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betrayal

betrayal

the death of his unborn son,
for the stonemason
it felt like a betrayal.

death was to be
a professional matter,
something to take place
in the realm of his customers,
who commissioned him
with carving memorial stones
for their dead,
not something to occur
in his own private life.

does not every profession
come with a privilege?
was it unreasonable
to expect a reprieve from death
as long as he carved memorials,
folded hands, lamenting angels?

he felt he had been let down
though by whom
he could not have said.

an atheist
in the service of the church,
loosing his unborn son
felt like a disciplinary measure
for his godlessness.

he had a system of inner convictions
unacknowledged rituals,
replacing religion.
he held on to the sacred
in the profane
he did not believe in a creator,
an organizer, a final judge,
and yet
he knew to have fallen from grace.

and no place to handle his complaint.

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Ez 9:4-6 KJV

IMG_5724

eliminating comforting words
seems an appropriate strategy
to counter the hours
relentlessly expanding
the fabric of the mind
between midnight and dawn.

left behind are words with letters
like ceramic blades
well suited to cut
sharp silhouettes into the darkness.
tau, Ez 9:4-6, KJV, they read,
but no comprehension follows.

Slay utterly old and young,
both maids, and little children,
and women
but come not near any man
upon whom is the mark.
let not your eye spare, neither have ye pity.

old testament, yet one eternal god,
this is the fabric of the mind, a thin membrane.

clearly, another cut is needed
to calculate the rate of emission
of radiant energy, radiant flux,
electromagnetic radiation
emitted by charged particles
while traveling through space.

light is
beyond that dark membrane
of the mind’s fabric,
serving as a selective barrier
between origin and time.

compared with the luminosity
seeping through those merciless cuts
i am
but an ordinary lie.

 

and so,

forsaking conventional wisdom,

i cut out letters of sober inquiry

with ceramic precision,

exchanging the comfort of an ordinary lie

for the shimmering beauty

of inconsequential pain.

 

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transitional typeface

transitional typeface

dancing trees
the wind’s in a capricious mood today
writing in fluid script
with sharpened branches,
ink black against the grey sky

the message reads itself

letters legible
against the light of a sky
illuminating the thin calligraphy
of the wind
like an algorithm
flickering on a computer screen

the program writes itself

and the i observing
how letters are spun
out of branches
sharp like pencil tips

feels thin
elongated

a simple serife
tailing from the edge
of a letter.
i, a transitional typeface,
spelling the rational spirit
of enlightenment.

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Newton to Heisenberg

Newton to Heisenberg

What would you have me
Embroider on my dress
Or my coat?
And would it quell that sense of outrage
That haunts you?

What confession would you
Have me deliver
Or sign?
And would it satisfy your desire
To prove yourself?

(and to whom)

Which ideas would you have me
recant
Or change?
Would it give you a sense of safety
If I stated that
What should not be possible
Will not take place?

(as all children ask in the dark)

Too late, my friend.
The words have been said.
The deed’s done.
A door has been opened.
And there is a rip in the fabric
Of your three dimensions
Admitting a fourth
And a fifth

And so on.

I would gladly give you a hand
To help you find your way
From Newton to Heisenberg
But you see
I already slipped through
That rip
And I just don’t feel
Like coming back.

You’ll be fine.

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genius

Bild

tarnished brass bracelets jingle on your wrists,

over your shoulder you carry

the same scratched leather satchel

full of papers and books.

worn sandals on naked feet.

even now,

i recognize you in an instant.

 

it’s winter.

you keep well in the background.

between shelves M-Z in biographies

you are not at risk.

 

you have had your share of abuse

and are weary of it,

though not afraid.

 

the red letters of a franchise bar

reflect in the deep black tar

of a recently paved parking lot.

another new strip mall.

the evening is patiently enduring

the loneliness of a friday night.

 

people climb out of sport utility vehicles

half the size of their houses, i assume,

and file into the barnes & noble

for a grande non fat latte

and some magazines or bestseller titles

to while away the hours.

 

and you, in the background,

leafing through

a mussorgski biography.

how in the world this got there

you can’t imagine,

then Frank Zappa,

but that’s not why you came.

 

finally, your head clears.

you carefully deposit yourself

in an armchair.

still, no one pays attention.

the anxiety subsides.

the numbers start dancing.

