Self-addressed postcard (from before all or any of this)
Greetings from Costa Rica!
Dear future self:
I have grown used to the flashy congestions of her cities; the twists in her landscape have lost the display of a second nature. I have seen Indian funeral tables made of stone and carved ornately, with dragons and birds swallowing the sun. I went from a gallery of television sets to a large gorey statue made to represent a villiage of women who uprose against, pursued, and slew their unlucky captors. I have longed for my love so hard that she seems to have existed under a different night sky. I have heard the ocean breezes as they swept through the palm fronds. I have awoken to the aroma of endless cups of coffee, as rich and mysterious as the land on which it was grown. I have gone swimming in the sea, and made some peace with the rain. I have had time to write.
Take care, and find some again.
May 18th, 2007 at 10:34 am
A turd in the swimming pool
A contrast in the expectation
A yearning to fuse unveiled
Psyche and Eros whittled by the centuries
Disconnect their transference
And veil again in mourning
Somehow this is still floating
Jerusalem spills out in roads
To confess his lyric untouchable
The dawn of his heart is a criminal tomb
Scalded by laws of backdrops
Questing on threads of original myth.
And she may as well be cruel,
And she may as well be liquid,
With her unity homologous ly
Massacred by weights and leanings,
She imitates the shouldering indebtedness
She seeks
To obliterate the counterfeit divine.
Because imaginary drownings are the uterus
Of coughing
She obliterates the splice of fascination.
And what is that connection
Between an atom and its purgatory
That clips the padlocks from our panic?
To plow the prohibition
To be given and received
Must we insert the focus of our charms
Into the rippled orbits of our murder?
An abomination rests inside a
Calculated tenderness, but rests.
The mingling borders may not last
For anything but dying on the threshold
Of a punishment and merging into legend,
But a straight ascent is launched
And arches into legend’s cradle, nonetheless
Emerging from the cross-contamination
Victorious against monotony and suicide
An abomination rests inside a
Calculated tenderness, but rests.
-John Smieska