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» Hatrack River Forum » Active Forums » Books, Films, Food and Culture » The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case. (Page 7)

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Author Topic: The mirror is the fall, the trap, and the case.
deerpark27
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I wanted to start over
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Mr. Y
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quote:
Originally posted by deerpark27:
I wanted to start over

Well... you did just turn to a new page.
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deerpark27
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Imago
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deerpark27
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I want to come at it all this time
from a different perspective,
like a butterfly that turns back
to consider its chrysalis,
pupaetic:
the shape of what was and what would be
though still surprised
by the wing flaps,
all this staggering
in thin air
etc.

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Unmaker
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Yay! You're back. Lovely. Now I get to share with you as well. Here's a poem from my forthcoming collection Shattering and Bricolage (Ink Brush Press).

Dark Blot

Strange how such a small dark blot
On so thin a rectangle of film
Should so easily wrench open the sluices of despair.
I hold it to the light, squinting,
My heart already absent from my chest,
A fledging fled before the forest burns.

You rasp some weak assertion,
Your normal boldness drained
Like a drought-stricken lake
By innervating possibilities.
I hear the word abortion
And my mind tilts off its axis.

Water on the brain. An absurd phrase,
Not nearly ominous enough.
Hydrocephalusóthe Latin weighs heavy,
Like the arcane pronouncements
Of a judge or priest, the thundering decree
Of an imperious divinity.

I insist on a second opinion,
Even as you flip through a medical text
You picked up at the library,
Moaning like a mother already bereft
When you see those bulging skulls,
Those empty eyes.

Termination. Youíre adamant. Resolute.
A childhood spent as a schizophrenicís sister
Has robbed you of the will, the compassion,
To raise such a shattered child. Or perhaps
You know a compassion I canít, an existential
Love that halts suffering before it begins.

When we learn the baby is fine,
That its umbilical cord passes over its head
Like the twining dastar of a pious Sikh,
First relief creeps into our eyes, then guilt.
We never couldíve done it, we assure each other.
But we know. We know what we are.

(First published in Red River Review)

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deerpark27
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Termination.
Strange blot,
I hold it to my heart,
our forest burns and my mind
tilted off its axis knows
we do not know
what might be.

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deerpark27
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I found the arrow you shot straight up into the sky.
Some elm tree had collapsed forcing me off the trail, and I saw the red feather buried in the dead-fall.
I slid it out easily, and I stuck it through the grommets of my old hat, a kind of joke.
You wanted blood that night, but instead you shot straight up at the stars, the moon, the sky and we all survived.
The stitching of those constellations,
the wide open eye of heaven.

You fletcher you.

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deerpark27
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And then I woke up, sweating,
trapped inside a fart cloud.
My poetics of flatulence
had, until then, hinged
on my long dead mother's lingering 'fluffies',
but this girl, well, she was a creationist,
and could hardly be blamed for this putrid dawn--
this unpunctuated disequilibrium.

[ May 27, 2014, 11:38 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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Unmaker
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Another from Shattering and Bricolage

Craft

Sometimes Iím a thief,
Sneaking into the House of Holy Writ,
Cracking open dusty tomes,
Breaking thick wax seals,
Rolling open ancient scrolls,
Stealing those heavenly lexemes,
Jotting down furtive phrases
Before slipping guilty
Back into my benighted life.

Sometimes Iím an explorer,
Plying vast, amorphous seas
Of primal thought,
Anchoring at dark atolls,
Scanning alien constellations,
Scrying sluggish sargassoes
That undulate like the torpid tresses
Of naiads and sirens
For visceral, unspoken truths.

Sometimes Iím a wanderer,
Lost in trackless deserts
Of shifting, homogenous past,
Falling for every empty mirage,
Foolishly avoiding each oasis,
Till I stumble onto the ruins
Of long-abandoned monuments
Lifted in naÔvetť by some forgotten me.
I make rubbings of opaque glyphs
And hope to decipher my own dead tongue.

