Communicative Silence

I look forward to a new poem the way

I look forward to having scabs to scratch,

to having scars to squeeze,

scabrous sibilants, syllables seeping and severed.

Text analysis

lessthannoidea.blogspot.com is probably written by a female somewhere between 66-100 years old. The writing style is personal and upset most of the time.

http://urlai.com/Default.aspx

SeeNSay Edits

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass -John Keats

The bird flutter'd faltering through the icy leaves;

The cow moo'd morosely through the glaciated garden;

The pig oink'd ontologically through the frost-bound feeder;

The dog bark'd beatifically over the sleety sod.

Furseus' Words (Adagio grandioso)

When he was restored to his body, and throughout his whole life, on is shoulder and jaw he bore the mark of the fire that he had felt in his soul, visible to all men. - Furseus' Vision, 633 C.E.

And one of the seraphims flew to me, and in his hand was a live coal, which he had taken with the tongs off the altar. And he touched my mouth, and said: Behold this hath touched thy lips, and thy iniquities shall be taken away, and thy sin shall be cleansed. -Isaiah 6:6-7

Here I am, a man long in years and short in age,

Naked in December, plunging in again to icy waters

that will not cool my skin nor quench my thirst.

I speak at nonce, and at vesper sing but not my prayers

into the rafter beams.

I shall not speak again before my death.

When the angel seized me up I saw below

The rocky depths on which I'd fall,

The crushing depths on which I'd fall,

The dashing waves on which I'd fall,

It is my gift, now as then, to neither laugh

nor frown;

But look upon them steep below.

When my god allowed for me to feel the scalding heat

of the burning soul against my face, I could not flinch

or look away. It is my gift, now as then, neither flinch

nor look away,

but feel that burning flesh a kiss.

When I was cast again against those rocks,

And knew I could not rise, and called again my God,

I was left to lie until I could raise myself. It was my gift,

Then as now, to wait until I could lift myself,

and gather with my strength.

Here I am, a man long in years and short in age,

Naked in the December of my youth, plunging, diving

And rejoicing that my thirst, my fire remains.

I, who have once whispered in the ear of God,

Know I may not pray again

Until God speaks to me.

Flight

An atom pulls itself into being

By borrowing against itself when it will no longer exist.

Is pain like that?

The secret that you hide is your kindness; this,

and nothing else, could destroy.

I speak against the silence,

And write because I should not

because there is so much to say:

my anger for you is perverse and

a survivor's guilt, because you could take all and will not.

The woodsmoke on the air today

Is what I offer you

And every crunch of snow I snapped

where footstep hadn't been.

When it melts it will have been there

It's power is that it will leave,

marked by when it will not be.

False Starts and Apologies (An Etude)

If I had taken all the love I'd been shown

For years and rolled it up into one ball

And chewed, and thoroughly tasted, and swallowed it some years ago,

It would have led to no more than I what I felt.

I compose lines now before I sleep

And send them off inside my head.

It is my form of prayer.

I wish that wishes had power

I wish the skyline wasn't unforgiving.

I wish we could have seen it.

I have been this quarter century in making. I am not done.

But I have realized in these days

when everything came apart, and snapped, and refracted,

It wasn't breaking.

The only thing I have ever really feared

Was what it is to be a fearful thing,

Suspected and half-hated myself;

No more.

Who I've been, and who I am,

Have snapped into harmony.

I do not need the same words,

but would have new ones.

I have found that I can open myself.

I have found that I can see, and speak,

and laugh a hard and easy laugh with teeth

against the lips, hard and visible.

In the dusk of the shortest day,

The daylight shatters. Tomorrow

Will be longer.

i liked the way we looked

all of us

sexually

and the way we passed tells me i'm the only one

whose pills really

ever mattered.

Having Less Than No Idea

Everything has led up to this.

the immediate sense is taste,

and also i cannot breathe so well

if you want a musical instrument come listen to my lungs

quickly

Kissing Goodbye

You should have known that what I am is always

Almost - at most - yours,

that most most means more and

the ways we have cut deeply in to the chest;

I liked to watch it all fall.

I am not made for regrets but of them.

I can't surprise, have lost the way I had of fading deep into the night.

I will become a ghost, ease out into the night.

