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Distracted Driver

I’d given up that leg of the journey and made a left.
Back onto the road with the fence on the right,
rolling hills on every side. This road
cutting a line in the green.
Then you were there. And he was there,
but you were so intent on looking at the road,
chin in hands, elbows on knees, brow furrowed.
You couldn’t see. But I could see.
I pulled onto the shoulder. You were distracting
to this driver motoring along. I couldn’t understand
how you couldn’t see him sitting there
dangling his feet, enjoying the Spring breeze.
God, you were distracting. Even with furrowed brow
seeing your beauty was like finally relaxing into warm water
after the day or the week had me beaten to a pulp.
So I just rested in your gaze.
And returned the favour by pointing him out.
“There he is, right behind you. Looks like he’s been with you
a lot longer than you thought. (God, you’re gorgeous)
But, yeah, he’s here. You should chat. He looks a lot like love.”


There is a cave in a not so imaginary mountain,
and therein is a made bed.
The sheets never wrinkle or get old,
and the mattress forever holds its form.
There is no light there, no sun. No lamp.
There are no shadows dancing on walls.
There are no accoutrements.
It is bare.
And there I sat. Not a prison. A hiding place.
A space that afforded silence and solitude
While I lived in the chaos and confusion
and existed as the ghost of something great.
I have emerged but not yet stretched in the light.
My eyes are growing accustomed to the sun,
and my heart is full and my skin electrified with wonder
at what it means to no longer have to hide.


Was I numb when you touched me?
You ran your fingers along my skin.
My skin. Covering my head touching
my knees pressed to my chest.
Later your touch was cold.
I prayed to be numb.
I favoured the shape a fetus takes,
fearing I’d become still born.
My chrysalis became my coffin.
I was buried in your world
and no one mourned my passing.



Weary, tired, bedraggled he shuffles across the sand.
The grit scraping inside his torn shoes
is no more distraction than the wind tattered
clothes that cover his legs, feet, chest, hands.
Bloody feet. Cries exhausting lungs emptied into sky.
Tear ducts empty. Face, a desert floor dry, cracked.
Somewhere between anger and despair masks
a desperate attempt for this wanderer to remember why.
For so much has passed. Past. Joy. Sorrow. Love. Pain.
Hope. Only a whisper he hears from the shadows
waiting while he rests here. Wondering. Watching.
Fist on chin. Elbow on wrist. What will moving really gain?
The roots are dry. Reservoirs too deep to tap. Suns of light
have long since burned out. The only light here a lamp
swaying at his feet. Leaking oil. Staining sand. Painting a road
through the engulfing darkness for those who follow behind.


Collisions with immanent transcendence
burst the glass above. Assumptions shattered, raining. 
Looking up, only darkness descending.
Faith says wait; let fear begin its waning. 
Here he is born again, this womb – this darkness –
this desert into which he jumped or into which he was led
here he is birthed again and again and again
this place he rises from whence he was dead. 
Or was fruitless or was dying, or lying.
He is a tree given four more seasons
before the farmer brings the basket or the axe
when to him is returned a reason –
Shatter the ceilings, who once was a slave,
in this darkness a man who once had no name. 

Bleed into Monotony


An aerial view of the crowd shows me southwest of centre;
I can see myself, feel myself simultaneously
fading into the faces, any distinction unrendered
blurring into the normality of human-ness. 
Winds whip ’round the edges, through the chaos of bodies.
Wings carry away dreams filtering 
through Pheme’s sieve until reality is a single vision, 
the sound of a univocal droning melody. 
“In the mix” becomes a retired turn of phrase
when monotony becomes the air we breathe
when all I can see is all you can see
and same is the only color, anymore, that we bleed. 



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