The sheet of reason folds between
and fiction crumbles to each side
a folly souring, tumbling,
catching on to the soaring in vain.
Below the sun, within my insistence
lies a man, enfleshed and walled in
corroded
a chord struck from his cerebellum
into the seething feelers, his doormat
feet, his welcoming opportunities for
breaking communication.
He is a careless depiction of truth
looking at itself in a shard of ice,
aware of its forgetting consciousness,
lost in the colder opposition.
Bowed down, he personifies a scrawl,
a tumbleweed fitting sideways into a
pax-deprived corpse.
Tactile
voices squint at his myth,
persuading him to forget his doings
to welcome his waitings on the stool,
going outward into memory's friendship
dawning again after a night of
being awake, faced.
This is how it feels, to be embraced
by the denied self, watered by feeling,
dowsing already ashes,
already stinging because of rifts and
supposings.
I frowned while the souvenirs
were reminisced and corporeally
timorous, before they synchronised
and came together a paradox.
I ask you now to sit with your reflection,
walking in the difficult directions
to the birth of a man of meaningness,
presently absurd
and living lives and life
as skinned synonyms.
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