I will embrace it, that night

The fading dark of solitude.

A Very Polite Way of Saying Go To Hell

My favorite parts are when it's quiet. See,

I've got this secret part where nothing hits. I'm quiet there.

Words are screens; that part you see is where I write the words across myself.

I'm here; I'm scared; I'm half alive

I awake the night.

We connect by feeling, whether we should or not --

Do you know the monstrousness of words?

Look, when Iago was about my age, he can't have been too bad.

The words created him. How should I begin to name my meaning when he can't,

And he's smarter than I am?

I thought I would never feel like this again.

The words I've said, how I feel, I didn't know what it was.

Try this, friend. I will not leave. I am here,

I am stuck. And I would not be another way.

I am angry that my world constricts to those I know.

But this, this is what I thought I would feel and never did

Until the gesture of this dream.

Catholic Youth

Every appearance that manifests human beings thus becomes for them improper and factitious, and makes them confront the task of turning truth into their own proper truth. -Giorgio Agamben

Something changed last night that you should know.

I worked the problem in my mind the way that Abraham held

His son against his chest and knew that it was all of me

And I must murder it.

This is my confession.

Bless me father; I haven't sinned.

I am broken beyond bearing

Pushed past performance,

And what I have is yours.

This is my own truth, that fear is is my stain.

And my deepest secret: you've terrified me out of fear.

I would burn myself again and again at your fire,

I would push past the presence to you as person.

Can you meet me here, where we are people?

I am in the dark. If you cannot come, I worship still.

Here in the darkness, I sing.

Without words and nameless, I sing.

Here at your feet and broken, I sing.

I am in the dark. If you cannot come, I worship still.

Look, here I am, and don't know much

Beyond how I was a secret once.

My old man could light a smoke

the way that you or I would scratch our nose.

His heavy hands would flick the edge

and flare the end without a thought.

I wish that I could have that kind of easy grace,

Or think that I could hit the notes he did

The same ill-favored tunes. He'd been dry a while when

first we met, though God help the one

who got between the man and all those pills he took.

But here I am, half beat by dogs, a hole pressed in my wall.

You want depressed? I can smile that empty way that makes you think

The knife goes only used for food. My secret's safe for now,

But here I am uncrushed by life and live

The bare sole fact of who I am.

The Sandpaintings of Vivaldi's Winter

It starts of slow, the thrumming hush and rising blood

of each cast note hitting back and forth an echo of menace and then dreamy now

all at once you know the fear.

Pause.

And rise. And rise. And rise...

and pause. And slow. and die.

And life is reborn in the wings, the captured sense that's cast about and back and forth

and hits the frantic thought of immanence and god we should be this clean together and

would I have you feel the darkness in this peace and all at once the crescendo's done when the cello sweeps across the stage and holds

it self back again

a single violin lights what we were

and words that rise a virtuoso sound. I'd like to capture how it is to hear you there above the melody and crashing down with all the thought that life can capture erased at once and in the buzz of voices a sudden occupation with how they all could be together.

TXT

It might have bit me by the tongue

For all I could respond.

The Perfect Gift of Inhalation

You've never asked me any questions except to know what I want.

It's weird the way they never lead to anything, though I had this thought

that it gives you power to say "no" to whatever else it could have been,

I'm not so unfamiliar you know with ways of saying no to things and keeping

desire safely where the distance doesn't have much chance or keeping things

so packed together that though you read as carefully as anyone I've ever known and

more than most you still can't always seem to see the pages staring back at you.

I talk in methods; Whitehead thought the only substance, processes

and so I'll give away the trick: the word goes flat into the palm, is cupped against

the things I don't want you to see, I gesture with the other ones and love

the most important part here is tucked at the point where three fourths of this is almost done

Then cupped against the sweating neck and held against the air. A book's a book unless

It's held in just the proper hands and I could learn to fall in love with watching people

Pick the symbols out of mind and never know just what it was they saw. Marcus said tonight

I might make people think I'm not as "rigorous" as, in fact, my work tends towards. He's right and

I wonder if he knows how much it is I say what I mean through the lines. I want to think of you holding a book

I watched sitting on a desk, to feel the traces, to see the print, to marvel in the words. If the book is autographed, I know someone else has touched it.

