By Julie Flanders
We live in staccato continuities
Ignoring the space between the infinities
That rest between the stagger of pulses
Moving to please
Feigning choreographies
Ignoring how ill at ease we are in our biologies
With the spasms of uncertainties
That rule our timed signatures
And mark the keys in which we sing
Are we creatures of meaning
Or sense, creatures even of anything
Or random beings, chance atoms
In collisions of seeming meaning
Dancers
In a vision of divine intelligence
I don’t understand any of what you have said
He smiled, how could you, and shook his head
I wonder if there is anything better
Than spinning around on the beach
Arms spread
As wide as you can reach
Turning your body round and round
And round
Until you fling what is left of you
Onto the sand-dusted ground
Allowing the spin to continue its illusion
As you lie still
In the mind-body confusion
Of memory
I remember him
That way
As a strong sensation
Like the smell of lilacs on a spring day
Like the salt
And the dead sea creatures—
That scent—
The ocean’s rich spray
Of frustration
With no way to convey
What he meant
Are we earth-borne or heaven-sent
Is there sin in every thought
Should we repent for being who we are
And how and why
Did the whole conversation start
Was it ever really
One dense star-exploding blast
One sneeze of cosmic ever-ness
That could not last
One everlasting flash
From which we all sprang
Into this illusion
He spoke his effusions
And I sang
And when the bells tolled
He was the one for whom they rang
A rich and unforgettable staccato
Pang
Pang
Pang
Pang
October Process 