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common delight

common delight

in the beginning they had been one
undivided
one delight, one breath, one presence

looking at each other they had found
the same spark of life
that was flickering in their own mind
light the other’s eye

reaching for each other there had been
no more division between both of their fingers, touching,
than between their own two hands

but the small gods divided them
for the price of a name
and grammar

I shall henceforth be called I
and you shall be called you
and there shall be common delight
one breath, one presence, one light
no more

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The stone mason

The stone mason

He had seen them in the far off distance of the long street that moved towards the shop. Something in their movement had caught his attention. Two tall men moving oddly synchronically, not just the spacing and timing of the steps but all of their body movements seemed synchronized to exact, mechanical elegance. Both were dressed in black suits but wore no shirts. It was this odd detail that convinced him that they were coming to see him. Two men in black suits without shirts. Their faces were of a faint grey with sharp contours, very similar to each other like fraternal twins, their hair of the same shimmering raven black, held back with a tight ponytail. The suits accentuated their movements in the subtle way only an expensive fabric would and that could be mistaken for the confidence of its owner.
Both had light, almost dancing steps, yet one of them was clad in heavy, dusty work boots, the other in leather strap sandals. Upon entering his small front yard they parted ways and, abandoning their synchronical steps, started inspecting the sculptured that populated the yard, each on his own. He knew then that they had not come to commission a funerary stone. One of them bent over the mirror of the black granite and gravely studied his own reflection. Turned sideways and slightly stooped over, his shoulder blades protruded sharply under the fine fabric of his suit. His partner was reading the inscription on Linus Lindvall, as if he had been asked to pay special attention to it and was just now recording his impressions in his unfailing mind. The stonemason felt cold. He noticed that the sky had changed from a gay cerulean blue to a diffuse silver grey glare. He squinted his eyes.

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Uncle Gustave

Uncle Gustave

wearing a black ribboned straw hat, gustave,
uncle gustave,
slowly walked down our street
with the help of an ivory colored walking cane,
vulnerable, yet erect like a king who
though victoriously
has fought his last battle and now
has nothing left to prove.

 

he left his sun yellow house with the forest green shutters
at exactly 2.10 pm every day the weather was fair
to an agonizingly slow approach of his bench.
even the birds stopped twittering and held their breath
as he was passing by
for fear to startle him.

 

his bench: dark green under an old chestnut tree,
facing away from the the bay, towards the street.
he carefully sat down, pulling up the legs of his dark suit,
and i climbed onto the bench right next to him,
but threading my legs through the wooden lattice of the back rest
i saw the silver water of the bay, the light caught in the crescents
of the small waves the undercurrent stirred up.
he looked at the street, I looked at the bay,
and we were silent
or talked in low, whispering voices.

 

we both knew he was dying,
right there and then,
and then for some more days to come.
we did not mind,
neither the three nor the ninety-three year old,
i had not been alive for the longest part
of his life,
and he would be dead for the longest
time of mine.

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map of a brain on fire

map of a brain on fire

i will write up the contract
entitling you to
a map of my brain, that world on fire,
almost like the contract
we roughly sketched with a yellow pencil stub
(for authenticity)
on the ripped-out fly-leaf
of the iliad in my grandfather’s study.
(sacrilege!)

we were children then
but that is not an excuse

i will write up the contract,
not for nothing
did i go to law school to learn how to
negotiate that what cannot be agreed upon,
how to arrange the terms of a transaction
that is to lead to mutual discontent,
for content is not to be gained through negotiation
and mutual discontent will have to do

we were children no more then
but that is not an excuse

your signature stands in for
your body so it better be water proof ink.
maybe we were smarter still
when we used that yellow pencil stub
to draw a contract
that neither of us meant to honor.
we were pirates after all.

children do grow up
but that is not an excuse

so let us sign it in waterproof ink then,
against our better judgment.
here is your letter of entitlement,
all i ask in return is
the right to keep that old flyleaf,
signed in pencil.

good luck to you now.
i forgot to inform you
that this kind of contract cannot be
specifically enforced,
but then again,
you didn’t care for the flyleaf,
did you.

we are but children.
and that shall be our only excuse.

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nothing

nothing

some people say depression is night, but night it is not as it is nothing. some say it is darkness but darkness is smooth and depression cuts with a blunt knife.

some assert depression is descent but it has no direction. some people say” i have it” but really but it can’t be had, it can only have you. some people say they came out of it but you can’t come out of it for it is rooted deep inside you.

some claim that it is an enemy but an enemy it is not, it is you yourself in a cunning disguise and with your own voice reverberating through the hollows of your brain that whoever you are, whatever you do will amount to – nothing.

so. why.even.try.