Freight equals concentrated labor, wheels shift
prey
so risk is thinned a while from outside.
Lines hitch one motion to another, drawing,
by way of inconclusive bandages, the sap
from living trees, as if supply were
permanent, the way desire comes to surface
on breaking thoughts and news of consequence.
No consequence? If only weight were as
light as day itself. Memories and hopes
drip down as we wait for futures
to wound us yet again. This game's
played for real, outside somehow leaks in
and we're left to hold the baby.
Leaks become consecutive in memory, until one
Falls to rapture where the day is
Yet another round of futuring its way
Toward history as generous as typified by
Weight that starts to spawn new reasons.
Emotions overide reason, sleepless nights and
days
blur mind grey. Memory censors itself: history
can continue. I am no longer certain
that I am unsure. Outside, summer's gone.
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A space of
time to self, certain
to diminish even as the warmth recedes
into a chill beneath memories of summer.
Yet chill shakes itself into warm tremor:
red leaves glow in cold winter sun.
Once warm leaves fall crisp to winter.
Twice, then thrice, and on. Years
pass, each winter turns to spring;
my skin creases, marked with time.
Each year sunshine returns less bright,
I fail to find more words,
the past blurs and fades away.
Words weigh things while timetables winter
near a greater warmth, as if
locating there contagion that breeds bounty
among the previously undiscovered nutrients being
noticed that yield a different sunshine.
The ease of weight abandoned, difference
engineered to suit new days. Tables
turn as days drift in... Words
cannot fill up sorrow's empty pocket.
Places to store what weighs little
or enough to focus days table
pace of coming emptiness with words.
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Future vision,
lessons learnt. Weather forecast
the blue print of a promise.
Although made and held and kept.
What's kept? Dusty cupboards full
of the past needing emptying.
Boxes and books and blessings
discarded, used up, need renewal.
Don't ask what memory means.
The mere act of collecting
equals memory's remainder, small and
large containers one cannot release
for all the sealed weight.
Things being not quite right
shift their meaning. Wait until
time speaks within the clock.
Altered clocks pronounce time away
from time the wait within,
seconds are an illusory liberation.
Voyages are dreamed before
being entirely absorbed into
the psyche's own illusion
inducing freedom within seconds.
Illusionary travel? I am
going away soon. There
is really no choice.
Yet primary recency fuels
motion shifts, as if...
Independence, home. Time out.
Or ready made
deception counts for
closure that's exact.
Exactly. You cannot
read closed books,
merely gather auras
or borrow
love throughout.
Invent, retract.
Renew.
Locate clef.
Make inventory,
assume possession.
Expand possessives found,
be visible whenever
expansion occurs. Curate.
Decipher the excursive
Tenure when owned
Markings serve repair.
A sequence of diversions.
Returns the underlying tone
left in two dimensions.
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Decisive mode.
We name
weapons of mass destruction:
Starfish Prime, Frigate Bird.
Why number white, distinguish
each diversion from prime
sequence of thirds leafed
through in pale mode?
Explosive thoughts and weather conditions
render quiet what it is
already, an offer for new
storms, electrical echoes and forms,
the thunderous bellows of silence.
I am inhabited by them.
Quiet days make room also
for the explosive random aftermath
that unsorts the flowers from
an ankle deep dark rain.
Floods blossom and spread wide,
fluid tentacles stream every way
and more. Suffused with light
the day has been glorious,
full of fire and paint.
Watch extended reach include white fire.
Explosion of meaning into the air:
inspection will give spectrum a shape,
adroit positioning of planes to cover
spectra that shift glass beyond obliquity
to furnish a new bright show.
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And how bright
it always is,
a confusion of sunset and daybreak,
an interstellar swan-song, coloured dirge.
Imagination soon blurs and softens thought,
early as stars, the late swans
soften each dirge living in imagination
thought to be bright quiet soon
rendered intermediate for seasons to recur
within the blur of colors broken.
Not to think our own thoughts
but to swim in the spectrum
of change, penumbra, swirl and glow,
as night gently inspects distant galaxies.
Day's gone walking in the dark,
more breath-sensitive than is possible.
Each breath a clear formed life inflection
which burns and flickers in the cold.
I am afraid the flame will expire.
The flickering chores its way into thought
in time to tamp fear of exhaustion.
Warmth spreads across the given toward cleansing,
a language both opaque and fluid, given
to exhausting phrase and meaning. The blaze
of thought fuels both fear and exploration.
A stream runs nearer to the sun.
Whatever dries eviscerates a force once self
propelling tinted now with external hunts for
fear to quench where it had rattled
the imagination to a final quiet after
tremor that left blaze a mere exhaust.
More exhaust: a burnt shadow, smoke trail,
marks the sky and voices external signs.
Silence for a moment, then clouds burst
into tomorrow's dream. Imagine the rattle of
time, hunting for somewhere to call home,
not knowing how the tune goes. Ever.
Home, once found, inevitably lasts within
imagination,
and may preclude the rush toward silence.
For a moment hunting marks and then
erases reasons. Voice functions as intuition
anyway.
Day after the next, discernment glyphs
consecutive
constructs thought to absorb, even encapsulate
bursts
of desire that rattle across depleting time.
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HOME
text ©
Rupert M. Loydell & Sheila E. Murphy 2004
- images © Mary Johnston 2004
- A Raunchland Publication
- 2004
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THE RUSH TOWARDS SILENCE
