by Kyle Trujillo
I breathe human through my fingers. Am otherwise thin eyed and patient,
reading existence as a brush of listless wind.
The tongue of creation may translate my hungers and a dull vicious calm.
Many hours I cannot sense what draws me and persist then in echoes.
I walk into the tide searching death and tangle my organs in
deep morning cold excavations cutting under my animal agenda and heart.
My lungs are strong and mind ties a needle taut north on goal
until the heart attack afternoon or a drowning.
Inside I am mostly heavy static, but create and feel I should,
should anything because the clear world whirls madness.
The god of goodness innate has been shredded,
never stood whole but there are traces she touched and I may be some.
Become shaking moments and desperation. I wish for anything in the world.
Since living in Seattle these nine months I have learned
that I do not love nature as once thought I could.
Despite a brief wash of euphoric solidarity,
it is not possible for me to love the world and all its passengers.
I shall never relinquish that hope for love,
even unfeeling in the midst of beauty and truth.
I'll acknowledge and perhaps reach there slowly.
I have confused myself with doubts on the emptiness of total meaning.
Whether my path is ineffectual compared against
what justice I might sew if my strengths were applied elsewhere.
I convince myself with fear and escapefulness of
there is no pure good. No option only to heal or live as a clean breath in smoke.
Any pursuit is equal shoutings against a clamped palm
until the ocean floats over your stunned and naked body.
And I feel nothing. Mumbling with my slit-up shins in the brine and
stars clatter overhead like spoons in a shutting drawer. Our Earth is
the shadow of an insect lost on paper white fields, so minuscule and
wandering pangs of connection or knotted in violence hunger
Kyle Trujillo lives in Seattle, Washington and wakes up very early in the morning.
Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Sunday, November 26, 2017 - 19:51