My phone pings.
It's always on these random afternoons.
I don't know why I look for your name,
as if it were still a year ago.
It's almost reflexive,
as if the version of me
that hopelessly fell for you
has returned,
possessed,
ready to smile
at your flurry of messages.
I don't know why I listen for your voice,
as if twisting a stranger's shout
into yours
could bring you back
to my side.
God, she sounded like you.
Not half as precious, though.
I don't know why.
I don't exactly feel sad.
It's more like a helplessness-
so faint that
most of the time,
I wonder if it even exists.
But on these random, sunlit afternoons,
a quiet melancholy
flickers to life.
I know when that little red circle
appears again,
it'll be a red nose,
and I'll be the clown.
I don't know why,
but I'll still look
for the two hearts
next to the name
anyway.
He knows his laugher is reflexive,
often inauthentic,
a need to agree or
a way to paint clowns on speech bubbles.
Overused words, trite meaningless words
are tossed back and forth.
It's a conversation, a convention or
a blank-firing discussion.
"I must be going."
Words hang like luminous finger bones.
Later reviewing in his mind
what had been said,
witty ripostes are invented,
inserted.
Finer points of fine points honed.
He shuffles magnetic phrases
on a whiteboard between his eyes.
He begins to cough - a yak spasm.
His only remedy
is to keep talking to himself
as if the other person were still listening.
The Chevy speeds by
eyesight pings it,
a reflexive vision
momentarily catches itself
looking back.
The barn is vacant, not empty,
its eyes have been locked open,
it bathes in sparrow and bat time.
Now hollow lids capture, snatch at
a headlong flight of vision.
A snap of fleeting attention
has stabled a glance in a timeless stall
where dust hangs
in a slant of suspended light.
Road barn and car are frozen
as one symbiotic after-image,
until all disappear into each other.
Then without pause or passage
horizons are released,
distance and perspective amended,
as the tremor of a splintered
looking glass
fades behind racing wheels.
The wind moves and swirls
in love to and fro
already it is morning
the cock crows and the world
standing still and stirring
if one look at horizon and the sky are all hither
and thither filled in clouds and beautiful like flowers
and greeneries
the river is cool and reflexive like a mirror
like the woods are fresh and tender
all is lovely and fine
how glee, how sweet is sometimes this life to tell?.
More vacuous verse to the void:
abysmal, of meaning devoid.
A reflexive spasm
sends more to the chasm
where anemic arts are destroyed.
Escaping, strange thoughts from my head
go written but largely unread.
Another deposit
to add to the closet
of words that are better unsaid.
So, in the crevasse this now lurks
with woefully wonderless works:
discursive digressions
regarding obsessions
with muses and quixotic quirks.
How much bloody carnage and rubble
is required to atone for sins of a few?
How many eyes must be gouged
to extract desired justice?
If wronged, is exchanging one eye enough?
What about two eyes for one? Or ten for one?
Is twenty enough?
How about a hundred?
Such revenge might feel like justice,
but it fuels hate’s endless cycle.
Can we exit this interlocked sequence
of oppression and reflexive violence?
Can we struggle toward implementing
a radical, restorative, improbable alternative?
Remember what a crucified carpenter taught
about loving enemies and turning cheeks?
Do such ideals seem impossibly wrong
when gushing anger from our wounds?
Yet, as he stretched on splintery beams
no carpenter would willingly build,
he said, while gushing blood for all our sins,
“Forgive them for they know not what they do.”
ASTRACTION
unpredictable
intersecting lines
swaths of colour
added
by a chance
autonomous
process
reflexive
echoing
intensive
to coincide
in response
You start by trying to ignore yourself.
This is reflexive.
Ego always wants you look into the wrong mirror.
Later you find out you can't,
you're just too forking obvious.
So you come up with excuses, play the victim
blame your parents or childhood.
If you keep on watching
and don't settle,
then you come to an understanding,
that it was always other people's fault
on every occasion you did your best
under the circumstances.
