CARTOGRAPHIES OF LANGUAGE


23

A sentence begins with a lie
The common language already
Filled with duality, an imperfect means
Of understanding, semi-true literacy
Of our unity, the loneliness of
The liar endures, like false-love

A poem can be torn up
Never read again, but
The innovocation has already been set
Words of anger, cannot be taken back
Words, infiltrate our blood
With cortisol and neurochemicals

A sentence begins with a pause
For the heart’s twisting dials
There is no technology of silence
Only rituals of communication
Etiquette of what was not said –
The blurring terms of our inadequacy

At connecting, our inability to hear
Words in the music of our faces
The blueprint lost of our authentic sameness.

Paradise for Insomnia


30

There is a skylight in my heart/
That keeps me up at night
An insomnia of philosophers
That won’t shut up, I’m stumped
To get a bit of sleep tonight

In the middle of the floor/
Of the terror of what I call
My life, I don’t fight to sing
The saddest songs, they are

My special ritual of forgetting/
I can feel biochemical processes
Trigger in my brain, the amazing feat
Of learning and laughing, inside of experience
There is a nuance in the way you speak
That is reproducing in my mind

Like coal and roses, it doesn’t involve letters/
Only sweet I-wish-you-wells, that gently spill
Like an age of Gold, my dear insomnia
Where I make the best of living
In some age-old night, I’ll build little fires

Like a creator of my own fruit/
Beauty, like fish and flesh, not blankets
Will allow me to slumber, at 2 AM
There are no curtains on my pain
The window is open, the myth of
My own doom, could become my own Paradise.

Filling in the Blanks


Heaven, you see, is blank like an angel
Such a vast blank of silence
Filled to the brim with wonder
That it requires no labels
It’s like the purity of death

The trance that is registered
Before breath, in the genealogy
Of all cosmic cells, the flavour

Of a spring afternoon that doesn’t
Know kinsmen, but feels
How everything is related
In some indescribable unity
Heaven, you see, has no father or husband

Requires no sense of propriety
No status symbols, no possession
Heaven, you see, allows us to simply be.

Poem-3