dustseeker

maybe we’re learning the slow violence of words. || hello. this is my poetry.

[dustseeker]

What if I am safe because someone else is not.

I don’t believe that. This is a mental exercise.

Safety makes me think of airplanes & love.

I exercise weakness until it makes me strong.

I don't believe love can be exercised safely.

I exercise cowardice until it makes me brave.

What if I am brave because someone else is not.

[dustseeker]

I only want to be found by someone.

Seen. Taken by hand. And then, after a while,

maybe loved? It is not impossible

to imagine. But at this moment

it does not seem quite possible either,

you know? I like to think that

you know. Or else there is kind of nothing.

If you find me, you will let me know?

[dustseeker]

April

The green-clad knife cuts deep and narrow furrows in a memory gone missing

until the angel dressed in red whispers fire through the forest of sky-licking trees: all blue

like eggshells on the last day before Easter, when kids paint their veiled dreams with colors

they know how to name, but not how to tell mom and dad without the egg breaking

and falling: all the way down to the feet of the world where the knife removes its blade

in honor of wet sidewalks, hospital conversations and memories to bloom.

[dustseeker]

We joined a family trip up into the mountains

to watch the last glacier melt in the springtime

and reveal old artefacts every day: as we walked

we stared into reopened libraries of hidden worlds

and stories we could not decrypt anymore: washed

into light by a sunlit silence that never belonged to us.

[dustseeker]

Tagged by @wordrummager – thanks!

"Last song I listened to ..."

For some time, when the kids were smaller, I often used "Holocene" as a bed time ritual. Sometimes we also watched the beautiful video (shot on Iceland). The youngest (soon 13) has had trouble falling asleep for a while, and last night I put on "Holocene" for him. (And for me.)

[dustseeker]

Nature's beautiful despair. Why are trees so colorful, intense, and alive just before they die?

It’s not the same with humans. Unless death comes unexpected and too soon, we die diminished, degraded, withered.

Still. Humans are nature, too.

But unlike the trees, the human despair in the face of death is not always a beautiful one. It can be quite repulsive.

Unlike trees, humans know death to be final. Trees might see that differently. Maybe that's the secret of their beautiful despair?

I’m dying. But I will return the same. But not the same.

[dustseeker]

I stand corrected in the mirror

in the bathroom after midnight.

This darkness bruises easily.

I will protect it from the hatred

of a rushed dawn. Today's last text:

'After all, you are my brother.'

The ocean seeps out of the faucet

and into the sink. Come dawn, I will

call the plumber and ask about

the secret ways of water and regret.

[dustseeker]

I use words in lack of music.

There was a piano, there was a choir.

Yes, I remember. Yes, I have forgotten.

But I know a few things, told to me by no one

in particular. Life contains no mystery,

but mystery is full of life.

This longing is too secret for words,

too subtle for music. Rain is no mystery

until you taste it and live on.

[dustseeker]

It's not your first night of walking in the darkness,

but this time it's different: You walk for someone else,

someone who is unable to walk here on their own,

I can't say why. But if you need a reason, try to recall

one time someone walked into the darkness for you,

now it's your turn to walk this road for someone else.

If that makes you sad, then let it be a sad walk.

If it makes you hopeful, don't be afraid to chant.

If it makes you scared, try to think of the person

who doesn't have to walk, because this time you do.

[dustseeker]

Distant morning star. Soft, bright. Terrifying

and radiating through time and space, signaling

from its place behind the invisible walls of the galaxy.

Does it make a sound? Do we hear stars hissing

and moons singing before we are born?

After we die? No one knows.

But voices, voices just like ours, confused

and distorted, voices rise from one body

after another, in city after city, from hilltops

and islands, unified to let out The great sound.

Terrible, raw. Magnificent and lost like only we can be.

[dustseeker]

The sister gets up earlier than everyone and jumps into the sea at sunrise.

I forget that sometimes. New signs on the rooftops are preaching stupidity.

Someone returns home safely against all odds. Is it worth remembering.

A hospital named Shifa is surrounded by graves. Nobody will tell you why.

I forget that sometimes. I told my parents I wanted a telescope for my birthday.

Are we a dreamy species. In the town where I grew up the sun never sets in summer.

A man sits down one day in the middle of the road. He refuses to leave until

the children are safe. A lie inside a lie leaves the prominent lips of the liar.

Migrant birds seem so unaware of their intent. Are we a hopeful species.

Amputations at sunrise. I cling to something but it has no shape or name.

No one could make this up but someone did it anyway. There's a man in the road.

[dustseeker]

Every city is built from longing: a sleepy fabric pricking your temples,

waking you up in yet another city with a name you can't remember.

The longing burns like memory. Do you remember the sudden light,

but not the sunrise? The common grief, but not the death? Every funeral

anticipates a body. All bodies are cities, longing to wake up soon, renamed.

[dustseeker]

I slept well last night, not once did I wake up in the dark

with dried out tears in my eyes and the black apple of

sorrow in my stomach. I woke up renewed, refreshed

for a few seconds. Then I recalled why I was so relieved

for having slept through the night. Your days are over,

this day is mine. I name it Warm and get out of bed.

[dustseeker]

Here's something I can't explain. Here's more of the unexplainable.

You could try to explain all of it. But I don't want you to explain.

I want you to be silent through it all. In reverse order. Backwards. While

you're standing on your head. While longing for something you won't tell

because you don't know what it is. Or because you'll tell when you're ready.

I want you to be ready. You want more or less the same thing. Here's a photo

of you. I can't tell why it's coming now. But here it is and here we are.

[dustseeker]

I caught a glimpse of your face

while you were sleeping.

I returned it to the darkness

unrevealed, glorious & not mine.

[dustseeker]

Power is a word not to be trusted. I trusted a king, he let me down.

I walked across the largest hall, making excuses for my slowness.

I don't believe anyone noticed. Unknowingly they handed me

a gift of restraint. I made use of it in a variety of ways, all of them slow.

The power it took to kill the silence, sound by sound. I trust a mountain

only in the shape of rocks. I kneel for no king until his kingdom is lost.

[dustseeker]

So far from here to good friday,

so far from parliament to Pilate's palace,

so far from blue whale to crown of thorns,

but it is the same day: Abundantly filled

with tacos and fish, crude oil and whips,

tariffs and nails: The same day,

centrifuged on repeat, through decades

and centuries, until the atoms finally

split: The blue whale is crucified

and the oligarchs walk free.