第十七室诗

第十七室诗

 

被释放的记忆

我还记得
躺在树干脚手架的最顶端
遥望着夏天的夜空,如黑色毯子
温暖了夜间的空气。

我闻到远处雪松燃烧的气味
听到歌声和鼓声里柔和的祈祷声。
我无法抬起身体或转动我的头。
我能觉察到骨骼和肌肉
但它们却觉察不到我。
当我掉进了一个排除了时间的网里时
它们还在睡梦中。

我的思绪焦躁不宁地继续移动。
离开这个星光照耀的墓地 ,与我的族人
围绕着巨大的篝火舞蹈,
篝火发出噼啪声伴随着强劲的火光,
我们手牵着手,踏着鼓声的节奏
将它们柔和的雷声
敲打进生命单调的戒律里。

我唯有抬头凝视天空
注视着、聆听着、等待着
某些东西的到来,将我从
这个悲哀的地点释放。
将我拥在仁慈的怀抱里
进入到天堂之荚的遗忘里
我想聆听我自己的呼吸声
但听到的只是我族人的音乐。
我寻找双手的动作
但与乌鸦的翅膀对抗的
只有几缕云和新月的光在移动。

有时,当这个记忆透过我的皮肤窥视
它净化了那向岸的视野。
以汹涌的狂喜
流淌出对秩序的挑战
施加在已知的困境之上。

遗传方式里确实有着某种危险
族人发送给我的光泽变化的皮肤
是被贬抑和受限的。

我苍白的欲望过滤了世俗的口粮。
错置了得福的魔鬼,
跟诱使我的族人预定–
那该死的牢房
完全是一回事。
(至少我不记得这个预定了)。

也许更好的做法
是躺在这个树枝的床垫上
以我羽毛和皮肤的全部行头
在风中吟唱。
也许更更好的做法
是尽情地哭泣和燃烧
这样浪子的记忆就
无家可归了。

我还记得
逃离苍白的手
那是我的大师用谎言的碎屑和发霉的面包
来喂我。
我的皮肤渴望着轻盈,
但它是强制的绳索。

我记得
大而圆的,流淌着古老遗产的
黄皮肤手指。
看到佛挺着圆圆的大肚子
牧人的笑脸上挂着笑容
在斜依着暴风雨的天空的寺庙里。

我记得
梦见我飞翔。
伸展用细线般的永恒新系上去的
的翅膀
只是在晦涩迟钝的手臂里才会垂落。

我记得
看着我在镜中的脸
映照出一个陌生人的思想和灵魂。
知道那就是我,我转过脸去
生怕那会变成唯一的我。
我是拼凑的记忆,寻找着一个核心。
我是遗失了的词语,回荡在寂静的峡谷里。
我是发现了自己的一道光波
拔鞘投向地球
在人的皮肤里寻找着掩护。

随后

我解散了我门前的守卫。
我让细胞们自杀式地相互撞击
直到它们攻陷我。
如果还余下什么故事要诉说
我会聆听。

在输送恐慌的瀑布背后
抛洒下它们骄傲的后裔
我隐藏在噪声中。
不可见有它作为配角的酬劳
它同样能彰显持久的生命形式
在邪恶之下低语。
这确实是我唯一想了解的造物,
甜美慷慨,熠熠发光,却在无法倾述的
无耳能听的宇宙里
受苦受难。

在我离开之后,当我被一个
陌生人的心找到–
它的钻头没有因演戏而钝化,
我会睁开眼睛,剥去皮肤,
将昏迷的心唤醒。
我会将穿着戏装的形象扔到一旁
重新摆正主人
以便能从镜子里看到它的形象
我会讲述上帝也会来偷听的话语。
当这些话语被说出时,
另一只耳朵正在另一侧聆听着
散发出理解
象激光中立的光束。

