Posts
Jesse S. Mitchell
1. Spirits in the trees. Spirits in the streets. Spirit in the moon. Spirit in the train station. Maybe Battery Park will still be there when I open my eyes. Ho Chi Minh like vapor, and fog, fog, fog, peasant revolt against the colonization of dreams.
But what can be imagined to be good, immaculate.
Can be imagined evil, injured.
And this is a rough country. The waves and waves, apocalyptic surf that foams and surrounds, the end of the world that ebbs in, hems in, straightens us around to look at that reflection, tintype, ferrotype, the shimmer though is golden, the shimmer shadow though is silver.
We live here.
We live here. Our hearts beat here. Our eyes see here. This is the cliff that we inhabit, safely perched above the abyss, and we are groaning, and we are unsteady/shaking, insecure and ever-wasting, looking down and effecting our balance. Cassandra. We tell ourselves our own futures, dooms, fates, all these things and then, we live them, we make them happen. Two long legs to hold up us, so that we believe erroneously, that we are creatures of the air, and we spurn the earth. We the earth. The red red clay. The red red for our maws.
Every word
Every breath
Is ours
We said/breathed them all. And we will more. And we will more. And we will hear those echoes, those reflections and we will be confused. Scared. Alone on the precipice, hearing into the void. It speaks.
It speaks.
At us.
Spirits in the void. Spirits in the air. Spirits in the traffic lights. Be alive. Shine bright and favor us. Amen.
And this is a rough country.
Rough.
And to have to dig at the earth, the dusty ground, to eek out from out of the dried roots, the bitter tubers, the sand and callused hands. This is the story so far, as to relate, to see again, remade as I wake from the sleep, cosmopolitan, all of creation unfairly recreated for me, agrarian.
1. Spirits in the trees. Spirits in the streets. Spirit in the moon. Spirit in the train station. Maybe Battery Park will still be there when I open my eyes. Ho Chi Minh like vapor, and fog, fog, fog, peasant revolt against the colonization of dreams.
But what can be imagined to be good, immaculate.
Can be imagined evil, injured.
And this is a rough country. The waves and waves, apocalyptic surf that foams and surrounds, the end of the world that ebbs in, hems in, straightens us around to look at that reflection, tintype, ferrotype, the shimmer though is golden, the shimmer shadow though is silver.
We live here.
We live here. Our hearts beat here. Our eyes see here. This is the cliff that we inhabit, safely perched above the abyss, and we are groaning, and we are unsteady/shaking, insecure and ever-wasting, looking down and effecting our balance. Cassandra. We tell ourselves our own futures, dooms, fates, all these things and then, we live them, we make them happen. Two long legs to hold up us, so that we believe erroneously, that we are creatures of the air, and we spurn the earth. We the earth. The red red clay. The red red for our maws.
Every word
Every breath
Is ours
We said/breathed them all. And we will more. And we will more. And we will hear those echoes, those reflections and we will be confused. Scared. Alone on the precipice, hearing into the void. It speaks.
It speaks.
At us.
Spirits in the void. Spirits in the air. Spirits in the traffic lights. Be alive. Shine bright and favor us. Amen.
And this is a rough country.
Rough.
And to have to dig at the earth, the dusty ground, to eek out from out of the dried roots, the bitter tubers, the sand and callused hands. This is the story so far, as to relate, to see again, remade as I wake from the sleep, cosmopolitan, all of creation unfairly recreated for me, agrarian.
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