Osmosis - Joe London
That we be immersed,
cells governed by osmotic processes,
in the world, and that desires
be differentials of energy,
one would want to negate.
The cell perhaps would want not to sustain
that difference and merely consist
in itself, not to be a part only,
suspended, vital, sentient,
emergence in existence.
Not having asked anything
and yet immersed
in a dream that never knew waking
The post-modern Aurora, disgruntled
I saw her through cataract eyes,
a long-sought story; reached out
for the mythic rescue, felt her fingers
close around my own -
so green, expectant, surprised by
the together-lack, not consoled by
the money-shot, the counterfeit
that couldn't hide the silence -
the vast expanse of her turned
back was a tragic canvas, didn't
tell me what I wanted to know -
my eyes cleared, I read
the parable, understood
how the fairytale ends.
clutching dead ties --
i can't take this, we
know that rope's
pared, is smugly
between hook, and
knife blade. robbed
of daylight, its sad
white mouth splits
into a home for
photocopies of my space face
cover the walls in this blue room.
blue toner, blue paper, blue pushpins.
I'm smiling in some, screaming in others.
in one of them, I pressed my
wide-open third eye right against the glass.
of course, it's badly damaged and useless now,
but I have no regrets, as I'm now able
to see the tiny periwinkle twinklers
who sing to me in sweet slurred tones,
at long last.