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Poet Commentaries

Check In: I am here

Check In: I am here

One learns to read braille
interpreting old forgotten script
polished to indecipherable.
Read with piton and clevis;
punctuated with dislodged stone;
my boots scuff notes in margins.

 

I scrawl from page to page
reading from here to there
following the plot plot plot
of drips echoing off distant walls,
getting advice from wearied drafts,
tired air that collapses on my lips
and is sucked to my lungs
too exhausted
to recount from where it came

I squeeze through long sentences
with flourished exclamations,
grabbing hold of sloppy colons,
stalac tites and mites,
always on and on and never there,
finding only finger space rests.

The floor traveled on backside,
scratched dust coats my face.
Lips hydrate with water filtered
through generations of clay.
Water tracked in the dark
by triangulating radar pings
and by shifting crosshairs
from brow to cheek to tongue.

I burst out laughing.
As I quietly lap it in,
for from out of black vinyl
I hear a surreal sound
of whistle, hum and hymn.
My own recorded echoes
played back from the grooves.

Still laughing I move forward
and slide down into blindness,
like a blank paper bookmark
released from a book’s spine
floating to the floor;
my finger sight of ceiling lost.
I grasp and claw for a hold
finding instead but baubles
of flint and chalk.

The swoosh of denim on shale
the trickle of water on granite
the drum roll of gravel
and my own echoed laughter;
all harmonize in the key of rest.

Little exploding flicks and flashes
among clouds of pink and yellow
as rolling bits of flint dance
with exploding sticks of chalk

Air rushes in full of stories
Naked undiluted water
streaks and splays everywhere
its mood soaking in.

The last bit of hectic,
the broken bits of brailled advice,
now but disassembled babble
catch up with me
and surround me at the bottom.

I stand up and dust off
in a large pavilion.
Filtered light plays off high walls,
shimmers in deep pools
and reflects glorious cave art
from those who came before.

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