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Jordan Decoste Poem
On those dark, winter evenings, when the frost tinged wind burns your skin with each weak sputtering breath, I find myself longing for a crisp walk along the shore.
Sand, not yet touched on this new day, another beginning for every version of myself.
Trudging down to the sea, like a breaking seal, one step at a time, the sand deteriorates its shell. Longing for companion, desperate, starved sharks circling dancing toes, sneaking up the rubber sealant and making a new home in nailbeds. I push through aching sand dollars.
Crystalized salt in worthy gashes across my chapped nose and lips when windchill drops below the cut. With fog my breath gets lost, careful, steady gasps for the cleanest air.
Another savory inhale leads to another chilling kiss from nature’s icy lips on the out.
And as if a gunshot went off, an overwhelming collective moan of siren wails pierce through the ice cube gelatin atmosphere. Stuck, frozen, upside-down dessert pie in the horizon, not a single movement throughout the cry.
Freedom awaits beyond moonrise- creamy egg yolk, breaking and falling for my consumption. Slow like honey, I reach for that feast but I am too far, just intoxicatingly close.
Underneath the abyss is beautifully raw and polarizing, golden fragmented reality. Silence is rare but this is it. Cool, shallow tidals filling me with waves, hushing the tinnitus. I try to stay past the shore but always find myself consumed and falling under, drowning.
“This is so beautiful,” bubbles through my sandstone tongue; coolant brained and crucifix fingered.
The end of the shore, the beginning of the sunset. A new sunrise within the oceans' backdoor. Gasping, falling under.
“I’m drowning, and It’s so beautiful.
I’m drowning and I can finally hear it.”
Copyright © Jordan DeCoste | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
Jordan Decoste Poem
These roads have always been here. Wood to brick, brick to stone, changes with the coming times. Modernity but where did it come from? All of a sudden, walking along different paths that lead to the same destination,
Concrete that calls the same names of old lovers yet I do not recognize the sweetness.
Degeneration that rots the footprints left by accidental trips into sludgy serendipity.
Fall leaves like a snowboard, slipping to stick to well revered thrashes that lead down Brattle.
But why wait for confirmation when you can slide and snow during the heat of random events that are global catastrophes?
It’s so natural, the progression of time and the challenge of death. I truly stare her down and laugh at times. Not to reality, but to where her scythe can fall unexpectedly.
Where denial takes us, destinations etched into the linings of our silver toothed memories.
Where posterized characters, rust coated yet polished through, change without dedication. Dedication to the craft, to the work. Dedication to the art of trying, the infrastructure we built to stand on.
Dedication to the dusty boardwalk slats, dingy airport mirrors, dedication to the plainly designated, in organized chambers that play out the chorus I’ve always feared to dream.
So I follow the tracks left against our trees, reaching deeper into our woods to design it all again,
Laying it all out again, leaving the wrong shadow of myself in the passively dangerous solitary, understood by the silence that coats the blacktop landscape, freckled with flecks of inescapable ties lined in the astronomers' learned guidelines.
Copyright © Jordan DeCoste | Year Posted 2024
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