AT THE STILL POINT MISTY AEONS
AT THE STILL POINT
MISTy AEONS
VOICE \ FORGETS I’M FORGETTING YOUR VOICE ALREADY
I’M FORGETTING
CROHNOS Hate saying goodbye in the dark But I can’t afford any more self-sabotage Time to give in and tend to these cobblestones Maybe all I need are a few more scars This body of mine: you can take a look behind these tissues and films Blood can run so thin Pain is the loudest sound I have ever heard— I guess that makes relief the quietest As we aim towards vulnerability please just don’t leave us alone because I may need protection from my cells but we all need protection from ourselves “One disease, long life…”
silence of movement in heavy symmetry Mother— Am I poison to our family? I’m still lost to indecision so my tongue cuts, agitated— injures you without haste Yet there is not a single palatible excuse and then cowering on every return flight I wonder: how am I so forgiving of everyone but you and me? where might I be your catalpa tree? Father— Am I toxic to this family? Like the bright blue exhaust blooming from your old Ford parked on stiff gravel in late November (the revealing snap of cold) Instinctively, you know not to inhale until the fumes dissolve I ask: how long before the sharpest hurts fade? have you ever felt this weightless? Brother— Am I worthy of our family? Or of love at all? There were nights when I struck my cheeks numb just to fall asleep
Such a brokenness I no longer comprehend It never felt like strength and yet: did I not breathe into the pain? or, does my heart flex in vain? Caleb— You mean only love for each of them but these years you have been away your intent was drenched in the foul tradition of a self-hating American There is such a heavy symmetry to keeping them all at arm’s length or fearing what harm you could do if the good things don’t move back eventually
WINTERGATE You’re through the gate of winter and you fucking hate it ’cause the snow just seems to space all the buildings farther apart and it separates the people and slows everything down but not in a healthy way— it just drags all the wheel wells and boot soles through broken salt crystals that stain all the roads and floors
You told your dad that Lake Michigan couldn’t freeze over completely but it did last year So what makes you think you that you knew that? Why do you always think you know things? (Who do you inhabit?) Dry hands and some callous fingertips: Are they an extension of an imperfect arrangement of spinal cords or just a symptom of the bitter days behind and ahead? You’re through the gate of winter
"Unfamiliar Shadows Across Streets " You need immediacy, I have only patience You want clarity, I give only confusion You could exit, I can only suspend here You have everywhere, I am nothing, I am nothing Resisting the urge to make time when language melts to this jargon: You had patiency, I needed immediance You offered cusion, I took conflarity You would susit, I could only expend there You were everything, I had nowhere, nowhere left but to
Move south along the shore I try to live in this moment while these unfamiliar shadows cast across streets of cement I—I’m so broken up Quaking abruptly Should I apologize for the pleasure in desire? Now I find you no friend of mine but I know not whether to prolong or abandon:
cLEAN SHEETS Placing orchids between stones:: keep bending stems keep folding petals keep peeling fingertips—— the organization may be arbitrary but the motive is not at all Swaps, just: one bed for one smaller one sleep for one shorter one breath for one steeper—— these adjustments may be auxiliary but the outcome is not all at once
To you—or you—or you: I still have so much love to give—
I-80: the back of a billboard frozen and rusted scaffolding Oncoming traffic must make mirrored rear-views to see what is plainly exposed to me across the paling road I speak definitively but I’m still figuring how they witnessed my worst health, but kicked me out anyway, and held patient against my aches as if they’d chalked it up to permanence; just kept quietly saying to me—to me—to me: “We know you are not that special— “We are not your goddamn parents—— “And we will not regret this treatment“ The dragonfly’s wing snaps and the moth’s billows; flight is lost regardless I observe this with apprehension during noisy evenings of a month already humid and orange amid weeks swollen with fresh foliage ~ and El NINo’s record heat Past the still point: if I catch familiar scents nestled in sleep— somehow, despite clean sheets— and we linger in the dark awhile I hope it is finally less of a plummet, instead a momentary drift to you—to you—To you: I still had so much love to give— I still had so much love left to give
For my grandparents: Evelyn & Merle, Francis & Howard. You are missed.
VOICE \ FORGETs CROHNOS SILENCE OF MOVEMENT IN HEAVY SYMMETRY WINTERGATE DREAM I. (MIDDAY) UNFAMILIAR SHADOWS ACROSS STREETS DREAM II. (MIDNIGHT) CLEAN SHEETS ; AN OPPORTUNITY FOR GROWTH AND NEW HAPPINESS
All songs written, performed, and produced by Caleb Neubauer (ASCAP). Recorded in Chicago, IL, and Bend, OR; Mixed and mastered by Caleb Neubauer in Chicago, IL.
DRIFT (PART I) PRINT by Devin Owsley-Aquilia. Design by Caleb Neubauer. At The Still Point by Misty Aeons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License (2017). mistyaeons.com Thank you to ooraloo and the plain mosaic for your ENCOURAGMENT and RESOURCES, to devin for your art, to steve dawson for your speakers and generosity, to ELLEN AND mark FOR YOUR TRIANGLE ROOM and hospitality, TO DOTTIE and SNUGGLES FOR YOUR EARS, to udita upadHyaya for your eyes, AND TO MY mother, father, and brother FOR YOUR INCREDIBLE LOVE. ALL IS LOVE.
At the still point of the turning world, Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movemenT. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathereD. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor declinE. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where. And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
T. S. ELIOT, “FOUR QUARTETS“