Sometimes Iím a hunter,
Pursuing multi-syllabic prey
Across savannahs, through dense jungles,
Glimpsing mottled hides
As they sleekly leap and blur
Amidst the undergrowth and vines.
With luck I finally corner one
And send my bolt whizzing home,
Only to display the prize like a taxidermist,
All vital magic drained away.

Sometimes, though, Iím a child at play
Beneath the autumn trees,
And, oh! the leaves that scatter down
Upon my youthful head:
Reds and golds and burnished browns,
Piling higher and higher
Till, laughing, I can hold back no more
And I dive into drifts
Of perfect words.

(First published in Red River Review

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deerpark27
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Dont'chyano?
There are no words
for this:
(The stone's thrown)

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cmc
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years have past,
my heart has grown.

milk stains in a coffee cup
still catch my eye.

i remember cabins in woods
with shadows creeping ever closer...

i remember footfalls on stairs with one shoe on, one shoe off...

caught that stone. had a memory of mine i'm sorry i forgot.

missed the word play, the shadows falling slowly over the greatest dually played words of my life.

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Unmaker
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The stone's throne:
a well-worn depression in the grass
where attendant ants and worms
keep encroaching weeds
at bay.

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cmc
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A life on pages turned by time and different fingers
left only to the interpretation of
someone else's view of how it really might have been

Dangling, like other articles of speech or
branches of flower bushes growing in a yard
a home for a butterfly just waiting
to spread it's wings and learn to fly.

Regrets are the solid footing for a life lived
more fully once the moments leading up to them are understood.

Angels get their wings everytime

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deerpark27
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Consider this road
going nowhere
so quickly,
and you with an Empire apple,
cool from the fridge
and a stick of bright orange
Black Diamond cheddar,
like one of those birds,
moving with certainty
across the land.

[ July 14, 2014, 11:33 AM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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cmc
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All roads lead somewhere,
although they might not welcome you.

Apples, oranges
Oil, water
Night, day

Both fruit.
Both hold the rainbow.
Both show the sun's light.

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Unmaker
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subtle shifts in the
magnetic halo of the
world nudge
birds across the land:

what imperceptible
forces guide you
from kitchen to
sofa to car to wood

and what baroque
organ helps you
sense the soft puffs
of eldritch breath?

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deerpark27
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With tears
we flutter up,
the nest comes down,
we start again
with certainty.

[ July 18, 2014, 01:32 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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cmc
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Tides change,
pulling at times so hard
they almost seem to push
the same push that leads the wind
to gently shove a nest to the ground
leaving their former habitants to give up or
Rebuild, while blinking back tears and accepting
some questions never get answered.

Questions such as how a breath can be caught
in a chest for a time only to be
exhaled while a simlutateous emotion flows down
the cheek that tried to hold it in.

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cmc
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Windblown moments of now hold
three generations of building, building,
Rebuilding
Each build echoing the other long enough
to make it stick.

Storms send sorrow,
Deletion delivers despair,
Hope heals hearts.

Things are what you could buy
with treasures you might have earned
meeting people who mean the most to you.

Hold your breath long enough
to make the exhale matter.
Learn the lay of the land well enough
to remember what matters most
When the time comes to rebuild.

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deerpark27
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And when, for me, it wasnít true anymore,
it was for you, at least that's how
I like to remember (now I can see):
my broad shoulders
and how I would stand there admired and speechless;
who knew the future, the sound of shaving
while saying to myself: ďWhere did you go?"
and rubbing my face in the mirror--
We vanished together,
into these days and these nights
of shrunken shoulders.

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cmc
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Time away from all things changes them...

Shoulders become more or less broad,
more heavy with burdon,
worn and tired with age.
What they were and could have been doesn't change.

Whiskers are more fickle things...
The day before is easily forgotten with
one flick of the razor.

Time itself is a fleeting thing
where minutes spent lived
become hours reflected upon
(in a mirror or otherwise):

Shoulders are not only for being broad,
They are for leaning against
when only one set isn't enough.

