There's no such thing as silence

The first

This first day begins at night,
that candlelight
magic for some, fluorescent
and toilet paper for others.

But those eyes, these incandescent eyes,
that, dark,
see invisible magnetic highways that
carry you forward,
gravitational memories strung along,
strumming dissonance ears humming
and as soon as you let go,
nothing to keep the current grounded.

Daydream lucid in glaring sunlight,
matte polluted mountain fog, but
other illumination:
that false sun smiling
like false families or teeth, between
and before, other times slipping,

And what's next? as usual,
will you drift away, forget
falling asleep inside that forearm,
next time,
reincarnated kinesthesia of another movement,
and how it will feel to dream far away from you.

Jugaad replay again,
every step forward taking me...

Reverie /

From some long-lost Monday

It's only when the words won't come, a settling filter of dust, lost particles of thought vanishing upwards in the glazed-over light.  It's that time of morning, the brief and sudden flash of energy and then back to exhaustion; the dissipated idea atomized into the same particles of boredom. Not boredom, exactly, but a kind of frustrated recklessness, compounded by the temperature inside and the way the sun never really rose because of the clouds. This typewriter thing, it can happen anywhere, even two thumbs can click together some kind of fantasy, half-awake and slouching.  And I saw them staring so hard at each other from across the train that I thought they would break, typewriter and all. The loving and the hurting in their eyes, I shook off; it was too heavy. A thousand possible meanings to carry silently in a day, wondering and wondering.

Chroniques New-Yorkaises