SPOKEN WORD

Is there a name, for that dimple

that cradles the eye?
Is it, “thought-catcher”?

But my thoughts, don’t worry,

won’t amputate like an ice-pick.

It will only hurt, just a little,

like milk, stretching the ducts,

as baby takes his first suck.

I am the babe

and the milk 

and the blood,   

self-possessed,  

live wholly and crisp

and awake inside of you,

a current of singularity.

In there, we lead and follow.

In here?

In here,

we parlay with the spirit,

order and re-order

the plan to win that stare.

I hear it coming,

 and toss my head back,

and with all faith

and honor,

open my beak and screech,  

“Me first!

I am lovely, I will grow,

I will fly, I will hunt,

I will make.

Feed me!”

I already view

that desert clay

will start to weep,

and a landscape of glass

from rooting deep.

And then with two hands

you serve me risen bread,

salted of your sweat.

You see, this breed, can blend

from a menu of methods,

created monuments,

many newly made...

We, willing or not,

have already spawned, you see.

It can’t be undone.

I will advocate,

like a fertile goddess,

the born-now.  

Last shall be first!

I already know 

how I’ll be

indulging the pause

in between

(to be longer, already longest)

I don’t know about you,

but I’ll be hunting,

and I don’t really care

how I bag it, cause

I don’t really need the pelt,

only the liver, ravaged raw.

On a landscape

of milk and honey,

I’ll blaze,

leaving breadcrumbs,

although, I won’t be back,

just find another way.

The maps I make will hang

on the walls

of the ready-room

That frontier?

It will forever

be named for me,

that landmark that you scale

for the lookout.  

Yes, children, the war I start

will, someday, be won.

But I’ll be the first casualty.

In the meantime...

Here I am, in now, and

there are certain side-effects,

inevitable.

You see how I’m compelled?

I hear an intricate sound,

like latticework.

It tones, and every time,

freezes me, where I stand.

It turns my head.

Like an innocent child,

I think to myself,

“I must find its source”

But it’s coming

from everywhere...

A bystander

might just notice me,

tipping my head one way

and then the other,

trying to repeat the results.

The ringing in my head is

indeed, visible to them.  

While marveling

why I’m see-through,

I confirm that nothing has changed.

I’ve always looked a monster.

I’m broken,

Like the light,

On the prism of the morning.

I’m dropped sharp,  

Point to the center

of my spine...snapped…

My eyes are shrunken, cause,

you see, it’s still a shock.

Everyday, I’m yet hoping

the sun won’t rise.

Rode all night

on a vivid actuation,

over your brow,

down the bridge,

the slender side.

But linger in that spot,

“thought-catcher”,

where I imagine,

even think,

that I can smell your tears.

Now my eye is loose,

sweating like a glass of ice.

My tears fascinate,

but their scent?

It repels,  

You pull away,

narrow your eyes

and knit your brow...

Funny...

All those many times

and I still don’t know which

is that secret I don’t keep...

there are so many…

I’m sorry?

I lost track again?

I’ll try harder?

Question me all you want

I won’t know why.

Useless at the table,

look right, look left,

and count the minutes

until it ends.

You say I’m a stranger?

Well, you already know

more than I do.

And while you’re at

the knowing,

do you suppose

that you can tell me

how I might get home?

It seems that I was spawned

in nowhere

It is sure, I was spawned,  

But just as born, I was broken

Not a fault, un-fixed

but split,

splinters from a log,

fractured like the light,

through the prism

of the morning.