Self-awareness is a poet's disease

I heard the tap water dripping
in the sink. My skin, and tiny
hair folicles twitching against
the moisture filling the air.
Inaudible sounds filling the spaces
leaking into my porous consciousness.

I noticed the way my breath halted,
eased out, and drew back in. I
never think so much about these little
things in others. I never need to
because I know myself, and others
are reflections upon the ripples in the
obfuscating temporal wake left within
words etched upon moments in time.

The little things aren't. I can't help
but notice. My actions are mechanical magic:
cause and effect in blissful metaphysical
incantation. Your skin is malleable like clay,
you know, if you would locate a mirror
not so steeled. Monolithic temptations
in defining one's self leads to a false
sense of gravity. You, in fact, are floating
on wispy strands beyond these fingertips.

Don't dream of sexual chimeras. Mortal
wounds are pinpricks of ecstacy if delivered
correctly to the heart. This wishful love
slips into a craven valley of patchwork
desires. I can build a mountain in twisted
dreams and wonder if they truly belong to me.

I can climb ladders and lattice fences. Nothing
is mine. I am just a patron of my existence.

Which explains nearly nothing, inexplicably.

Silence's Echoing Rebellion (Self-Immolation)

silence is not a state of absence
she would say if her lips could move
quivering walls melting in candlelight
absorb nervous self-made murmurs

of course, we're inside today
mellow hospitality of familiarity
thousands of tiny memories
littering the room's austerity

silence is a state of companionship
between a moment and memory
fantasy within the infirmary

oh, I've heard these sounds before
they existed before silence

now, they exist after

and, as ever
after is as before
moments slide
silence fades loudly to darkness

so, when singing
changes the state of solace
from quiet shimmering silence
to the quixotic motions of sound
returning to the world of time
memories cascade orderly
into water-colored compartments

was I ever so young as to forget the meaning of time?

no, something tells me
from here or before
deep within my chest

the future is a cacophony
jittered with moments of silence
so scream in full color
just long enough to watch
the blackness fill the room
before slipping into tepid light
slighty sheltered inside
shivering in time
organic motions
keeping me alive

oh, how I love the silence
right before windows break
and shadows slip through blinds!

where is the aristocratic meter,
now,
to chip away at time?

it is so hard to judge the character of motion
as my vibrations continue to echo
through every atom borne
into this expansive procession

following the clicktrack
deep into the thickest matter
to find those morbidities:
my love, my pain, my solidarity

my incandescent confusion
of slumber in a world of senses
collapsing