This of course leads to depression, suppression
and a desire to find some guru
to get you out if this hall of crazy mirrors
you find yourself in.
You almost convince yourself you're happy being this
lovable person that everyone likes,
it works for you.
Then you die -
not in the body but in your humanity,
now Truth can do something with you,
you allow that Truth to set you free
but maybe just one prison at a time.
You do not own a gun...
that gun owns you;
always aware of its
whereabouts, and what that
gun can do. To be effective, its
use must be reflexive, no sympathy
for the receiving end.... It is a
necessary evil, weighing heavily
on the hearts, of law upholders
yet god
fearing men.
Razored shards
Sharp metal gleam white covered in silvery chrome
hard long mean a razor blade brilliant and keen
Reflexive in thought slashing through fresh
It flashes a brilliant spark,
tracing arcs through the nightmares air
A twist of flash, digging of marrow
blade slides home
divides the meat from the bone
bring the crimson to heat
A razor reflects in seconds of fate an image flash feeling the aftermath
A Great refraction
Recollection is a collection of desolate images
strewn across lost boulevards,
as homes burn
discarded cars churn
the blade is cold hard long razored Keen
Reaction retraction of sight
the nano fire tracks the hard light
glancing off chrome brilliant, a spark
the division of flesh pouring
of crimson heat awash all in red
Razored shards of sharp metal
sliver gleam covered in bright chrome keen
A thousand words later
we’re still talking.
I know I’m being reflexive,
this banter a transparent way
to paint clowns on speech bubbles;
ripostes that ricochet off any real wit.
Later still, alone in my head - the replay,
the should have said and the unsaid.
Witty repartee are invented,
not only as late additions
but as inserts, addendums, and edits
in an ongoing discourse.
Some words still hang in the air,
digitized like finger bones.
A back and forth exchange
of words ping-ponging along
as afterthoughts.
Next time we chin-wag
my comebacks and rejoinders
will be better timed and scripted,
unless of course you also
have been rehearsing yet more
retorts and asides.
Instincts do not change
With time or by age.
Reflexive quick glance
Any given chance
Will never end well -
Fury, scorn and hell.
March 27, 2021
Being, becoming,
though different the same
All motion reflexive,
where time rules the game
Being, becoming,
whose vow is enforced
When married to both
—refusing divorce
(Bryn Mawr Pennsylvania: February, 2021)
An echo murmured back look at yourself, You see you'
Reflection – mirror image of me of my dreams
Staring all I see is me in you
Glaring and glaring with my reflection
Selfishly pointing in at my direction
The ephemerality brought such sorrow
My visage I spy on the morrow
Even now clouds watch
Mount Kilimanjaro, Mount Kilimanjaro!
Clouds hoover and follow
And its eyes have all the brainstorming
The Jungfrau seemed happy performing
It was heartwarming, under performing, nonperforming!
Peek-a-boo looks at me as I look at you and I see myself
From within my steps
I walk on my shadow as my shadow holds me up
Drinking I from the clouds spilled cup
I spy, I see, me I see within the cool breeze
Even now clouds watch
My visage I spy on the morrow
Murmured echo back look at yourself, you see you'
Reflection – mirror image of me of my dreams
Staring all I see is me in you
Glaring and glaring with my reflexive reflection
12/5/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
A thousand words later,
we were still talking.
I know I’m being reflexive,
this humor is a transparent way
to paint clowns on speech bubbles.
Ripostes that ricochet
off any real wit.
"I must be going."
One thousand and forty.
Later ---
the replay,
witty repartee are invented,
not only as late additions
but as inserts, edits
in an ongoing discourse.
Some words still hang in the air,
digitalized like finger bones.
I try to swat them with a rolled-up script,
but they dance away,
electric and blinking.
(I wish there was a big red plug I could pull.
A cut-off switch maybe,
or lips that folded words into origami birds,
each one so perfect that it would defy
misinterpretation).
One thousand and ninety-two.
I begin to cough up these inner dialogues,
to give up on mind-talk.
My only remedy is to count more numbers,
instead of words –
words not spoken.
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