The senses are yours to compose a world of beauty with the might of your mind.
Contents
. repose . recoil . rigour . resplendence
Resplendence
to shine
to be beautiful
to glow with splendour
DREAM
This morning (it rained)
I must have nearly died
for (behind REM eyes) in my sleep
I dreamed of an entire life
with few things no body could tame
with the blame of their exonerated shame
for the pity they failed to exhale from their soul
a dream has little to do with what we think
when there’s no photo
but pure happiness
honesty and heart
that sort of pure leaves no room for
dwelling in the past or even
what kind of stand is used to rest our hats on
most breath instead of fixations
permeate the energy for changing
the imperfect, and loved
(reflects ourselves at a level)
so when we look back at what could be
we care not for
any sort of tear that could sneak down the cheek
there’s no rack for despair
in this dream
only a feeling the vision is shared
inside the soul of a gentleman
(sweetly) seeking to also love
so sincerely.
TUNED TO THE SAME BEAT
Please, please, please- pretty please
oh won't this you I’ve grown accustomed to
remain an acquaintance tuned to the melodic frequency
rhythmically synched within
beat, the beat, the resonating thump musters a bump
in my chest cavity, a well chimed in a personal journey
in sigil to the a could
may dwell long enough to become a would
instead of bound by what I should
rhyme, a rhyme- rhyming with time
suddenly incapable of escaping my mind
the down and nearly out is barely looked upon
or considered
stride, stride, as I stride along
creating a vibratory humming sound
with vocals prepped
ready to burst into song
flown, blown, and sewn
into a great lakes bluster
of a city suburbanites go heading in
travel towards
an illusory escape from the reality
those invisible lines are drawn between
lives all the same.
PIECES OF TOGETHER
It's been forty minutes in a bumper to bumper
head to tail-light situation
Mellowed by some new age woodwind tunes
I safely sit strapped to my means to see him machine
hurling now through this existential continuum
at mile per hour speeds of which I shy from mentioning
occasionally muttered under my methylated breath
knowing my arrival stems
approximately five minutes earlier than planned
I resign to the velocity in which I remain in a whole piece
temporarily and tenderly reminiscing of a morning
from a recent experience induced of a drug
no market could make followed by the picture
I mentally made in the pancakes as flowers blooming
between the tines of my fork
this gesture made a fullness of wonderment
in the absence of being witnessed
miniature moments allowed everyday redundancy
to seem brighter than the analytical appreciation
I had bitten off with a degree
righted by the wrong worry of thoughts
misconstrued for meaning amongst the lot
possibly provoked by a pace comfortably patterned
in the grid of our universe we stopped to find
travel times assuming saner speeds
allowing the trigger of a parking break lever
on the verge of snap
a much needed nap.
INCONCLUSIVE
Today I sat and thought awhile
no-wait, I ran in circles around a theory
about the separation between the body and mind
always vying for first in line.
inquiring at which is better or worse,
and found out quite finely the notion
was intentional in its quotient for existential angst
such distractions about perceptions of glasses
full, empty, half, or what angle
have little to do with the particles
constituting air and mass
formed whether we think about them
or not at last
our subjectivity forms
a solipsism for existence
when objects become mental events
for tyrants pulling the strings
you can forget about what you thought you knew
since reasoning has a logic
the so called universe could care less about
as the physics tends to the billions grass blades
sprouted and bent beneath daily chores and rituals
our minds are given less weight
in the contexts of a situation on repeat
unresolved as if a dream
or a memory had nary much a difference.
PANTS
Seams running miles of inches beyond
the heels that shifted from
grinding the ground
into an inhale-able substance
the dust brings our bodies back to reality
in time the miles of walking out now
become white-out between the lines
of a story blocked-out
the memory underlies the stickiness of the substance
if only the truth could be trusted to be known
would we dive in knowing someone would save us
if drowning was a real risk and offer a towel?
to pat temples of fear sweat drops
dry in time for the dance party
we could serenade each other around
a rolled up towel
for example —
to erase the weight of the memories
our dancing legs try to erase
through the memories the scent our sweat carries.
WIND
An abrupt shift in pace. A weekend of inspiration,
forgetting expectations,
exceeding limitations,
the wind I loathed so long and so much,
may have done — all the good.
© Mari Amman
Poetry, Prose &Suche VOL III.
First edition 2023, electronic distribution. Text and Images by Mari Amman.
The poems contained within this volume were drafted circa 2006-2009, in Chicago, USA, and edited during spring 2023 in Paris, France, with the enormous support of The Trélex Residency.
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