it growing;
witness its
inexplicably beautiful
spurts
right before
our eyes.

in the morning we will
prick our fingers
and seal our secret
with the red-red-red
of
our
beings.

notes from slovakia

it all
seemed
so important
at the time.

waves sweeping from side
to side
across
that vast
[thermos- flask] blue
ocean.

that
xylophone
on the sand;
with its colours so true that
the wooden
pieces seemed only
able to be a reflection
of the whole.

i read today that ancient mallets were made from
willow wood
and it made me see colours in a
purer light.

night vision

i can't see you anymore because you are standing behind the tree.
you are standing behind the tree and i can no longer see you.

i can't see you anymore because you seem to have crawled inside of said tree. all i can see are green leaves and branches that are twisted and haunting. you appear to be on the inside of this tree, (not even peering out) and due to this i can no longer see you.

i can't see you anymore because you have moved the tree out of its position (both in the land and in history) and are currently residing in the depths of the belly of the newly exposed muck. in the midst of such upheaval i can no longer see you.

i can't see you anymore because you have now infact become the tree. you are no longer even aware of human movements/ thought patterns / heart shatterings and in the absence of blood that this metamorphosis has created i can no longer see you.

i can't see you anymore because i have crawled inside of you. your bark blinds me and the sap of your growth makes me drowsy; like a young wolf cub that has cried herself to sleep.
goodnight. i can no longer see you.

wooden dreams

the seagull and the magpie each have their own versions of the events of that afternoon.
the magpie had loved the tree longest; his very essence was inextricably linked with the soil upon which the tree had set up home. the gull, on the other hand felt that it was all to do with bearings and angles; miles flown on the route they speak of crows flying. the tree marked x on a spot and he would not be upping ship for a vagrant. the magpie requested that the gull not blacken their shared discussion by using words relating to water while they were debating land issues. the gull then advised that him mentioning a ship was actually a form of praise to the tree they were perched upon; given its role in the creation of these grand and beautiful sea faring objects. either way, at this very moment in time neither of the winged debaters would be giving up his throne upon the tree in question.

the tree looked upon the beaded eyes of both parties and sighed; an inhalation both deep and melancholy. she wondered how it would feel to fall asleep and never, ever awaken.