Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Kicked

To map the tremors
one must first accept
the truth of two living things.
A warm expanse stretched taut
with crisp bones and ridges
a landscape pulled smooth by tension.
A second force with ranging need
that spikes and drops
beneath the first
a sudden eddy against the weight
a shoving buoyancy demanded.
After this you may proceed
with hesistancy.
The mixture of the Richter scale
and dowsing rod
with jolts that spring unannounced
in the night to ripple through the dark.
The pattern rests, and swarms again,
a certain inconsistency
to breed obsession, to hook a fiend.
Each tremor fades, the map redrawn,
and untouched surface settles.
There is no change to eyed horizon
 but in the mind
the hunger grows,
another pulse, and then the wait.
Some needful knowledge or
pulsing ache.
There is no satisfaction found
while stillness haunts the hunting grounds.

Unbalanced

I grow unsteady
while this mesh of tendon
and ligament and flesh
stretches tight around my frame
and springs suddenly loose
at times unaware.
There is a constant tilting
a lean into the world
like a prologue that only exists
to push some further thought
into being, or at least
into being heard.
The spreading of my feet
does not correspond
with the widening of the path;
instead I must, with single mind,
find balance
a constant negotiation
between two limits of which
both appear unclear.
The center of the self has shifted
forward and threatens separation
a relentless murmur for independence.
There is no solid ground
nor silence, nor serenity.
In the most sacred places,
I am not alone.
I grow unsteady
as this dream grows within me.