Читать книгу an inkstorm summoned under live oak we dreamed - daniel boonelight - Страница 19

no linguistics expert am i but every word

for beautiful starts with a burst of air

from the front of someone's mouth

put that against the several words for sever

with snakelike starts

and it's like looking at an open grave

with a tree growing out

and i'd climb every time onto those first branches

of besottedness with a burst of air

in my lungs big enough to float

the glints of beauty are

strikeswift hammers that beat the brain meat

the perfunctory glaze on a moment,

they're seeds on a bagel,

and either fall off into nowhere

or give a forgettable texture to the inevitably

bigger

but scar tissue is a whole nother story

there are as many kinds of scar tissue

as donuts in jersey, as regrets in vegas

and interesting like thirsty, and quiet like records

it's certainly meaningfully besoughtlessly possessed

i feel like i linger once flesh filled with ink

in some primal propaganda i'd once swear was identity

but thenbliged to scapel the whole damn thing out

and not knowing which was greater the pain:

the nerves in prosaic alarm and defense, or

the being unable to anymore claim that to be

what once was me, was once what me

maybe i was just as fresh green and stupid

but i used to fight for a word with a bird

whose feathers not a displacement of symmetry held

o these days i'd trade conversation in a heartbeat

with a heart that knows beats whose trials scars do meld

there're hands from jumped fences

in reckless precarious & whimsical chase

of the breathless enchantedly new curiosity

from someone so soul-saving there's no time to waste

and years thereafter in the stillness of a chair

it's the quietest smile from the scar of life lived there

i've known the remains like a flag of survival

from a country surrounding the vitals and breast

it was years sacrificing when she should be flying

it took everyone's cells it took every last breath

but you see stardust sacred so damn meant to be living

with encirclements of hands like kid people cut-outs

and suddenly in places where bikinis

lend mundane status

there is vulnerably gorgeously human-fought-bout

so while i gouge out my former identity

and slowly climb higher in this dusty old tree

i know that the difference between

scar tissue resented and scar tissue beautiful

is forgiveness

forgiveness

forgiveness

in me