I almost drowned / I wanted to drown

as i was tumbling,

rumbling through the thick winter

water, whether

by intensity or curiosity or chance

and in this way,

still and still–

in immobile rotation

i lay vanished

from sense, air, 

or gravity excused

contrasted twitch

made me swim ungracefully

to hold on water under water

in the frail hand 
 hand of my heart's content

but as i grasped

–the silence all around–

my motion came to an improbable

surprise

all was water

all was white and gray

and longing for skies and swimming for 

air

i touched sand.

Spark Plugs –two–

my eyes can't look at you
in any other way
Ben Bridwell

nür nicht.
Erich Fried

Spark Plugs –one–

maybe not nothing
without [...]
but not much [...] else, either.
erich fried

I don't think I will sing
any more just now;
ever. I must start
to sit with a blind brow [...]
john berryman

defiance |diˈfīəns|
noun
open resistance; bold disobedience: he proceeded in defiance of official warnings.

from top to bottom

black-pause-black
then it's white hues over non-piano red
a bay of oliveish cloudy pink
and an arch of cotton black
down to where it's imagination pitch dark
yellow for slaps
lovely tip toe round and light red tread again.

you know you're really lost when you don't actually remember where you started from and where else you should look for an exit. nor do you care.

An Unflagged Airman Foresees His Death

I know my eyes shall be filled at last
by flames; and my nostrils
heavy with smoke, as weight will make
its course–bringing me down.

What crosses my path I may destroy
but those that I fear are those afraid themselves,
immaterial, glowing, floating and bloating.

I will now state my intentions,
because nothing made me flare my engines
or flee from fight: nor the semblance of death,
nor the delusion of victory;
nothing made my mind clearer as those same apparitions.

Time will take heed of its difficult task
of flashing in between the cloudy routes
to either remember the reminded or to save us from
our own redundant ghosts.

a word

i guess there is some kind of dualism
between the perception and the perceived
between the bettor and the post.

in that way, it's only small stuff that holds our name
that simulates us the way we simulate ourselves.
it's only arrivals and departures
split seconds that hinge
the huge doors of our lives.

the little remonstrances
like: "you're not coming home again", or,
"you never got to say".

sway fragments of information on how to fill that initial gap;
playful squirms of backwardness,
they work in tunnels ahead of our thoughts
so we may then call them zero points.

more puzzle pieces of what to find
behind the corners.
arrays of blue, chemical fading and time.
tired eyes of tired days
limbs heavy with inconsistencies,
and seven year long years.

and finally we collect what we sowed:
independent of fallow land,
dry spells, barren soil and unmerciful weather.

a crop that's neither edible, nor venomous
the gap between what's credible and what's not.
in one word, trust.

a somewhat novice peddler at the county fair

"there's always something to learn,
when around for the first time.
there's always someone to scare
when looking to make a dime"

"so you go from dusk to dawn till dusk again
and lose the midday time with singing wrens"

"but you need to learn to howl before you bark"
"but you need to learn to walk before you run"
"but you need to learn to sail before you sink"

and so the wheel turns on and on
and even if the bends will shield no hit
you have ideas how to cover, bow or sit
samely to sell hack, cow, or tit.

"but you need to learn to read before you write"
"and you need to learn to write before you rhyme"
"you need to learn to read before you write"

because if it's not one then it's another,
when the main topic is "the minutes passing".
the minutes similarly pass, they're strangely different in a different way
and i have the feeling, you don't want to correct their skew.

"so why don't you learn to wake, before you sleep, dear?"
"why don't you learn to help before you save?
"and how can you sing before you cry?

written for Z.D.

neither of these hands will do

truth be told. i can't do this.
i start from the right, the hidden side, and scratch the paper slowly arching the line towards your silent breath.
but i start again.
so i begin with the left, where little light contrasts ruby with white, soft skin. but then i realize that it's all too fictitious, it does not conform to what i have seen.

the top–way too hard. the pencil stops the minute i lay it down and i sway further away with every inch of graphite. you float every word; you say is luck, repetition and newness.

it leaves me
with the bottom. but neither of these hands will do.
but all i can do is wait for a time when i'll be close enough to mimic it with my lips.

written for Z.D.

Fragments from a long overdue drink run

after little introductions
of bark wood and night salt air
it hit me. fragments from a long overdue drink run.

"i guess this wouldn't be convenient"
"no, but mistakes are what i do best"

it all came down like an asphalt overture
"tell me more, stop being you"
"it's because of intense [...]"

last things are remembered. first happenings are etched into your mind.
red lips with hair pressing hard on previous nights
i could still draw them, and it still hurts to know to have been there.

"i like you just one bit"
"it's ok, because i can put in the rest of it for both of us".

but i couldn't have sung that song. too soon, too much.

written for Z.D.

arrivals, departures, strange weather and marine birds.

pushing slowly, unsteadily and off-key
to get rid of a wanted surprise
that vanished as it came

taking heed from coincidences:
arrivals, departures, strange weather and marine birds.

maybe it'll all make sense one day
it'll all come easy, as to say
"we stuck at open sea
never could get out easy
of easy deeds"

but for now it just feels
as one lonely day conceals
another more rigid
winter hymn

written for Z.D.