and then our exile

I am in a ... "disquieted" mood. Wind is howling through my hollow city.

A late-burning candle to soak up the residue of the day, though itself spent for the most part in oblivious myopia. A long city-trip: Argyll, MCE, various places on campus, bank/post-office/drop_off at farooq's. The car "skidded" (skad? done skid?) twice--my first experiences of such. Not good.
I page through my filled-up-notebook: seven months to cover 240 pages. Most is miscellany of my life; much other relates to my views on the Beyond, and some is in verse. But a lot is prose poetry with scattered line breaks.

I found (this) in the same notebook. (my visits at poemranker are far-between and few, but nonetheless.) I used to write in freeflow, back in the day. Now, it's half-forced, when at all. But it will come. It will come. iA.
~
Excerptology.

My shame is silent.

For it is nothing that is the greatest threat to interminable survival, and it is in nothing
that my greatest fears lie captive.

Audaciously, I imagine I know what is to come. How mistaken I am!

the doctrines permeating the membranal air are impossible exchanges for what we hid, in the days before their shackles now inspecting our every move.

Why did we joke of that? Deadly serious, the undercoats of the birds we train are loaded with our own personal disasters.

The last remaining savage has disappeared, taking with him the last of my dreams of freedom--autonomy under the UN, refugee camps and cholera, all distract from the first.

The forgotten division-line is a fault-line of hatred
fundamental truths remain to accuse and witness
our fumblings at freedom rendered all the more tenuous by
the sears on the knuckles of the grave diggers... below,
our wait remains.
One day.
~
Making strange noises of protest: I force my feet into
walking as your steps, flight you took from years of oppression
tyranny at an end, life found in the opening of the
wings, a multifoliate butterfly just nearing the edge of
its life and the step into beyond blue. The world will continue,
individuals shattered beyond belief but holding each other up,
mutual contact reducing us all of our unique parts, leaving only
the futures...but then, too, we swallowed, and it is left for our
dreams, to recapture Alexander's lost empire.
--
Travelling across moonlit desert
I traced your footsteps in
untouched sand ... they led to the
edge of a ravine of jagged rock
and into its deeps I descended.
Standing below, I collapsed of
despair, calling your name thrice
thrice to the unanswering cliffs.
Reverberating through shared history, the
soundwaves flashed across the sky,
coupling with nothing as the crescendo died.
I had lost you.
I too became a rock,
joining,
condensing with the dew.
~
While the irises of your perfect body are rapt'rous, it is the wholesomeness of your warmth my focus rested on, later.

While my dreams still held true, I often though of you,
in contemplation of the too-late-apology, the last neutrology,
forgotten in the dreams that came soon after: to sail, fly, with a
woman who has lost her self--a society in chains, manacles
of hard-encrusted vengeance, falling apart where the breathing
is most intense: a castle falling out of the clouds, Cronus'
disillusionment.

There is a place beyond the sprinklings of rain
behind the wild calls, wild cells of freedom entered by coyotes at night
further even than the smudge of tainted cloud that waxes with the hour
and far from the high duties of the city's priests embalmed in concrete,
like some stock-broke potentate mummy bereft of organelles and tissue.
Here there is a hollow in the grass.
Prickly grass, but on the ground there is a hollow
lying between the invading stones constructed through the latest wave
Ignoring colonization
Here in this hollow our
shadows merged and
felt each other.

~
Somewhere the burning must end.
The trees hold up a pattern

that moves in time. The margins
are the first to char. The bush burns

the skeleton blooms, a shape comes and goes
like before-and-after photographs.

...a confusion of space with time.
The edges that burn are not mine

for there is no edge to our pain.
What end could emerge from pain?

The cease of pain lies outside pain
and pain will always take us in.
--of Manicom's the Runner
~
"...you are your own ideology."
--of deBeyer's Troublemaker
~
American bullets are everywhere.
Damn them.
And they will continue to die.
And I, too, will continue to die, until I regain focus. Good night.