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gate(less) poetics

Twilight Vision

8/24/2023

Con/Jur/d

Aug 24, 2023

Other Lives
8/23/2023, Con/Jur/d

As soon as memories are made
they begin to slip into someone else's
fingers, toes, legs, groin, gut
heart, throat, tongue

While the mediating skull
pretends to be the absolute
craftsman, god, architect 

(as the yellow/white
defined by absence words like sockets
strings the dead flies found 
between the twilight window and screen
along a long (yet, shorter-than-hoped-for)
silver thread, refracting pink
in the crepuscular glow)

Holds up a pearl necklace saying "
Look, at this singular story, all these
precious moments (the index distal phalanx
TAPS down gently, quiets a slight buzzing)
are yours, it'd be a shame to lose them"

At some point
maybe now, possibly before, but if after

we show you
the thread is gilded, even the spider who spun
it moved on, the skull is seen to be an unrefined 
paper mache of fallen leaves and mud 
reliant on a particular angle between shadow
and Sun, while who you were 
isn't stealing from who you are
it helps

if you see this transaction
as a gifting of then

       (What do you need them for anyway?
          You can’t take them to where you’re going
           can you?)

Apparently, you're inconvincible

So, let me ask you, old friend
when our hands, eyes, lips touch

to whom
does this memory belong?

Much love,

Con/Jur/d, 8/24/2023