polyester bride

The Blue of my Oblivion
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Ezoic
2003-12-09 00:10:15 (UTC)

Co-Creation and the Art of Self-Discovery

I point my telescope: closed systems.
Astral, bodies flow and spin in skies.
Each constellation's different.
Each universe a starry metaphor,
its sculptured clouds, its climate.
Air, water, earth, in a created space
shift, swirl, slip, and swap.

Inhabitants of each relationship
never live in the same space twice.
In each little world, time travels,
temperatures change with the second hand.
Adjustments made are not always my own.
A system wants balance. Weakness must be owned,
so I rush to fill an empty space and leave
another hole. Earth wobbles.
Such travel is quixotic, a soul-safari:
oh, to defy gravity, revolve in
an impossible marriage, weightless and grounded.

Hypothesis from fallacies turn on themselves.
Here there's no science.
I look for my face on a milk carton's side,
scrape waxy dust with a fingernail
and come away with not enough to form
a candle, or a man to hold me.
I look for a mirror i the man, find shards
with jagged edges, no reflection.

Bind, bond, bound: integration is not seamless.
Facets sharply fractured catch the light.
With hammer, I could smash another straight-edged tile,
reset remnants, practice re-creation.

Telescope, kaleidascope, mobile.
I watch as prisms dance high wire.
Pieces held by string as thing as breath,
spin alone and with the others,
buoyant on the drift caught in between.


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