Found Autobiography

autobiography

 

A country mapped with invisible ink

Bob Hicok

Like we are the hole that grows in poor, unmendable

nothing: we blind needles: we unmoored threads:

like feeling I’m the enaction of a waterfall by my tongue

.

upon your body, as when a boat is brought to the edge

of exile and a hand extends to a hand or a tree

beseeches with its shadeshawl: however born,

.

there is reaching, we agree the wind smelled of copper

one day, a passport the next: like how to escape

my brain’s slum of words, the ghetto of the said,

.

while adoring there the rocks, the teacups,

if half of me is a Molotov cocktail and half

the inflection of loss and half a genuflection

.

to breath: like wondering if this extra half

is a country mapped with invisible ink:

like how windows ask to come along with the going

.

and preside over the staying, and I look at them

with all the love, all the shatter I can muster:

shards cutting me when I try to put the sky,

.

the distance back together: boredom cutting me

deeper when I don’t: like searching for a man

in a burning house and finding a piano as echo flees:

.

a whetstone still warm from the blade: sheets pressed

with brainfolds of sleep: a whisper from the bathroom

of running water: but no body: and I carry

.

these things to safety that are not the man: the piano

in my arms, running water in my mouth, the vespers

of sleep, the knife, so like a wing, like flight:

.

and say of him, that was me, to the ashes, the char:

and sift the memory of flames for their sorrow,

holding smoke to the mirror interested only

.

in solid dreams: like it will finally see

what isn’t there and give it my face, this presence

of absence I have tried and tried not to be

**********

“almost as if I’m making her and this poem and my past

up as I go, to help me feel nothing

.

goes to waste, not even waste.”

-also Bob Hicok

Nathan Portrait

 

I, for Instants, inevitable infinity

Attempts at Auto-bio-graphy, or, self-life-writing, or, the inevitably ineffable

 

longitude

lassitude

 

aberrations of pain

with twisting serpents

 

origin: absence

defined by failure and loss

the inevitably ineffable

 

so say it

I do not love myself

nor find a self to love

and it’s nobody’s fault

but mine

(who?)

 

a descent of crows

inevitable,

ineffable,

undone

and scoring marks

into a void

 

of absence

and solitude

without a solo

 

no validation

no remorse

an abyss of ontology

and chaos of course

 

vocation

fashioning masks

of contexts

and stories

 

aberrations

of hypotheses

blind, deaf

and dumb

 

insurmountable

point

Borges’ Aleph

all,

if

 

uncertain

promise

trial and error

errantly

 

possible

within, without

and unlikely

unless

 

I do not love myself

and find no self to love

and it’s nobody’s fault

but mine

(whose?)

unless

undone

inevitably

ineffable

 

I say