fiction of reality CC
if i'm lucky i will catch it under early light
& combine it after it splinters under the impact of my grasp
(as crabs shells on shore through time)
& i'll bring it together with cardamom syrup.
mumbling with conviction for a construction that i'm wound taught to with twine
enigmatics slain under a pigmented stroke of citrine with sincere hope
only kissed lightly of naivety.
lamp glow wanes into a silver crescent before preparing for bed
yawns with a murmur
& slips into silk-stockings
& silver chain link (not even for the world)
held in a jasmine mist,
beneath a deep wool eve
as if it's a faith
& her name is Pereliese (a dream-vision siren) who sings in low caw
of quartz cliffs, the sharp squawks
of sea birds, & of waves that fray into foam
where briney canopies rise into thunder.
the jig we sweep our skirts round to,
where the twirl perpetuates itself.
& what on this good earth is without a spot?
the whisper-bruise on the fruit.
thread of woes strung through centuries.
the abstract ache.
it's even the ink underneath my fingernail.
what i didn't mind & the elementary nature of cruelness
once, my entirety leaked right out of my nostril
& rested as a warm thick petaled rose on the bridge
who sat next to the break & the bruise
& after getting comfortable,
they spoke amongst themselves of
the elementary nature of cruelness.
what's the good in holding sadness
ones' own sadness?
(like a dog keeping a pet of its own).
cold, & in a bloodless pale,
with stitches as a fashion
(too early for halloween but still worn as vogue)
decided on coffee
& paid in coins.
turns out it's cheaper than tea
& because drip & cigarettes are so easy to join at the hands.
the city tore the old bridge down a while back now
but the chill of the haunt hasn't left.
my mind isn't deleted into half-said nothings.
& it all holds true through time.
there is no game to play with sorrow.
as there is no chase.
the world will be ugly, wicked, deceiving even - as if it's childsplay.
& i don't know if getting better is the point.
i don't know the value in goodness.
that the nature
of ease, & absolute tender kindness is rich &
a much more slippery silk to hold than any sorrow.
i can invite the stubbornness of my fingers in the fight.
as i ran, the sun was glaring in a shocking lightness along the ice
but i didn't mind.
& that seemed like a change,
& really, that was all i wanted
& it's more than what i've had isn't it?
so maybe it's enough.
Al Jordan lives in Missoula, MT & works in a clothing boutique downtown. They are currently working on a body of work in reflection of four years of compiled journals following a roller skating accident which resulted in a traumatic brain injury. Their poetry is a means to regain a lost sense of self, joy, & catharsis.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.