April 12, 2016

Early AM Yearning

Early AM YearningNothing remains to believe
except the possibility of belief—
lessening the definition of hope
into nothing more substantial
than bones and skin and
the terror of daybreak.

In the silence of the overnight,
the refrigerator's sudden buzzing
in a muted alarm, a warning cry
of omen and portent as I leap
from futon to coffee table to loveseat,
afraid of the ravenous piranhas
lurking beneath the surface
of the gray industrial carpeting.

I am tired
of proclamations of doom.

The damp cold is an uninvited guest
boring me with oft-repeated tales
of miseries more dire than my own.

My constant self-imposed solitude
has bewildered the boundaries
of the real and the actual,
like this snowy mountain peak
I hold in the palm of my hand.

While rainwater rushes down the slope
of my urban street transformed into falls,
the city lists, slumping alarmingly to the left,
jittering in a woozy double take.

Beautiful, glorious—I love you, Rosie—
the weather rolls in over the hills
like the foam frothed on a winter sea.

The true amazement:
that any madness intersects
with the obsessions of another,
that a common ground may
ever be reached. Yes,
I expect to be special,
but no preparation was possible
for the awestruck gape, the unique moment
of honest interpersonal surprise.

What do you believe in?
Don't leave me alone
adrift on this dinky dinghy,
riddling with constant curious inquiry,
believing there’s always more to believe.

The names of inks and archaic typefaces,
the word for the new feathers
on a molting mallard, progress
of geographical boundaries and canals
stretching the width of home states
into dead celebrities who may still be
kicking, details of unconsciously memorized
minutia must be taken on faith.

Gaps of knowledge demanding
specialized expertise—not only
can everything not be known,
there are always endless realms
of experiential information
to which I will never be exposed.

Inventing data in the trenches,
Canyons of hypothesized grout
flaking in the sunshine
like the sloughing amberized surface
of early miracle polymers.

I cannot ford these crevasses
with the achy stiff length of my body,
or devote my life's passions to creating
Gothic suspensions of stone or steel.

Creating a virtual analogue
to hypnotize the psyche into believing
in the level surface of the walking path
is derangement, an ignorance
of the possibility of scattered palm frond
underbrush and dusted branches
disguising a dug pit, footfalls
plunging onto befouled bungee sticks.

And yet the carpet is composed
of unnamable woven petroleum fibers
spun in a process I cannot describe.

Whispered answers suggest themselves,
wapiti, grafted seedless grapes, Marisa Tomei,
snippets of skimmed trivia
longing for an enzyme-protein connection
triggering a synthetic catalytic reaction
of what might momentarily stand as fact.

Another day has shimmered past
as today blurs to become tomorrow.

The collective scope of our project
is as generational as a cathedral.

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