Transgressions
Photo by kladcat: http://www.flickr.com/photos/58558794@N07/5712381963/
Adam Mackie 2011
I Looming clouds weave angry to the blackness. A hand strikes at sky its sword and sharp line, the sun falls slowly severed in the brine, when blade rises, weft bobs through the abyss tightly the fabric yanks taut into knots scornful mohair crossover threading means haughty weft-faced tapestry for dining. Mock the fresh fruit contemptuously - it rots. Demolition can help with the suffering. Choler bile friction kiss rub unto light, smoke rises, a chalky spirit billowing flames with no heart burst into coarse laughters searing resentments, worse patterns ignite into mouth ashes hung from the rafters.
II Into mouth ashes hung from the rafters gasping for air not room, a breath, face smothered by piecemeal portions of death, swallow earth's extras and sweet hereafters.
Acclimate to appetite’s aperture, space devoured by the shovel of dirt, hoards carve vacancy stockpile empty hurt, lack overflows, bouts of excess later. More consumption eases temporal want – fill to the brim leave the belly chuck-full gourmandize dine spit out guilt with the core wallow in surplus intemperance flaunt as plate overflows keep stacking on more – circular self-eating insatiable.
III Circular self-eating insatiable – mirror reflects mirror caught in between a hundred heads looped infinitely seen – still within a digestion of double. Dual the duplicate – oppose opposite, shoulders touch turn on foe make true form die – murder the Thou for the sake of the I, bury humility in deepest pit. Wipe hands clean exit scene in reverse, monster stares at mask imagines lover overwhelmed with nostalgia of other, soon will forget, exalt own skin as God. Stand on a pedestal smitten with curse brazen grin hold chin give self-assured nod.
IV Brazen grin hold chin give self-assured nod while honeybees come pheromones lure will carry pollen from anther aerial deposit in stigma tempt nose to prod. Beehive blends in with the coconut tree potential stings nestled there nesting thoughts so sweet like deeds like milk like honey, collecting coconuts becomes risky. Secure stick in ground to husk coconut (deny if fidelity starts to probe), jam onto spike pry rip tear off the lobe, stop, rotate, do it again at least twice. Once hole has been poked juice drips from the cut. Impaled wounded hand pays a scarring price.
V Impaled wounded hand pays a scarring price, slaves harvest thresh all day long in the field, master counts coin by night and never yields reward. He reaps every grain of rice. Warm dry air removes water from the germ – stored in steel silos, in clay pots, in goatskin above ground so flood first sweeps away men through grinding mill mellow endosperm. Hands cup rice let fall through fingers to floor deluge down rush sympathy muffles deafened to the sound of the out-gushing pour tumbles down on top to drum beat ruffles. Scraps swept up – none shared with a beggar’s mouth – any conviviality, gone south.
VI Any conviviality gone south – parasites involuntarily flood crooked entrance bent to suck blood – hookworms find homes deep in chasms of mouth. Exteriors invade interiors. Empowered parasite motile glide swarm the host cell's feast eat bite fed bodies are eaten inferiors. Figure expands when the moon becomes full, teeth grind fatigue through restless night, house doubles over from the inside pull, bloodsuckers thrive tax the host collect fee as mind tries to think through shiftless body infection married in bodily plight.
VII Infection married in bodily plight, a prisoner desires escape or death, longs to join his company-of-still-breath blind resentment emulates jealous sight. Face presses against bar the eye fits between jaundice eye dilates sees black and white captures all the bitter revels in blight attention fixed on the still image seen. When our love loves another more than us we begin to covet night as night does day, we mistrust the innocent words they say. Clear skies are no longer comfortable. Precipitation inevitable. Looming clouds weave angry blackness.
VIII Looming clouds weave angry blackness. A squall moves closer, inhales us. Water on deck! Shouts of doubt gush rush crew covered by reign of darkness. New dawn barges to quarterdeck, a question to forces of trembling and fear, flimsy hands hold firmly to ship's steer. Tidal waves bend. I perceive wreck. Wind sees rebuke, shadows of ocean calm, awestruck in presence of tranquil name, parallel arms reach upward, exhale sigh, while nestlings coo across azure sky. Olive branch touches center of palm. Under feet, sea subdues, stretches becomes tame.
IX Under feet sea subdues, stretches, becomes tame. A shore emerges on horizon band. The anchor sinks between rocks near the land. These drier days will never be the same. Anchor slowly halts movement of vessel until waves undulate: ripple, rock, shake. I step from the salt chuck onto dry bank. More undulation of waves, more ripples. My memory fades with passing of days in a saloon my hand reaches for glass, my hand stops short in air, my arm draws back, I stare, clench hand, feel elbow on table. My heel bounces steadily on the floor, I look out a nearby window once more.
X I look out a nearby window once more. A man spends the day sweeping dust from dust, a motorcycle passes, sends a gust of wind over him. The man looks, smiles for a moment, and returns to his sweeping. In a small pile his sweepings gather, he repeats a mantra aloud rather than letting sentiments keep repeating.
Feet generate dust on the dusty streets, sweat drips to ground in pre-monsoon season. In the heat, beneath the scorch of white heat, his eyes brush over eyes of onlookers. The sweeper’s fate has been laid before him; the meek street could never be cleaner.
XI The sweeper’s fate has been laid, before him the meek street could never be cleaner. Taken by events, the dogged sweeper sweeps the ground just so it will remain clean. We will not call the street sweeper a saint in religious practice - how selflessly he sweeps the street, how tirelessly he refines his technique - let’s speak of his fate. After this street scene, the sweeper will die. His brothers and sisters will mourn his death. His mother will bury her face and cry into the scarf she wears around her neck. No rites allowed, no pyre, no pind-daan. The body is buried under the ground.
XII The body is buried under the ground, under the dust, under the dirt, slowly decomposing, dispersing energy to insects and worms. Bones are later found by future generations: uncovered. Bones to be studied: people studying themselves. These bones are mirrors reflecting a slow decay. I have often wondered how a person with flesh on their bones might have lived, how bones can never tell the whole story (bones show the inevitable), how one day all bones become unable to walk upon the earth and stand upright, these final remains of what is mortal.
XIII These final remains of what is mortal remains to be seen. Much remains unseen. Time stares in the face of a human being staring back at the present eternal moment passing without cease endlessly spiraling with rising and setting sun, with twilight’s glow, with darkness’s dawn, single instants are instantaneously continuous, permanent, unchanging reckless spinning countless multitudes dying in a flash of yesteryear’s light. As starlight enters eye through small holes, through a visible perception within sight, split seconds recur reflex to nothing.
XIV Split seconds recur reflex to nothing, to reduce no thing to some thing does not account for, nor present, an accurate sketch of absence inside a tracing hand tracing over thin air to render an image on a leaf in black and white, an image illuminated by light, an image constructed by a reader. With folding leaf, a turning transpires a transformation within folio of leaves on branches stretching to spires down trunk, to wreath of leaves on ground, leaves show lines inscribed on leaves, that show patterns of blankness. Looming leaves weave angry blackness.
XV Leaves loom
weave angry blackness
into ashes hanging from rafters circular self-eating
insatiable
consuming of nothing
nothing
is the price of such a wound bodily plight convive
scar's
the clouds
the clouds feast
on their own gathering darkness stretching on a sea subdued I speak nearby
Fate’s
body buried
ground
remains recurring I speak again.
Mouth's
The thought of foolishness is sin: and the scorner is an abomination to men. ~Proverbs 24:9~