A Window Into Approaching Dawn

“Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.” Rumi
 
..
 
I.
 
Back and forth, the hot
Mounds of your hips, jockeying
Forth and back in my
Hands, overflows the saucers of
My eyes, with desire that is
Palpable in it’s naked, wanton
Vulgarity, and my letters
Echo the dance of my tongue
As it pries at the closed
Window of your navel
 
My suckling lips draw up your
Dark goosed flesh, the desperately erect
Nipple, the aching yaw, which floods
With excited lubricant, the tightly wound
Anus, which makes a token resistance
Before yielding, with a
Subliminal tremor of barely
Withheld violence, the weight of my
Body carries behind my thrusting
Cock, which I bury to its full
Stride and press further, seeking the
Pinnacle of shared ecstatic pain
 
The encircling
Air takes on a moist, electrified
Humidity
My animalistic
Intrusions battering back the doors
Of your cunt, which fold wide and outward
With greedy, calculated invitation, and
Grasp with tremulous  
Hands, whose need to hold me
Within is near to madness, upon my exiting
 
..
 
Intermezzo,
 
Back and forth, forth and back, across the Halifax. Witness the horizontal band that separates sea from sky. Witness the hydra rearing it’s multitude of heads, drifting across the backdrop. Witness the rippling scales of leviathan as it wends its serpentine course through the riverbed.
 
Wind drifts soften the ruby hued sunlight of dawn, whose phantom fingers reach through all the windows and doors of heaven. Cross paths with myself, in late march, a bit more rotund, sweat stands out on my brow. We nod in simultaneous, synchronized silence as we approach and part.  
 
We move through revolutions of molting in an existence where everything is perfectly cyclic. Stand atop a tall structure and you may witness that awareness forms existence into a sphere.
 
Low emissions of electromagnetic energy, pulsing between one half and 2 GHz. Slight variations of light intensity. Words uttered, ignite, when making contact with the air. Burn, curl into fetal ovoids of ash, quicken, chill, become granite, strike the ear with flavorless impact, and the hour clock is always wrong, arms broken and pointing limply to Kristallnacht, ad nauseum.
 
All is confusion, destruction and violence. This is all we can impart to one another, by this medium. Our struggles subside, we retreat to our individual trenches.
 
“Understanding is but the sum of our misunderstanding.” Murakami assures me, with a gentle pat. He tosses a stone into the fountain, and it stands out amidst the coins, in various states of tarnish and decomposition. We watch the ripples spread, rebound, founder and still. The fountain murmurs, rolls over and resettles, in its disturbed slumber.
 
..
 
II.
 
One movement flows into the next
One sequence seamlessly begets
The next, deeply ingrained into muscle
Memory, arms extended forward, shoulders rise with
Their knot of muscles bunched at the center
Hands fly outward, knuckles pursed, bristling at the
Vanguard, feet rise and fall in sequential
Rhythm, planted in triangular position
To the torso, which twists at the hips, guiding the forward
Momentum, as all things are
Progressing at a constant, through
Eternity, through the ever
Shifting now
 
If you forget my name, remember my
Bloodied hands, that struck at
Hearts, that cracked their high walls, at the
Center of their gravity, where you thought
Yourselves the strongest, that gripped
Their sinuous vines, and were content to
Climb and be
Crushed by the grip of their
Titanic unapologetic weight
 
Back, legs, and arms straighten, palms up to drink
The warmth of steadily intensifying sunlight
 
..
 
2am finds your humble narrator nude from the waist down, bent over the kitchen counter as I carve a new belt notch into the leather. The knife tip circles, digging a trench. A faint, churlish odor rises invisibly, slightly rankles my nostrils, barely perceptible to my olfactory senses.
 
I watch a cadre of ants mine miniscule traces of food from the tines of a fork, witness unclouded determination and efficiency.
 
“True wisdom is having no fear.” Nietzsche offers, from somewhere in the upper left region of my cortex. His frigid unbreath forms a white speech bubble. Nebulous letters rake black, taut strokes within.
 
I put down the knife, turn to him as I run the belt through the pant loops, draw them over each leg and thread the buckle. The unused portion hangs like a limp dick, about six inches down.
 
He regards me with eyes of untrammeled luminosity, their light emanations trapped in spacetime at the epicenter of a black hole. A single, static gleam in a sea of crushing darkness. He holds one arm raised to mid elbow, palm facing up, the other raised to face level, palm facing forward, all in monochrome contrasts of gray, black and white.
 
I feel the corner of my mouth tug into a wry grin as I cross my arms behind my back, hands clasping the elbows, feet parted slightly. “I relieve you, sir.” I say officiously.
 
His push broom mustache twitches slightly, mad jazz plays in his eyes, where his dead hierarchical god whispers into Beethoven’s deaf ears. His one dimensional features flattened by the press of printed pages, by the lack of any greater familiarity.
 
He mirrors my stance, with a slow, comical lax. “I stand relieved.” The speech bubble balloons outward, letters puncture the epicenter.
 
“We could have been friends,” I say. If you were not dead. If you were not an avatar, an effigy thrown over a facet of myself. If my departed youth did not form the seamless, perfect trifecta of death, taking with it my conviviality.
 
Through the window, the moon searches the night sea, through blanketed hours for approaching shores of dawn. A mammoth pod of clouds closes over, and the three of us continue to gaze skyward, in its general direction.
 
..
 
III.
 
I hope you will forgive the long plains of my
Silence, which stretch bare, skeletal arms
Between us, I am embarrassed when I have
Forgotten
Your names, and cannot, in my ignorance, translate
How I have etched the peaks and valleys of
Your faces upon my memory, where every squall
And eddy that troubled the set of your
Features, lies recorded within the
Tableau of my violent
Heart
 
..
 
Silence lowers a steady palm over everything. I sit at a stoplight in the early hours, where the continual thinning of night has finally begun to yield its heavier hues to the approaching kaleidoscope of morning light.
 
No cars other than myself and another, across the intersection. A woman that I do not remember is within, she smiles and raises a hand to me. I return the gesture and her gaze, for a moment. As our cars pass, we both look straight ahead.
 
Perhaps she mistook me for someone else. I often measure the faces of others, pour over their features, searching for those who’ve departed my life. Perhaps she feels the solitude as keenly as I.
 
“For, after all, you do grow up, you do outgrow your ideals, which turn to dust and ashes, which are shattered into fragments; and if you have no other life, you just have to build one up out of these fragments.”
 
Dostoevsky sits beside me as we merge onto the highway, amber street lights sliding across the convex dome of the windshield. His smile touches his eyes, for a moment, before receding, and I witnessed again in him, the slow lapping progression and regression of tides. Of hope, breath held in expectation, the din and confusion of climactic events, despair of endings, and continual renewal of hope. I drew comfort, in that, and the familiar rhythm of such an organic metronome.
 
Wheels turn. Engine purrs. Headlights illuminate the immediate future.
 
Everything is music. Raindrops fall.
 
..
 
A Window Into Approaching Dawn
By
Daniel Christensen
 
“You’ve seen my descent, now watch my rising.” Rumi