"Reality: Apraxis," "Telling Time" and "Perpetuite / Self-Portrait"

Reality: Apraxis

i. vanity
i was not born flung open like this—
taste my bread my blood my breath
heed those tragic years passing &
slicing the air like the metal tears of looking back
heed my song ring the alarm
tell it back to your own third person
i've found joy in the faintest & dared
telling no one—
i wouldn't have fled so fast
except the cathedral bells
are covered in my fingerprints
ii. self-generation
talismanicly endowed, O! who will answer for the tragedy of years
my crown of thorns hasn't yet fallen from the trees of fate
the secrets of the crowd gather around my glistening doorframe
waiting to veil their scars with memories of the scent of orange groves
transgressing stillnesses that you in the core of being slip into
the dust of voices spinning from cloud-thoughts & prophetic moon beams
purple in the windows of remorse for willing beyond the microscopic
thresholds of omniscience out of body out of mind out of time...
cranial onions bring out my territorial nature—
iii. omniscience

these worlds never begin & never end—
filaments bleed in the alley
beyond nucleus of nascence
, exorcism crown coded
within scavenged for abbreviation
tilted orbit of Trismegistus​
red vespers of the past
undoubtful & nodding off oxygen
destiny eclipse gassho foremost—
two javalina eyes in oleander
sniffing the light of Venus rising



"Reality: Apraxis" formerly appeared in a different form here at Unlikely Stories Mark V.



Telling Time

reborn ideas run on sentences—
siphon a little more gasoline for the next time
crow speculates yr being
the facts of one tongue nourishing another
the rosary & sycamore at odds
with the stature of curtains everywhere
voices in the trees will not allow it
wherever you cannot be free & naked at the same time—
years of fire buried behind the moment's repose
when the wind turns back from these mountains
the mind opens with its windows
the mind opens with its windows



Perpetuite / Self-Portrait

And the world keeps going ‘round
in swift wings for the fall
in scorching June alley ways
in handshakes in bare knuckles
in the fading throttle of oscillation
preparing you for that which leaves and stays—
desire carves
dust statues from the crumbling walls of your return
and the journey is a child of your last breath
no one knows what this is coming to
(—we don’t look at each other anymore)
nor how to console recurring fate
so you gather in ancient rooms
flickering prayers
every day with the same voice
a scent of salt water and vertigo
reigning from your thistled necklace of wicks



D.C. Wojciech is the author of The Longest Breath (Anvil Tongue, 2020). He edits Silver Pinion. D.C. recommends No More Deaths/ No Más Muertes.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Wednesday, May 27, 2020 - 22:21