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Masciandaro - Ocean Seeping Eyes PDF
Masciandaro - Ocean Seeping Eyes PDF
ISBN-13: 978-1508968207
ISBN-10: 1508968209
I
The moon is so jealous of such light. All day she hides, reading
How humans think her into their obscurest sighs, simply not
To forget that everything in the end may still be alright.
My hope is not for you or me. ‘Tis for the weird tidal wave
That will liquefy time and drown space in a spiral abyss
Of endless . . . a perfectly still, truly perfect tsunami.
Not that there is reason to worry over how things turn out.
Tear itself alone is the deep truth and everything else
Beginning with these words is abysmally open to doubt.
Tears prove truth the only way possible – disproving all things
Including themselves, distilling the real and illusory
Into singular oneness of an evaporating syllable.
To watch your life fly out the window from the safety of home.
To walk flying through your fear of falling with the chaotic
Accuracy of an auto-targeting predator drone.
One day we will forget how to spell our names. O lovely mess
Of sitting close on the serene floor of unlocked syllables,
Knocking over all towers of Babel with our tiny games.
From where I lie, the live teardrops rise. One after another
They follow the golden filament, spiral to the unknown,
Like ants ascending a subtle liana into your eyes.
Never more alive, the whole body cries. So I feed its heart
With opposing hopes of climbing and falling, growing memory
Backwards into a future formed of arborescent sighs.
Forget that I never not knew, forget me. So far too long
Have I already lingered, am lingering still on the shore
As if it were not, as if—as if it were (not) itself the sea.
Less I remember more I know. All things are far too clear,
Too obvious to think about, suffused with a blinding candor
Like death coming to a victim right before the final blow.
There, where all speaks without me, there. Here, only one thing
To do, burning forever in the midst of all else: weep tears
On its unimaginable feet and dry them with our hair.
Is not written he who writes. On the day you at last meet him
It will still be first, in faraway newness past fantasy,
On an earth lit by itself, moonlike, beneath suns of nights.
VI
If only the caverns could talk, these void spheres speak. If only
My eyes comprehended all they project, saw the cinema
Of each atom, all suns and galaxies . . . Instead, they leak.
Until then, you will have to listen to me. Or not, and just
Walk on, not worrying at all, much less about what babbles,
Drowning in its own breath, down near the bottom of this sea.
VII
There is nothing worse than not weeping, for you. And for you,
What is worse, weeping or not weeping? Tell me now to yourself
What is really the case, tell me a silence—yours—that is true.
I know you know all that these words plainly mean. I know you know
I know all that I want to say. And I know you know I know you know
All that stays unsaid, touching the razor loop of silence so keen.
One wept tear seeds a million unwept more. When the eye retains
The ocean, I will gaze worlds past silence from my pupils.
Closed all the way open, I will no longer peer from the shore.
Keep following your sigh to ghazal street, where the gazelles die.
I am there in the dust, on a breeze stirring the ghetto palms,
In the light now gently seen, not touched by too-human eyes.
Deep in the zone of tears, who cries for whom? Is anyone there
At all while I swoon to the floor, tasting the sweet salt
Dregs of myself on the rug of the overfamiliar room?
It is obvious now why you are not here: for the express
Purpose of seeing you everywhere, of plunging my whole
Three-fold body faster through the pupil-portal without fear.
He was seen once, when you never stopped looking. Now his eyes
Are liquefying all things in the sun of that glare, enflaming
The earth into a cauldron sea, this long turbulent cooking.
All I would say, all I would feel. More than the anemone
Hears in a siren’s song, than the mermaid may conceive
In her most secret mind, more than sea-longing of the seal.
You and I will meet once the body resurrects from me. That
Will be the day, the way there will be no more stupid fuss
As to who is who or why it matters—once—to not be free.
Drop the umbrella of time, let it fall. Let the shining sun
Eclipsed be by the light of the darkest sky, the one that
Restores space to being a supreme minimum of the all.
Guess who is the one I cannot think without thinking of? Now
Do you know who you are? I am sorry for only confusing myself
And everyone else further by attempting to talk about love.
How to keep the secret that will not stop talking? I do,
By letting nothing constantly happen, by listening to
The silence saying this is not it, now continue walking.
Anyone who does not love to be tortured this way has not
Felt it. And anyone who does love to be tortured this way
Is either absolutely insane or a total idiot.
Less peak than a vast living throne, less throne than a garden.
Yet still a mountain, higher than anything, lovely clean stone,
Adamant and breathing with something time cannot harden.
And no lament at all. The roses of it are gold, and its gold
Is roses—roses and gold of an invisible order having
Zero to do with anything occurring before or after the Fall.
All things whatever are pain (to me), a master says, except . . .
As if anyone worth his saltwater would desire it otherwise,
As if there is another way to rise from having so long slept.
How old you are, ancient—how old are you? Nothing I can see
Will answer, nothing I can say will speak, nothing I can hear
Will sound where the beauty of unbirth shines, the species true.
What wears life out like this, making it unfit for everything?
Yet strangely I feel more and more strong, as if weakness were not
Debility but the delivery mechanism of an unforeseeable sting.
There are not enough bees in this city. Are they turned off
By the general absence of real secrets in people, the way
Everybody goes around ugly thinking they are pretty?
Ergo, there is no love between things. Beyond force this force is,
Immediately past medium, hopelessly outside-in all between.
Music could care less what becomes of the dust on its strings.
XXIII
So much to learn from the little moon! See her body move
Through all phases of itself without relinquishing either
Side of pupil-being, fixed in the pure life-circle of a swoon.
Nearby, on the verge where sound and body are one substance,
This mouth sculpts itself into a megaphone-receiver of
The primal scream. Or was it another whispering in my dream?
Now that we are finally here, let’s tear away from ourselves
With a daring no one has any idea of. Let us all swim free
As pure air, like water evaporating from the tears of love.