50 Poems

Important context, perhaps: I took these notes on a bench that was on a hiking trail in a forest

The Last Supper

“ He, like a wise man who makes up his mind, // breaking his ties with all those he holds dear, // is now a stranger leaving them behind. // He is visited by his old loneliness, // which showed him the great wonder he must seize, // and will again pace through the olive trees, / while those who love him will flee in distress”. 

Is it wise to strive for purity? Pure polishedness? Live life according to a logic of unpimpled faces and unlined eyes? A life where emotion is suppressed, the ideal body is the tabula rasa, the “perfect” is to be “ pure” is to be “nothing", opposed to “being” “something”? A Clavicular existence? 

Apprehension

A bird call, as round as the sky is wide. 

Nestled in that space on the neck’s side between the head and the trap, a highway to the head, mediated by an esophagus that controls the way the head produces thought through hormones in the thyroid.

Evening

“Held by a line of ancient trees, the day // gives up its blue as it grows late;”

I get along best with ancient trees, trees that have seen things, that insist on having no name, without faces, content in their incompleteness

A life within you that fluctuates between stone and star, where the star is what you hope to become as a result of reaching out into the night sky as it starts to give up its blue– the courage to do so in a life that never stops, guaranteed with a death that is yours. 

The Departure of the Prodigal Son

Related to Stalker by Tarkovsky in many ways