Dynamic Tension


Popped inside out
a fish in the mud
pulling at air that's
no longer there.
A wretch mired in
nostalgia and old wounds
can't move forward
or backward
to save itself.
Split or halved
like bread
left out in the rain,
cut down the heart
toward the ache it feigns.
Watching the changes
flying by outside
the thick glass
surrounding thin skin
and empty eyes.
Walking past present and future,
pressing trembling fingers
to pounding temples of flesh,
to gods and goddesses
long since departed
when the world turned its back
on things outside its own vanity.
Like our own collective
sanity, looming large or
looming small without explicit
consent. Still
torn, yes this is me.
Yes this is my
manifesto-made-of-pesto
and other edible things.
Wounded beyond Band-Aids
and hydrogen peroxide.
Waiting for words to take
the reigns and steer
this mess into solid air.
But where? you ask,
as though a place
were the answer.
As though "innocent"
and "guilty" were really
the issue. But no,
you are so smooth
like scales covered
in blue-green algae.
This sea is deeper than
first glance would reveal
to an optic nerve as twisted
as yours (and mine).
As one good turn deserves
a slap to the ego.
So—
I'll let you go, you'll see,
you'll wonder what has possessed me,
and yet you'll come to gawk
with the rest of the only
and the best of the voyeurs.
You'll wonder, what changed?
You'll ponder my inability to breathe
on land. This is me tearing
off skin and other inconsequential things,
and sucking at oxygen left over
from prehistory—like water
washing through a small parched place
that only wants hope.



copyright 2.3.03 -erm

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