It’s as if I’m always walking on the edge of words eroding, waiting at the precipice where language falls away to push another phrase and watch it sink–as if the evanescence of a voice provides the substance of my conversation, so I speak at length in dialects too thick to stay afloat.

I’m a charlatan, filling niches between grains of sand in hourglasses with the choruses of yesterday’s interment, collapsing lulls and silences that bridge a clock-tick with the memories of hours dead and gone–a perjurer, writing hollow memoirs of an apparition only seen in tired dreams and mornings when a humid storm outargues sleep.

Somewhere in the locus of a keyhole seized, somewhere in the grain of oaken doors where light is empty and the air is focused to a point I can’t draw in, somewhere past a rusted hinge I speak my peace in verses silent but for threads of smoke that whisper from a pyre of synonyms usurped.

#amsterdam #netherlands

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s