Slumber Undone

i am malleable. my body sinking down. i am stubborn. i am wild and electrical; from dust i came: legs and verdant eyes, bones and a mane reflecting moonlight from the sill. my limbs spring in loneliness, though alone i am not. my knee curls up to its other and i am bare. cold, 'til i fold for the raspy record mockingbird. crackle soul crackle. spin spine spin.
limber are those burning wicks, the wax smearing vanilla into a stale room that used to be mine, and still is mine, but has not been mine

for some time.

the remnants of one pale-blue-phase ago (when i was young and clever and wanted stickers to be stars and imagined sponge paint for clouds) are dim on my ceiling looking, somewhat formidably, upon the hole in the closet door. the hole was caused by a swinging latch and a metal lock in a moment of pale-blue anger that had caused me to remain sitting and stunned -- painting, repeatedly, my index finger the shade of a pearl. when the little bottle of sheen ran out i escaped to virginia with only nine dollars and slept in a lair of a woman i used to say was my sister. her room smelled of lavender and what ensued was some degree of violence; though lavender is sweet, and sedates and becomes me, upon my better senses.

but violence is rather fleeting and so is, sometimes, love; though not the unconditional kind. and in moments when my guard is down and streams of consciousness seep onto the page, i find shards of truth. or at least what i perceive to be truth, from the webs we weave -- if you agree with Weber and the socially suspended.

i don't enjoy the music now because it's overplayed but i am filled with life or lack-thereof because i came four times this afternoon to the table where legs were unnecessary, because the tabletop was floating. now i am up late or early and i am turning into stardust and listening to a man who lived in the woods and wore, well, his beard so he could sing with every inch of his insides covered, and he too turned to stardust when the clock struck dizzy.

e. chayes

Waning Gibbous

Early,
voices heard of
mumbling flies
and crickets.
Breathing flowers
inhaling for a dying cloud,
a passing cloud
in the shape of a
deer.
Though deer rot
on sides of roads
furs for Corpus Christi,
the train howling
to orphaned wolves.
Wolf folds into man
his coat vowed to silence
by the wind.
Greater things
like God.
a God who whispers
Warmth to the feet of thieves
Darkness to the belly of stars
Shadows to the blind, who press
without a flicker
themselves to the wall.
Purring eyes
foliage dust and bone.
Her legs sweep
broken pegs on tracks
towards the station
rust anchoring the bridge
where she was captive
where she learned to fly.


e. chayes

Moksha

mo·ksha 
[mohk-shuh]
noun_Buddhism, Hinduism, Jainism.
liberation; release from the finitude that restricts us from the limitless being, consciousness, and bliss our hearts desire. 

Thank you, the man repeated as I gathered my things and shook his hands.
Thank you, thank you.
I zipped my jacket.
Thank you.
With a nod I implied the pleasure was mine and saw in his sincerity that no one in the six years since he'd moved to Milan had looked into his eyes on a train. They were the kind of eyes you learn, set deep above elegant cheekbones. Though the unkempt hairs across his face revealed that society had ordained otherwise.

Most people don't look at you, at least not honestly and especially not into the pupils of people whose palms bare soot like city street signs. As one moves through a modern world it's hard to be stopped, to be seen. Under the scope of passerby, these men cluster like dust in the corners of rooms: unnoticed, resilient.

The silence was broken roughly eight minutes into the journey when the man pointed his finger and inquired with unique cadence (as one who had mastered Marathi and Italian could) the open page on my lap. Forty-six and seven -- mess of my pen's markings -- lay heavy insights into Eastern philosophies. I clasped the book by its binding between my thumb and index fingers and turned it so that he could see the white cover on both sides. The title, that I recall from my first Word program as being cleverly labeled Taj Mahal,  was black with green accents: Franny and Zooey. 

His grin revealed familiarity and so we wove together, from foreign tongues, topics of home and humans and discovery.
The man had eight children. He believed in God. He was kind and well-read and worked hard. He was small and noble; strong and salient.

His eyes mud and honey melted a frosty world the way sun blesses grass with dew.

He knew. I knew. But the others on the train-- burried in machines and handbags -- were left unaware as I stepped off the platform and into the rain.

e. chayes