the iceland backstep
14 December 2009 § Leave a comment
Power unequal to any human force, the predictability of a gale type wind,
dizzy with rejection to birds and man alike. Any other theories will be
pounded into the ground, a shallow pool of oblivion at my feet,
and there is a god, sitting on a rock getting rained on, contemplating
suicide or considering his existence kind of futile.
gate code peace camp, literary atrocity. I’ve gone out for a beer, so
these puddles some call roads are contradictory but only when slept in,
ears folding in on themselves, shutting out magnificence – the lack of light
is what I find so endearing, or the ghost that becomes of you when they
are switched on, the city rolls like waves and erases what I’ve written,
and that’s okay because it flew away long before they were turned to stone,
underneath the mountain – the eagle perched above, with rather poor posture.
There really aren’t so many more walls acting their part between us,
but if that’s the case, then why do I know I might miss the terribly
unimportant once we’ve gone our ways, so travel lightly,
duck between the walls when possible, but don’t forget to translate
the fallen, and what beckons.
What beckons me is this and now, remembering the balcony.
Opid is the stairway, leading to the treeless door, a pastel
and white graffiti summed up in a single verse, a saying I’ll
never understand in a form I’ll clearly see – as often as alley cats
are always strays, at least until they take away from the facade,
the obvious pretending they’re left for dead until they’re saved.