勇气共同的坟墓令我们所有人聚集在了
单一的入口,
上帝之小径重新开始的地方。

无论如何,极其罕见地,话语和影像
将它们的意义推进天堂,征服时间。
然而,如此一来,
它们变成了神圣时刻的
咒语。
民众心灵深处愿望的哑剧。

随后,
不真实的眼睑瞬间睁开,
皮肤收折起来,
英勇的眼睛醒来,依然警觉。
随后,话语吞下血肉
留下难以消化的痛苦。
感情的尸骸脱落,
一个无法溶解的孤独。
分离的投射物。

Memories Unbound

I have this memory
of lying atop a scaffold of tree limbs
staring out to the black, summer blanket
that warms the night air.
I can smell cedar burning in the distance
and hear muted voices praying in song and drum.
I cannot lift my body or turn my head.
I am conscious of bone and muscle
but they are not conscious of me.
They are dreaming while I am caught
in a web of exemptible time.

My mind is restless to move on.
To leave this starlit grave site and dance with
my people around huge fires
crackling with nervous light.
To join hand with hand to the rhythm of drums
pounding their soft thunder
in monotone commandments to live.

I can only stare up at the sky
watching, listening, waiting
for something to come and set me free
from this mournful site.
To gather me up in arms of mercy
into the oblivion of Heaven’s pod.
I listen for the sound of my breath
but only the music of my people can be heard.
I look for the movement of my hands
but only wisps of clouds
and crescent light move
against raven’s wings.

Sometimes when this memory peeks through
my skin it purges the shoreward view.
It imposes on the known predicament
with a turbulent bliss
that bleeds defiance to the order.
There is certain danger in the heritable ways
of my people who send me the chatoyant skin
humbled and circumscribed.
My white appetite leached of earthly rations.
Misplaced to the darshan of the devil,
the very same that
maneuvered my people to reservations—
the ward of the damned.
(At least I have no memories of a reservation).

Perhaps it is better
to lay upon this mattress of sticks
with my wardrobe of feathers and skins
chanting in the wind.
Perhaps it would be better still
to be set atop the cry shed and burned
so prodigal memories would have
no home to return to.

I have this memory
of escaping the pale hand
of my master that feeds me
scraps of lies and moldy bread.
My skin yearns for lightness,
but it is the rope that obliges.

I have this memory
of holding yellow fingers,
large and round, dripping with ancient legacies.
Of seeing the rounded belly of Buddha
smiling underneath a pastoral face
in temples that lean against a tempest sky.
I have this memory
of dreaming to fly.
Stretching out wings that are newly attached
with string-like permanence
only to fall in the blunted arms of obscurity.

I have this memory
of seeing my face in a mirror
that reflects a stranger’s mind and soul.
Knowing it to be mine, I looked away
afraid it would become me alone.
I am patchwork memories searching for a nucleus.
I am lost words echoing in still canyons.
I am a light wave that found itself
darting to earth unsheathed
seeking cover in human skin.

Afterwards

I’ve set loose the guards that
stand before my door.
I’ve let cells collide in suicide
until they take me.
If there were stories left to tell
I would hear them.

Behind the waterfalls of channeled panic
spilling their prideful progeny
I can stay hidden in the noise.
Being invisible has its cameo rewards.
It also keeps visible the durable lifeform
murmuring beneath the wickedness.
This is truly the only creature I care to know,
with luminous ways of sweet generosity that suffers
in the untelling universe
of the unlistening ear.

When I am found out—after I am gone—
by a stranger’s heart whose drill bit
is not dulled by impersonation,
I will open eyes, peel away skin,
awaken the heart’s coma.
I will set aside the costumed figure
and redress the host
so its image can be seen in mirrors
I set forth with words bugged by God.
When these words are spoken,
another ear is listening on the other side
beaming understanding
like lasers their neutral light.

The common grave of courage holds us all
in the portal of singularity,
the God-trail of rebeginning.

Somehow, so seldom, words and images
thrust their meaning into heaven and conquer time.
But when they do,
they become the abracadabra
of the sacred moment.
The pantomime of the public’s deepest longing.

Afterwards,
the improbable eyelid glances open,
the skin folds away,
and the heroic eye awakens and remains alert.
Afterwards, the words eat the flesh and leave behind
the indigestible bitterness.
The emotional corpse shed,
an insoluble loneliness.
The cast of separation.

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