tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68144407431539147252024-02-08T05:02:43.028-05:00Of Water and StoneJack Crowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07499087036876745723noreply@blogger.comBlogger6125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6814440743153914725.post-66266607850077509702011-10-20T11:07:00.001-04:002011-10-20T11:08:13.131-04:00October 20, 2011 - late morningshe tries to stanch the bleeding with conversation<br />
her words, like fingers<br />
frostbitten and stiff,<br />
wet-slick, warm on the surface now with the blood,<br />
cold where the blood no longer flows<br />
cold inside<br />
she tries to patch her wound with contemplation<br />
silently reproaching the knife<br />
for its hilt,<br />
she smooths out her detachment, pressing it to<br />
frozen, bleeding flesh<br />
but soon, already, always, it swells with her bloodJack Crowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07499087036876745723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6814440743153914725.post-79602327889611489092011-09-17T14:31:00.000-04:002011-09-17T14:31:42.804-04:00September 17, 2011 - afternoonclamor deceives;<br />
for most of the<br />
cosmos,<br />
nothing happensJack Crowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07499087036876745723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6814440743153914725.post-50141923646507537652010-12-22T00:52:00.002-05:002010-12-23T07:50:10.492-05:00December 22, 2010 - an hour after midnightclades of disagreement,<br />
shaping themselves as an ersatz<br />
godling, etheric, unreal and casting<br />
no shadows, where light<br />
escapes and electrons pace<br />
their own clades of<br />
pliant objectivity,<br />
itself a fiction, even now a lie and more<br />
and the all over the place<br />
becomes the never, and nowhere<br />
do we find ourselves,<br />
trapped by distances<br />
and the disagreements that fill the gaps<br />
the clades, the instance of the face,<br />
a quirk in lips, the lingering eyelid,<br />
a dissonance in lambent notes,<br />
replaced now with the spaded<br />
night of faceless<br />
discontentJack Crowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07499087036876745723noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6814440743153914725.post-16441312449758199222010-11-28T23:26:00.001-05:002010-11-28T23:27:38.340-05:00November 28, 2010 - almost midnightdamage collects itself<br />
in its limitless instances -<br />
you ought to know this<br />
but you have too many<br />
wounds to pay attention<br />
so I can't scold you,<br />
or I won't;<br />
but -<br />
you don't get<br />
forever<br />
to figure it out;<br />
death and dying follow<br />
all this damage<br />
follow even the crystalline security<br />
of a bogomil spirit world; -<br />
so,<br />
older than the name I wear<br />
and older than the memory of<br />
the feeling of my self<br />
I wonder at those wounds,<br />
<br />
the ones which neither kill,<br />
nor heal in due time...Jack Crowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07499087036876745723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6814440743153914725.post-31593627704090372112010-10-17T08:08:00.001-04:002010-10-17T08:08:43.147-04:00Sunday, October 17, 2010 - early morningShe sits<br />
across the table<br />
a dividing surface,<br />
captive to the distance<br />
<br />
between<br />
her now, and always<br />
wondering if he knows<br />
that her love falls towards<br />
<br />
a break<br />
in the original<br />
heat, the fire, the burning<br />
open of fear, that stole<br />
<br />
her heart<br />
and threatens sanity<br />
as a weapon, a wound<br />
to bleed out devotion<br />
<br />
until<br />
only calm regard rests<br />
behind eyes once fitted<br />
with a rose washed belief -<br />
<br />
and the <br />
table seems now, in the <br />
spell of this wound, to loom<br />
at the cusp of never...Jack Crowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07499087036876745723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6814440743153914725.post-78573812159955187242010-10-15T15:16:00.000-04:002010-10-15T15:16:13.143-04:00Friday, October 15, 2010 - afternoonSand, flies in the face<br />
of it, and darkly shadowed<br />
sideways, her eyes flit,<br />
from place to space, emptied<br />
of her hallowing,<br />
of her holy moment,<br />
of the exact instant, when<br />
she forgot to differ<br />
her eyes, and the pacing of them,<br />
from her sight, from what she saw -<br />
forgot to remember the end of childhood, where seamlessness fails,<br />
and the adolescent picks at strings,<br />
and figments, faltering along these<br />
edges of experience where self and world confront<br />
each other<br />
with what has shattered,<br />
and faltering, sand in her eyes, her face an <i>it</i>,<br />
a thing in the mirror, seen,<br />
an object, muddled by dust and dirt,<br />
faltering,<br />
she breaks even, only to<br />
forget once more that her eyes<br />
do not belong in the picture,<br />
as she's seeing it...Jack Crowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07499087036876745723noreply@blogger.com0