I gave myself to God when I was young have hungered for it since can find no way to say that all I have is you when I worship on bended knee it isn't really worship have you ever seen selfimmolation as only one structured around a void can become?

A flame in the sky was all the warning Job had not to turn around.

It would have been love if he'd seen his wife turn to salt and turned to look too.

I want you to read me like a book

And burn me one of many in a pile afterwards

until my ash can sift into the sky and

Be breathed in by birds.

Insomnia, II

this is what I wanted:

Now I shall measure my days by metrics

Of work, of though, of single strokes.

Now my body becomes the means

Of something larger than myself.

I cannot exist when I am at the front.

Instead, I am the even hours

That wile away the time.

What insane hours I have known

Inside myself, and now:

I'll push myself till I am bleeding

To hear those voices start to stop.

Posts from Sleep Deprivation

So here's a secret: I deny

Myself this because of the sheer fucking rush of life

I get at four when I can't think of anything left to type

but "I'm a slave to rhythm" and feel the heartbeat

of the world.

This is the structure that I want to see,

The feeling of being here and now.

Alone in a sleeping town with myself,

And against the chill of tomorrow

I brace myself.

Crash

Two bodies may not occupy the same space at the same time but

sonofabitch

isn't it quite the thing

when

they

TRY?

The saints of mixed blend malt agree.

The silence isn't was it was.

Could you teach me what it is to read

Betweens the lines of speech?

I cannot not give what I am.

I've nothing left I cannot give.

The single speeds of dark and light

Begin to disagree.

The starling and the hawk concur

That what I want is far from here

And felt between my every breath

That brushes inward, cheek to mouth.

Proofing

She starts to gather speed

and strokes the growing length of clause

and then there is no comma stops and marks and picks again against the grain of thought

and feels the burring sense of misplaced word and pushes back against it hard and ticks beneath citation end and hits the point where teasing intro stops and sentence frag and here he's said too much and gone too far with no supporting facts and stops him yet again and teases his ideas as

the work collapses down

and

now at once

they know each other's point

with him across her mind her marks across

his red-lined

paper.

Aubade (Monk's Song)

"I am, you anxious one.

Don't you sense me, ready to break

into being at your touch?" (Rainier Maria Rilke, The Book of a Monastic Life I,19)

I created this empty song, this quest to know,

This space where I can feel the words.

I have been silent too long, and so by choice.

Now the words awakened like birds

Start from December-encrusted boughs.

Silence is startled, and so by choice.

I crumble into being at the touch of your eyes.

Are you God? Am I? Is this heresy why I do not know

The landscape of heaven or of hell?

The bell begins, and so by choice,

The bell itself is silence held between the layers

Of sounding air. Do not confuse remembrance for regret,

but the wonder of emerging and worship.

We come into being with the sound. We are lost with it.

We are still between the violent air, in this silence, God,

Pressed always to the limit,

There is no is but that which we can approach

in silence.

Notes on an Empty Apartment

Keening gives sway to desires.

I feel lusts like a bird on the wind.

My memory is large and uplifted,

Rage tonsures the silence within.

The smoothness of words can dissemble,

Each shadow's alone and light-limned.

Thoughts like erasure uprising

Or starts like a birdflight begin.

Structure, Pt. II

"And over alle the houses angles

Is ful of rouninges and of jangles

Of werres, of pees, of mariages,

Of reste, of labour, of viages,

Of abode, of deeth, of lyfe,

Of love, of hate, acorde, of stryfe."

Jesus how much I had to say and could not

once the structure choked my voice and

my tongue was already numb and how much I wanted

the clean crush of a body against mine in ways that were

cold and kept us pure.

Sex is always and only a second when

words fail and

wants fall trippingly

into the lowest level

of desire.

Words can't be unsaid, we can't take back

Our lowest points.

Our bodies are inscribed with the words of our desire.

II.

Let me build a structure with words I cannot say.

I've seen spirals of glistering light, and

Would remake my body with trees I've known.

I watched a deer once drink the dew

And compiled the landscapes in my mind:

Structures of stone, of sand, of dream,

Worlds of words, of intense fragility, of fragile beauty.

I watched the summer drip from trees, watched my youth fade

and loved the moments of all my loss.

What structures slipped between

emerged, a birth upon the cold clear grass of early autumn.