In the wilderness of mirrors,
light unravels, names forget themselves,
ghosts slither between shards.
her maundering gaze ~ branches bleeding black~
finds the noir stitched in afterimages.
every reflection a fracture,
fault lines singing under her skin.
she enters her body ~ narrow , widening, monochroming ~ a hush, a hurricane.
we cradle broken glass,
drink the mirage,
offer our hearts to the hollow.
a crack, a glimmer ~ something bright leaks through.
in the wilderness of mirrors,
we are stitched into myth,
breathing silver and smoke.
our names fall away like old skin,
and what is left~ shines without needing to be whole.
and we vanish,
soft as light.
INTERACTIVITY
a
delicate
balance
intuitively
composed
in
residual
afterimages
eradicated
in
procedural
provocative
opportunity
&
inherently
possibilities
with
immediate
access
once
discredited
upon
a
putative
horizon
nonetheless
attractive
&
tangentially
affiliated
Consciousness filled me.
The dream evaporated from my eyes,
Leaving behind an afterimage of nonsense.
Soon after,
I found control of my limbs;
Wiggling my toes
This way and that.
I stretched my legs as wide as I could.
And that’s when I hit it .
My naked calf brushed
Ever so slightly upon the
Hard
Dead
Creases of
Flesh.
All of a sudden –
I hear exhales unlike my own.
Icy stabs like a harsh, dry rain
Pinching the hairs on my chin, erect.
Faster and faster
The essence escaping my lungs
Climbs through
Muck and gloom
To become another’s oxygen.
A gritty smile
Scrapes against my thin eyelids,
Bundled shut-
Afterimages melding with creeping shadows.
.
“That-
“That nonsense. It was not a dream…”
“It wasn’t.”
time
distortions of memory
tricks played out
of things thought but not
old photos tell stranger tales
of two dimensional places
of younger eyes
and tender faces
8mm and slideshows
or lockets clasp'd
kodachrome and sepia
and oh! there's a cameo hidden
in the back of grandfather's pocketwatch
(it isn't grandmother and her name sounds French!)
but they're hollow records
of voices, laughter, or
the way someone walks
as unique as snowflakes
but prints fade out like streaking tracers
soon only one or two aunties
remember who's who in the zoo
while great grandkids think the hairstyles look quaint
and one of us really seems to favor the guy on the right
but move on to pictures of ourselves, will ya!?
not knowing that it was a good day in that shot
or if war was over, weather hot
but time exposes our brief latent images,
f-stop for all in our pin-hole lives
love, hate, joy, grief parallax'd into flashbulb shadows
and afterimages fade
carbon arc'd
onto dusty shelves
carelessly aperture stopped
into old shoebox albums
and broken frames...
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