WATER-CRUMB PATIENCE

some trains
aren’t made of metal
a prison ends at sinking horizons

windows tilted and light at an angle
the world resumes a posture as it fuses to enlist
itself as the shadow that shapes the wall

behind me

*

and I’m not afraid to lose
a little sleep over
this hill of darkness

as it crawls up the spine
and ballroom dances the brain
with a little cochlea as a stranger

these people in here
are not strangers, they
gather their flowers and burry
their hair

beneath moon-light even
when the moon has disappeared
from skin and all its

appearances

*

slingshot this
through a hole in the
spot that cannot be

named

nor reveled by an apprehension of space
it conceals a room

only few can enter
few can mention the artifact of sound

the wall
responds

and when we enter
there is a chair
please sit down

and find your face a mirror

*

this message wasn’t given to me
I over saw it
staring up
from the marble surface of clouds

the words read a story back to a story-maker
who wrote the words down from where he heard it

it is unknown

except in the missing link behind the corner
swarm of bees

that prowls the arms of the chair
next to the neighbor, groaning and moaning

a broken record player, thunder
in the distance, the tea kettle

won’t stop antiquated resurrection extrapolations of a wands’ touch
upon the floorboards and those

those my friend are crumbs
for spiders

*

one eye socket open among both
there a sunrise within it an eagle

flies across the cataracts conceals a
fly in a jar made of Plexiglas-jaguars

tell anyone about this
and your lips becomes the seal of the container

*

rivers nourish every second they
pound the shores of an unopened fist
until finally

the fingers of the water release and
sand flutters across the winds of the
tidal-face

crab strutting from tongue release
a harpoon

punctures the side of a minute
it took this much time for a drink to fountain

plowing the confines of its molecular
scaffolds with buds for tasting
a hundred and one talking leaves

whisper a whittle into an alcove where
a foreigner sits
knitting a cockroach-handkerchief with his thumb-nail
as the needle

the sounds of which is a bough
floating over a pond in mid-may while its gently raining

*

I live in a house with another I am not supposed to talk about. If I do I may lose everything. But I have to attempt, I have to make an attempt at this…or…or I don’t know, but I can’t stand holding it in any longer.

This other, that I am not supposed to talk about whatsoever, is hidden within the confines of a locket held between the cleavage of a statue in America holding a torch with a flame she carries, and wears a crown, and a cloak that drags over the ground.

No one ever knew she was wearing a locket. It is beneath her gown.

Within the locket lies a hidden secret, a secret so dark, not even the brightest day of the sun’s light could penetrate through the heaviness of it. For behind such thick, dark, is a room, a many-sided room. Not like a room with four walls in a typical suburban house, but a room made of 8 walls, as inseparable from its 8 sides.

It is a many-cornered room. And within this many-cornered room is a wool chair in which, this person I am not allowed to talk about, sits, as if he were the shadow that encases his body—as if he were the shadow of the room that encases the room—as if he were the room and the room’s secrets and the secrets of the room’s whisper, as if…as if…he were the whisper of the room itself enshrouded in darkness—and

we can’t see him, no, we can’t—it indeed is, for all we know, simply a shadow sitting in a chair, a wool chair covered in shadow—and this wool chair covered in shadow is too a shadow of the shadow it is enshrouded in—and

if we get close to it, we may desire to rest beneath the shadow like a shade, where we may sit beneath the shadow and relax.

It was warm outside becoming hot, it took more than anyone could ever imagine to get inside, and we’re tired—it’s time to sit and relax in the shade and wait—wait for someone to come and tell us the news that the ghosts possessing the bodies of the people outside—driving them to relentlessly leach from the veins of consumption—have finally
moved on

waiting to hear of this news and no other—waiting to hear the news, that people have given up their ghosts and the ghosts of the people have moved on—and that now we’re safe.

But for the moment, I’m tired, and I must rest in the shade of the shadow of this room in the house of a person I am not supposed to talk about.

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