Thursday, August 14, 2008


a subtle knife searching the air 
for invisible    words

smoothing over loose paragraphs
swollen sentences

the tip is infinite and sharp
that hilt a tight wrap of emotion intuition 

sever the space between resistance and pull-
forward to questiontruth 
this lusty want
to know more than present text can offer
even when the lines are thin and sheer
the shoulder is bare faced against this grind ruling thought and eyelids

split bones a splinter in the air under the window without blinds
a search--until--knife tip touch stumbles on ridged air--a pock invisible

hilt held tight wrist twist a subtle slice into noThing
without seeming sense -- letter by letter spills out of an invisible splice invisible space
no stitches -- just symbols running like blood pouring pools of shifting thought on dingy floors

to say order can be made of this mess--
placing hands under the quick leak words elongated and starving shaking quiverbreaths fever
fill up open palms
spilling over smooth edges as constant as the search that cut them into form

into shapes

1 comment:

makeshift said...

"to say order can be made of this mess . . ."

by cutting into, creating holes to bleed being, the body is no longer the solution - the meaning no longer the purpose

truth in the abstract more firm than the actual

occurance always from another angle

offers shape newly formed

fascinated by it all - the words fall together like a beautiful chance - "..without seeming sense"

words press on - means moment