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cmc
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And so, when a shoulder sags
or shrugs
and whiskers grow long with time

There's a mirror ready -
on the bureau or
above the sink with
recessed shelves hidden behind it
waiting to reflect
what's there today

(with a too long stare,
many of yesterday's memories:
filled with stairs, birds far or near,
echoes of words we once imagined or
believed enough to speak,
shadows growing long,
images of what someday might hold).

A mirror catching moments of now just enough
to remind its subject to place
one foot on a stair step,
the other in a short-lived dream,
the next into tomomorrow

[ August 07, 2014, 09:14 PM: Message edited by: cmc ]

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deerpark27
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"You can see the fish in this light," beneath the surface. They're just suspended there, above the weeds. Maybe their mouths are open and they're waiting for the current to bring a tasty morsel in, who knows. There's a bunch of rocks too, good spot for fishing.

I'm just tapping the canal's railing with a piece of bark, it'll be a souvenir now. I'm playing a sort of samba with a cold wind accompanying, little flakes of wood flying off all over.

I've lost count of how many steps it's taken to get this far, which is unusual, since I'm a step-counter. There's that dancing wind again.

"I hate walking in circles," you say, "can't we just go back? We'll jaywalk--go back along the canal," which makes a lot of good old crazy sense, given the terrifying perimeter. Backtrack.

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cmc
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A dam between two lakes holds
28 years of memories for just one family
Heaven knows how many fish have stopped for
a nibble that was just enought to capture the worm or
a big enough bite to become the next fish fry

How many feet have passed across the caged rocks,
the counted logs,
the gated posts...
How many steps did it take for them to
say they made it there
With enough left in them to find that point...
The point that juts out just far enough to jump into the shallow water
The point that sits just high enough to take a stomach and put it in a throat
The point that feels like freedom when
the second foot shoves off with only air beneath it...

Four seconds of wind and a moment of freedom...

Swim to the shore, circle complete.

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cmc
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There are books that teach their readers
about life laying dormant for years,
Only to come back more suited for the life woken up in.

They're the same as a butterfly,
waiting until the time is right to burst through
the thing they having keeping them comforted, whole, content
Sure enough that this can be the time to become.

Pigeons find food. Milk finds a coffee. Sunset finds the one the sky was painted for. Brian finds a moment for himself. The stairs find another coat of paint. The abandonded car finds a beatnic mechanic with a new project in mind. The cabin in the woods finds hope. The flower pot finds a new bloom. The shoe finds its mate. The writer hopes they find another verse...

Words are only words until someone reads them.
Play isn't play unless the players enjoy it.
This world is only ours as long as we claim it.

For the words, thank you.
For the play, thanks for the lessons.
For the world...

[ August 27, 2014, 10:35 PM: Message edited by: cmc ]

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deerpark27
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"No one can hear you
Curse the gods in the forest
When your heart is dark."
(spacepook, 2014)

You'll find yourself asking "Should I go on or turn back?" You shouldn't stay. They'll tell you they heard you come in.

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cmc
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A ready forest of ever,
your dark heart might be revealed.

Words of contest wake the sleeping minds,
alarm calling out to those who are.

Turn back for complacency of now?
Never.

Stay until the good fight is finished.

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deerpark27
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It's the same story.
Windigo, etc.
I thought I saw a black panther way up in the crown of a burned out pine tree. It was probably a bear. But still, it was frightening at that hour, in that place. I should've turned back, worked my way back through the bog but it was too late. A fire had burned this unexpected clearing, this hole in the forest, and I figured the panther reigned over it all; and with the moonrise, I should've turned back, turned away from the burn but instead I began to work my way through the dead trees now impossibly white in the dusk. The panther and I, we vanished together.

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cmc
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Same story.

Every. Time.

Clearings and forests nicely placed aren't nearly
Reality...

With it's shattered dreams.

A life on paper, or pixels, is lived only as far as they reach.

Vanish, or thrive.

Pixels, paper, person.

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cmc
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Find a place with laughter then
hold onto it.

Hold onto it more.

