At the edge (Eliot Cardinaux)

  At the edge

but,
brewing, 

these things stand in

place to hover like a word,

out in the open door

singing the sound of rain.

            

Dreamsickness (Sean Ali)

Dreamsickness

Your gentle breathing is quietly weaving
            a tapestry of sound and stillness
While the rising sun bleeds the snow red
            with the agony of dawn
And this fragile sighing which aches
            with the constant denying
Of this star-bruised memory,
            of a throbbing sorrow,
                        a dreamsickness,
That tingles to the marrow
            and is rapid as a stream’s quickness
Fools that follow a faltering fate,
            a weary-woven tapestry of
                        of stasis and momentum
            that no light can penetrate

The Intention

I used to think,

they are with me,

here is an apple,

I used to be here.

You used to drink

from the water well

when nothing was

at all the matter with

the tap, was picturesque

in being itself,

nothing at all,

and I thought,

here is occasion

to occasion it,

which stirs

with that risk.

              Eliot Cardinaux, January 18th, '11

Through a Two-Way Mirror

You, walking away

have never more my love,

be gone, say,

for a while.

Many birds

hinge on

self-sacrifice

and stray,

exile – would it be

and superficially

to love another?

I, with my void

am not,

carrying this weight

more than it is

and wonder, if this is.

    Eliot Cardinaux, January 17th, '11

"The Dust," "The Worry" (Eliot Cardinaux)

  The Dust

The dust stirs

as it stirs,

simple and quiet,

all around me.

The voice

of the speaker,

many miles

away,

I feel that emptiness

surround me,

like a nothingness

I just can’t

ignore, but I don’t want to ask,

are you feeling that way too?

And I like this fear,

this moment held above the earth,

hovering like a note on a violin

before all hell breaks loose.




                        January 13^th, ’11

  The Worry

In this room, like pictures

in a foggy way

it gets too dark to stay

and all the travelers part and ask

which way? 

Did you follow

them so crooked-

ly I ask and watch

the seasons wither voluntarily

the skin of a picture, not a picture

no, but a way that always seems

to go, vulnerable

ability, and ask,

these parting ways

it seems are more than laughing

where the meaning strays?




                        January 16^th, ’11

A Swarm of Bees (Eliot Cardinaux)

  A swarm of bees

It becomes an anomaly
like Hanny's Voorwerp,
this twisting rope of gas
or tidal tail,

the theorist, or other-
wise, who becomes
and twists its tale
is now the light behind.

The quasar too
has much its part
in this greater mouth
universe

which swallows
it or simply hums,
like that tune that ears
make up, from parts of  
   what is whole.

And God, how small am I
to be smaller still
encapsulated
by an ear

who's often heard
the parts of this anatomy
that trail as words
still lit by light

but older
having traveled
and stood still
like honey in a clouded
   glass.


                        January 15^th, ’11