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Well At the edge Toes curling over concrete Nose pinched off Eyes welded shut And Step Bouyancy reversed And up past your scalp In a medium that won't Let you breathe Fight, flouder, flail, And forget Which way to the sky Pilons all around And a low-hanging branch With vines reaching down And a bouy nearby All appear Through an optical delusion Within easy reach Dark telescopes And dreams stutter closed Metal shutters Rub like cricket legs While film flaps against the uptake reel As the lights make you blink Squeezing down your irises Remember what you knew At the edge: To try is to take a chance On failure. 11:20 pm, 9/20/99 Copyright 1999 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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Pitons the air is thin here i don't want to climb any more but i'm supposed to Gotta have a plan Gotta have a reason Gotta have a map Gotta climb. i think i'll take this path here no, i can't see past the next bend but neither can you, damn it it seems to go up. i don't know if it goes to the top i've never seen it i wonder if it... i can't tell if it's thin air or tight chest, i just want to rest a bit here. mediocre is still pretty damn good when it's in the middle of Mount Everest. 11:45 pm, 3/30/99 Copyright 1999 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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Call Up here, [proferred to the jackals by this austere wood floor, guidoed by formidable velvet curtains that would gladly smother me with weight or with dust, and the lights so hot and bright and blinding, and all your eyes, all your eyes] I can't remember which part Was the mask. 11:33 am, 6/23/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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Pockets bread cereal cookie dough (choc. chunk) dish detergent juice milk watch band choc pudding shovel bagels chicken --oops, wrong scrap of paper 10:17 am, 11/18/97 Copyright 1997 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
