Therefore, I am
Prostrate before the moon and the sun
And the rain that followed, once again
The moon, the sun, and the rain that followed,
Once again
And forever more, I fear
For the flame that burnt my hands and eyes,
Charred the snow-hearted and scalded their brothers
Lay covered in earth, in ash, in suffocating pitch
Starved of fuel more potent than a prone body, prostrate before the moon
And the sun
And the rain that followed, once again
As I watch it fall, from clouds of nothing
– Izzy Fishbach
Author’s Note: Philosophers of all persuasions have spilled much ink debating whether it is possible to know that one exists, and if so, how to prove it. This poem is the opposite of that: it suggests that we don’t exist at all.…
...continue reading
Fishermen are good at sea.
Strong arms, pull steady sails
In shifting wind,
In storm.
Rudders for left hips guid straight to streams pregnant with catch, so they may cast their nets in place of incantations.
Heave!
And here’s the day—easy. The water like a looking glass, they sit upon white decks watching the world. Fishermen are very good at sea.
When beached, the ground moves under them. Confident steps slide, awkward and uneven. The air too warm, the wind too dry. The sea just there, and not.
They’re caught
Right on the precipice of life—free to stare, but not enter.
There, they mend their nets. Knit fingers bloody, set gaze upon the sand. Bottle up complaints—though that part’s harder. They wake and walk and sleep, all on flat land and adrift, with only God for anchor.…
...continue reading
as a ship in a bottle
believing every wooden piece
a symbol of something
that can be shaped.
I see each fragile word nestled in your
lined fingers being carefully homed.
Eyes straining, focusing,
anything can be built despite
the small opening.
You laugh
when I tell you the ship
will never sail.
My words, random particles,
amass to nothing.…
...continue reading
I used to be jealous of the rising tide, for it could never leave
Just lap at jagged teeth and spray its foam upon your sleeve
My blindness felt the seagulls flee, their mocking heard no more
Yet still the tide, it rose in time, to crash on rocky shores
I know why the kestrel races, on the hunt for freckled faces
In the beaches, ports, and harbors, raving for its saving graces
In the alleyways, for forty days, I heard them caw
In the burning trees, I heard their pleas, their throats so raw
I swore the birds, they never rest, for land and earthly law
Don’t much apply in cyan sky and clench of vulture’s jaw…
...continue reading
I’ve seen her fragmented,
with pupils swollen, overfilling to black,
not mourning the absence of color.
My neck tilts—revealing
her skull to be a collection of shards.
Yet, always her mouth curls up,
the corners pointed to satisfaction.
Tonight, the moon strikes her.
Rotted prisms bark back at me.
I peel along my damaged skin,
scraping the imperfection,
hoping my blood gives her new life.…
...continue reading
The moon’s gaunt and narrow.
…………..They say our corridor through life’s
…………..measured by the moon.
…………..Slim as a tunnel, I tuck my legs under my knees.
Pat scratches licks on the rosewood,
…………..strumming them in fragments of silk and nylon.
…………..Three-Part Rasguedo, Golpe,
…………..Rumbagitana.
…………..He plays.
Fire-starting calluses, fireboard,
…………..spun Mullein, none of these items
…………..are amazed by their use. In the circle dance,
…………..my back foot scratches the dust.
Farruca, the wild form, mournful Soleares,
…………..the tragic Segurias.
…………..He adjusts his segilla,
…………..demonstrates Tarrantas y Tarrantino,
…………..its dramatic turns and contemplative open rhythm.
Rising into the horizon.
…………..I hear the shuffle of leaves in the Sequoia,
…………..the rattle of rain upon the green roof.…
...continue reading
It was the morning glory
wreathed around the jersey’s
horns that turned you into
a vegetarian. The beast stood
there in the green pasture
like some bovine Ophelia,
brown, beautiful and tragic,
trailing white flowers, green hearts.
How could I ever eat you? you
murmured and made a pact
with the future never to do so.
I, with my eyes on the traffic lights,
missed the scene and the promise,
being concerned with the more
immediate future by depressing
the throttle and heading down the road.
In any case, my convolvulus
was not morning glory, but
bindweed, not beautiful, being
a depressing throttle of a vine itself:
smothering, persisting, insisting
on its own survival at the expense
of everything else. Rather like
ourselves, I guess. Which is why
I hated it so much, battled with it
with a fury, pointlessly ripping its
hateful fecundity from the currant
bushes, scrabbling, tearing the fleshy
spaghetti of its white roots from
the reluctant soil only pausing
from time to time to dream of sirloin.…
...continue reading