Find a place with whispered stories speaking mostly that
I Love You
even though silly other-words get in the way

Hold on to it.

Find a moment you felt complete then
hold on to it with everything there is to hold on with...

That is the best story.

The story worth repeating.

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deerpark27
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Matryoshka!
The hollow doll
who opens and opens,
her upturned bells waver
on the kitchen table
until I reach
the heartwood.

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cmc
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Today, well yesterday really,
a man my partner grew up with and
loved and spent summers in places with dams and lakes and so many fish to catch

took his life.

This home has a heaviness settled on it
that probably pales in comparison to the heaviness in
the heart that stopped tonight.

Words can't capture the sadness.
Text can't relay the heartache.

Such a precious thing,
friendship,
life.

Next time, in the Crow's Nest,
on the porch where your name's carved,
the fish will be caught for you...
the moment will be savored for you...

Roger that...

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deerpark27
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Spacecraft

-3-

The rocket blasted off. A binary star rose. People were lonely in space. They tried to make friends. They really did. Of course, they told stories, but it didn't matter because in space everything else mattered too much. Who would have guessed? You? Weightless too long, you can barely lift a phaser to your temple.

-2-

He squeezed and nothing happened. He squeezed again, staring with mild perplexity down the crystalline barrel, but this time incinerated his left ear and opened the predictable gaping hole in the hull of the vessel. He had been the last person on Earth to drink a beer by engulfing the top of the bottleneck in his mouth instead of pressing it gently onto pursed and thirsty lips.

-1-

Remember when Colonel Alexis Leonov left the capsule and floated in space for ten minutes at the end of a light line? The general public was greatly impressed by the spectacular and emotional aspect of this sortie into the void. From the loudspeaker his voice crackled: "The vast cosmos is visible to me in all its indescribable beauty; in the black sky the sun shines brilliantly, and I feel its warmth on my face through my helmet window." (And all you remember is how he relaxed in the gardens at Baikonur, a few days before the flight.)

Go.

And so when we open the lower panel, preparing to leave the capsule, drawing ourselves slowly through the air-lock and with a light push moving away from the spacecraft, notice how the small thrust given as we leave imparts a slight angular motion to the capsule; see the vehicle rotating slowly below us; see the heavy door in the open position: perfect.

[ October 24, 2014, 11:33 PM: Message edited by: deerpark27 ]

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cmc
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Life on Earth seems so ordinary, fractured and overwhelming at times...

-3-

Listen to stories or find a quiet corner to float, weightless. Maybe find a space with lonliness, honest solitude to catch a thought with no reverb, might be nice. The time to find your actual self with no noise, then discover a friend to make with the person you found...

-2-

The mulligan untaken. The beer best left unsipped... Holes in hearts last longer than the one from a bullet.

-1-

Warmth from the sun on a face, no matter the distance between, is a reminder to enjoy a hammock, plant seeds, water early, wear a hat, find shade in mid-day, enjoy now...

Go.

Perfection is an illusion.

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cmc
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This.

Now.

Not last week or even three years ago.

Now.

Moments of remeber this sock on this foot with no shoe become meaningless when time changes things to

now.

Remeber what it feels like to step in soft, freshly cut grass, look up and see a sky with whispy white clouds, gathering into the ones you want to play with - turning them into shapes you remember...

The shapes change.
Know your destination.

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cmc
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Today at five-thirty a little girl woke up wanting to start the day.

Her mother said - "It's the middle of the night, snuggle in, it's too early for morning" as the sky was still dark and the house seemed to still be sleeping.

She snuggled down to finish the night's sleep in her parents' bed (one dad removed to the couch, one mom removed to an edge of a large bed) which seemed to be much bigger than herself for an hour or so...

When she woke, shaking the sleep and lovely blonde hair from her eyes she said - "I had the best dream. I was in school in space. Remember my Aunt who's M's mom? She was there... sharing me a yellow-orange ball and told me to go play with it. That was a great dream."

Spacecraft sometimes come back to earth.

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