Poem A Day - Tumblr Posts
preface to a traffic stop: sound
By. Randall Horton
i always thought sound was meant to indicate a kinda genuine, authentic, absolute individuation, which struck me as A: undesirable—& B: damn near impossible. whereas sound was reality in the midst of this intense engagement with all the sound you ever heard. sound shaped within a climate inciting performance as black matter .or. anti matter, as in against. sound a central body of “sonic” whereas you struggle to make a difference, so to speak, within that sound—& that difference isn’t necessarily about you as an individual but more simply trying to augment & differentiate the sound around you getting closer & closer to a never-ending where you are the proletariat in somebody else’s melodrama as both spectacle and spectator—as the drama unfolds—hold—hold on.
The bark and stones are yellow In the dim afternoon light - Overgrown with pink rashes (like scar tissues) Dripping ichor from half-finished thoughts Onto sacred ground. Metal vines hold plastic flowers To teach them that plastic can wilt. (Hanging cages hold captive suns.)
They sit in animal thrones Of black skin and bones Wearing heavy mantles Of woven autumn skies And they look upon the votive bowl's Ocre ceramic And the ivy's drying leaves, painted onto the bowl " It is thirsty," they say as they stand.
They walk down the hall Further down still through the dark narrow passage Of the sleeping cave - Rotting fruits pile at the bottom of the walls, Until they reach the grey dust path. Dust covers their feet - it smells Of old coins and wet stones. Not a word falls from their lips.
They reach the archway At the entrance of a black grass clearing Perfectly circular, dotted with Bundles of whiteflower navelworts. They walk down the path to the well at the center Holding their cloak against their skin - It is not cold outside, But they feel the cold still.
They throw the bucket off the edge Dark wood covered in moss and Discolored patches. They lower it carefully with the rough, heavy rope (For the rope is getting old and the bucket as well). The calluses on their hands Rubbing against the strands of the heavy rope As they hear the wood limply hit the dirt.
"The well is dry", they think. And as the bucket comes back It is (sure enough) empty, only wet With mud and silt. So they walk back, back through the woods On the grey dust path. "In the shed, we might still find One of our old spells." But they had forgotten that The shed is gone, and the spells as well.
So they walk back Through the eerily empty streets - Through the halls And caves that sleep, Up to the altar with the ceramic bowl. Into the throne they sit, whispering wordless apologies. Closing their eyes - they watch as the ivy wilts - Trapped in a temple that they themselves built.
27/09/24
I am looking for a Truth cut in colored glass That will never grow cold - Precious words caught in ice That know to remain light Shining the winter's morn - For this quiet truth That can stay perfectly still, And maybe not grow bitter When I am old or ill.