Foresight

There is an undeniable 

disturbance in the moment,

the very second

made known.

Clinging word on the tip

of intuition’s tongue,

hanging just out of reach

of those who seek it,

pivotal.

It’s a shadow that overtakes,

a towering, soundless giant,

that conquers any lasting joy,

and leaves hope fleeting.

I did not heed

the moment where I sought

an answer to a question that

I had not asked.

Is this real?

Individual perception in an 

abstract operator, that questions 

every waking moment

as if surreal.

Perhaps it is as

one suggested:

I am a dream,

but not the dreamer.

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Rabbit to the Stone Wall

Your arrangement of stone, 

still silent,

but today the silence is calming, 

and I must speak to you.

Listen, 

past the stonework

you’ve set in place.

You told me that she was not

worth my trust,

something seemed off. 

She kept invading your mind,

and it bothered you how

I drowned in her words,

revering her advice as if

it were divine.

I questioned the logic in plucking

the arrow from a moral compass,

more outraged at ideology

I thought I could not conceive.

That was the first step back,

to question.

Not long ago, she removed the veil,

eyes burning, features grotesque,

twisted my loyalty to her advantage,

lied to my face, and suspected me.

I spent four days in pain, appetite

missing from my routine, thoughts

constantly thrown 

back to those moments,

the reaction, 

words laced with honey and venom.

Her refutation stuck in my craw,

‘how could you ever think I would

do this?’

I declined such challenge to accuse, 

keeping your silence

as stalwart company.

In the end, the truth was used

only to weigh against,

but I knew exactly 

where I stood,

line drawn between us.

Complex Oedipus

Oh, how she held him in her arms,

tighter than he’d ever hoped.

Secrets pass between their lips, 

press together, parting,

hungry mouths that find each other

in the cloying, empty dark.

There were none closer in love,

unbreakable maternal bond bent,

breaking a social more,

morality, out of the question.

That touch he longed for as a child,

sent far away, and starved for love,

now attainable.

No wonder he shudders as

her fingertips caress his skin,

as she kisses his sweaty brow,

or wraps her arms around him in

such a way, he feels it makes up

for all those years without.

The question was never if he knew,

but whether or not

he wanted to see it.

He did not.

After Reading an E-mail from the Graduate Admissions Office

Sunny skies painted my horizon blue,

much more for rain and clouded

afternoons, in Summer,

until I learned solar waves do 

percolate through my heart, 

beating against

its cage, freeing me from heavy

thoughts, and careless self-imaging.

There were words written to me in

happy tones, congratulating,

like the long hour had passed,

the minute-hand moved toward the zenith

of its arc, and long, dissonant notes,

chiming from a belltower

that often set me with anxiety,

today are liberating.

I have been walking through the pages

of a well-known novel by Salinger,

soaking in the character he presented,

likeably unlikable, deviant in language,

antisocial, and realizing that

I’m never quite so alive as when I hold

a beaten paper-back between my palms,

and thumbs.

My study is writing, and writers

have infatuated me since I was old

enough to concentrate the words

into images, in the basement of

my grandparent’s house. I remember

being disturbed at an image that

King, one of my Grandma’s favorite

thrillers, painted in my mind

like blood upon the lily hand of

Lady MacBeth, unwashable for

all the running water, a spot on my brain.

I still see the cat, a beloved pet,

bringer of mystery, and magic,

strung up against that sign in my head.

I can still hear the words of the

protagonist

 in my head 

as if they were

spoken to me. 

I like the way that books displace me,

force me to interact, even when I am

scared or heartbroken, and stick in

me, like song-lyrics to a normal person.

It is in these moments, my study,

casually flipping the pages of something

well-known, and beloved, that

I feel loved.

Without Water

Be unmoved,
cold,

an angel in a graveyard

of a hamlet.

Don’t breathe emotion,

corrosive empathetic nature,

don’t react,

explosive anger, and outrage,

unacceptable.

Only live in the present moment,

stone.

There is no right and wrong,

scales cast aside

from Judgement’s civil torment,

tore Philosphy’s robes

until the fabric gave way.

Enlightenment,

in form of selfishness,

hedonism,

as a lifestyle:

they will not draw 

any lines,

with pens or swords,

immovable hands,

bent arrows.

They seek to absolve guilt

by ignoring it,

but are imperfect

in their practice, 

questioning water for its tides

pulled by a heavy moon.

Mersault knocked on the 

door of unhappiness

four times,

but they seek to find

a way in,

willing others to

take them there.

Woolf killed her angel,

I seek to do the same.

I will love, and hate,

and suffer, 

because it is natural

to me.

Burn

Melting into a windowsill, a candle

stuttered a flame, bowing,

and straightening, casting the room 

in frolicking shadows,

mimicking mischievous shapes,

sinister silhouettes.

He passively watched 

the shadows on the ceiling, 

sprawled in an empty bed:

no will to rouse from his place

to snuff the candle out.