I AM TALKING TO YOU

I know where

we are heading. It

is hard to say it, 

I can’t remember

for what we inverted

the incentives,

the ground vectors

that are there ever

since the foundation of kittens

and the retro-

spectives, the imperceptible

gift begins to succeed.

Don’t go because I’m

here, go because you

want to, every

moment that is present 

for a hint of a future

every possible fracas

alleyways and cycles filaments 

unite and enwind

and you having

the trunks open like 

that you choose the

feathers over a new

world, for a tongue-in-cheek

designation, for

the system of short spans

of attention, I’m just

starting, I thought

as we go on to care

about the weather on your

coast, the relativity

of a something-ness 

quite difficult to gasp you

excelled in learning, despite

the backlashes of an argument.

This is the oyster, take me

there, take me to the zig-zag and 

the pontoon, acres of

entropy crossing over 

the spontaneous

regions, rid of a why,

what is more important.

you press it into your

chest, feeling your metal

inside gaining an

elasticity, the sediments

fall another way in

another country, without 

passaging into the counter-

intuitive. Into a quiet

depth. The pronouns before

no prior trace to a fourth

wall, the dreams in which people 

share your defense, live

for a clue, I can’t remember

the mist in Massachusetts

taking you in as

you claim, into a source,

a hemmed idea,

is that what you would have

wanted, the day

never to come, you wish

this place can be taller,

I’m with you. The opacity

of what was a butterfly

or a motive flares into

action, this is the clatter

of everything, a bough

beckons you, I’m here.

The borders cannot do

this, the screen

behind you dislikes your

slackening, intents 

gratified with a little sense,

can that happen elsewhere,

I want to know 

how simple would it be,

the seismograph

the lights at the bay, 

you are their movement steering

into the surmounted, auto-

inferential in your objectivity,

I do use the pebbles

that you sent me, the devices

I fail to understand, 

left like a field and its

simulations. The diversion

and functionalism in

the form of a blanket, in

some general didactics.

It is your story, your domestic

message, your where

and your to-go, the

burdened evenings of

patience and 

you mean it flew into

iconic remarks the celebrity

whom I linger on

the touchdown, the un-startled

on principle having them

respond to our being, trying

to outthink them, finding

a scarf on your neck and others

that my partings are not

close to, the frugality 

you are adopting the agenda

that leads you to it,

tell me something. How come

the occurrence is like that,

addicted to the next round, the

morninglight has its 

stream. The reminder that

is even before the BC,

prodding you for 

the repercussion, for, which

to your surprise, a volume

that is highly graceful,

what would you say to it

when the agency leaps from

your prominence, between

these invasions of after-effect,

be there for the hybrid figuring

of space and time, a spark

lands on it. A violetear.

The apparatus of out-of-control,

the panes and the owning

are still there, the influx and efflux

re-activating again but not yet

is your

beauty inevitable now &

eventually felt the murmurs,

the air whispers, Be well.

Lyric for a Distant Chronicle

As the poets talk about cataclysm,

I make smoked almonds

in the garden,

listening closely how

all I ever desire

might be killed off in

a quiet afternoon.

The goldfinch,

The pear tree and its vast white.

However mutilated the world is,

its face almost

a face. The extinction some

wish for the sooner arrival

of their wild wants.

Its shapliness dissolves in air,

in the spring breeze of Providence,

which must be

a material for the frantic mistakes

we risk getting this close

to knowledge, invisible

like a day. The formless limit

we let in our mind. 

Drawing water from the edge

of this village, in a long gown.

Don't take anything I say

too seriously. I’m here not at the right

time. The connection is

we are both beleaguered by

a crowd of various evenings.

Silhouetted, alone,

words with a lingering fragrance.

The rustlings and swirlings

of pearls against lotus flowers,

the grease of a past form and quota

or the foam of whole body

pressed against unambivalent pleasure

then, disappeared and forgotten.

Now the briefings to the one-sided

conversation open up

to be a wound: yes they are beautiful,

but where do I fit into the picture?

The mystery, we share it.

It is a habit we call communication.

And one morning you wake up

in my bed, in a pile of graynesses.

Praised, receiving the result of your prayers.

It was all nearly a dream.

Can anything ever be more than a blurred jpeg?

Can anything ever be more than its intention?

This dance of listening and braving

mirrored around the equal

obliteration. Get clothed and fix

a meal, wash the rice, crave to hold

your joys, engrave into many stones,

hurry the apologies, sing out loud the odes,

go fish with the silence, write winter recipes for

just yourself to keep.