glimpse of a song through scattered echoes

this scatteredness I wake up with
stays with me as water washes away sleep
and our digitalized echoes of eternity
fill this room, breaking the heart
going with me as I leave

the Buick coughs up a rubber lung
the smoke of utility floods the road momentarily
the red tape holding together
the smashed-up brake light blanches
and the day already in progress
welcomes me blankly

I plug in my eternal echo
insulated within speaker-glue
and rattling windows, the song rises.
the infinite moment passes achingly
and no one knew it but me

the crackly leaves like dead friends
drifting nowhere across my windshield;
like the wheel of birth’s forgotten debris
and I find myself in-between
the unwanted reminders of yesterday
and crushing weight of what might come
tomorrow, helpless to forget wrong turns
or prepare for the unexpected inevitable:

I wait.

and the song still plays and I wonder
where the song is physically? the air?
the stereo viscera? the digitalized plastic?
where is this fathomless miracle
of substance and texture residing?
the songwriter’s imagination?
the singer’s vocal chords?
the profound fusion of
meaning and sound waves?

is there any touching the song?

GLIMPSED: beyond the lifted veil
beyond the dying season of discarded echoes
beyond the confusion of
lying faces and smeared surfaces
beyond the toxic lightheadedness of
Fortuna’s arbitrary carnival ride
beyond the frayed patchwork of
our dim brushing-up against actuality
beyond the wine of our tears as
the hoped-for partially appears
then wistfully evaporates.

is this glimpse anything more
than a malfunctioning dream
wrought from a subconscious murk
of wish-fulfillment fantasies
and subterranean longings?
is this glimpse anything other
than a biological cocktail
intoxicating my molecules
with primordial illusions?

can I duct-tape
a creed to this glimpse,
and make it stay longer?
already tried that and it slipped away
through the whites between the words.

yet the teeth marks of the glimpse remain
as I fumble through unlived days on shuffle
the wound is alive within, even as
this empty shell of me keeps moving frenetically
driving this car, adjusting this volume
sketching these forms, sculpting these hours
gripping these moments for dear life
only to find them twisted and strangled
and my own hands guilty.

wretched man that I am,
who will deliver me from this body of death?

to ask a question without
knowing the resolution in advance,
is to begin a frightful journey
but tripping the switch
with an unasked-for answer
is to finish the un-begun smugly
extinguishing hope of arrival.


~ by shardsofeternity on March 16, 2010.

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