there's one season, only,

winter, bare bone on desert floor, not even the memory
of meat, and to have lived among juices, what was that?,
rumor of feathery life long gone since, urge of growth in
seed head, languorous exchange of green, cicada as portal
to evening meditation, all buried in fetal sleep, as though
they=d never been, sweet descent as consolation, pitch
beyond knowing, floor beneath conception, finality with-
out cause, yet one would dream, as bone would wrap
itself once more in storied flesh, would do it over again
only this time without the interference, the bad ass dam
breaks, confusions, cataleptic abyss, you can almost see
it rise before you, a presence in the midst, and straighten,
stand, or rotate as a planet, perhaps a reason to have
been living all along, but when you reach for it, it's gone.

 

Death blossoms in oblivion

Each petal, soft as silken purse to thumb, returns the
luster of darkness beneath hammered gold, the stare in
eye, each whispers your nearest name, and is then silent.
Cars and trucks round the curve into deepest winter's
night (I woke wondering what is it, that rush I heard, the
wind! What does my father hear just this side of that
which opens to exclude him? Scorpioidal cyme, the whole
inflorescence
curved on itself, like space, both there and
not there, where he sits beneath its pitch of sheer, takes
nothing in. Shims between a golden door and unfurling
of oblivion. Or takes in every blessed thing, his face a
screen, reflection, an empty basket. Death shuffles the
deck again and again. He never seems to tire of his stupid
joke. Has all the living globe as audience, attentive.

 

frost

crisps rot, the dead beast bristles once again, merely
a hiccup in the infinite winter of his non-existence?,
perhaps, where is any point the center, whose circle is
everywhere?, it is the mind creates the finite (oh is it?),
solely singular for the singleness, the self who would for
others do but this, is dipped in frozen swamp, staked out
to wait the dawn (it's going to be a long night!), why not
shoot the elves and eat the buggers raw?, cold rock in its
mind, the yard a frozen crust of pie, blossom as zero left
to burn, camilla petals curling into ripe oblivion, locks
rot in fallen fruit, we are gas at core, in our lively corpse,
or nothing if not noxious fumes and wayward eye, a cave
of echoes, friendships, loves, whatever was begotten,
lost, a coma at the center of the earth, this its silent sign

 

And in the end there's no end but forgetting
BMayer

begins shredding plans, then desire to plan. future gone,
it devours past. memories dim in shade, darken, cast a
burnished sheen against the pit, and then are gone, as
though they'd never been. saves present for last, all but
the very moment on which you float, a circular plain,
billowy period on its back, thank god you fit. it's infinite.
there's not even water below. no distance. like slowly e-
rasing yourself til you disappear or discover a pattern be-
neath the scribblings of what's-going-on-right-now. but
everyone's someone else again and all you got left are
your obsessions, and the pain. yellow of parrot's beak.
woman's claw. animals in her neck. running savanna of
flesh. what's she sitting on is gone. you continue. til you
don't. what hole at the end of descent? what whiteness?

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