words are bombs

words are bombs, but only if you can hear the detonation

{04.04.13}

 

I watch,

as I simultaneously try

 

to blow

and not blow out

the tiny inferno

of the matchhead

 

hearing a silent reassurance

that, if you think in poetry

you are bound to suffering

constantly stuck between moments

of such devastating gravity

and heartbreaking speed

that you try to slow them down

 

even though, you know

that “still life”

is a swimming circumlocution

around Denial’s failing island

 

you dream, like the impecunious

owner of a lottery ticket, that

your words would expose

for all those snuggled in naiveté

the world that truly

circled them around the drain

 

and learn how to laugh

straight in the face of horror

 

or death

or existential collapse.

 

you feel, that you alone

are the keeper of

some super-esoteric connection

in the fabric, that:

 

words are bombs, but only if you can hear the detonation.

 

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