The Stream as Dreamed by Cannibals

Parana would be called
a water feature.  The hidden source
where, modestly, a percolating urge
persists
that in its perfection
could waken the world.

The stream stretches,
in languid indolence, away
from here.  Missing...
misguided attachments,
foolhardy expectations
like anticipating a cold beer
in the tropics. Thirsty but...

We too suffer of this inertia.

We too are lulled into multiple fears.

The familiar
eyes--
like cameras--
roll back
dipped in the cataract,

unable to see.  The frontier
discovers the lowest places,
plummets in condescension
(to spite the blindness)
finds a ring of boulders
in which to pool.

Beyond the pale
yellow light diffused
by tears, the salt of your feeling,
was in everything
like the laughter
of the drowning man, that joy
of being.

Another contortion of grief
..... another pregnant pause

like
after the patriarch runs over
the family's favorite pet
and everyone
on the cul-de-sac lets him
get away,
a hit and run
into
the setting sun.

I am Balboa.
I am a baobab.
I am a bilious boy on a boat

beside the big water;

beneath the big sky.

I am oriented
toward a hunger that has learned
to wait

A constellation
tattooed,
a configuration of moles
copied
by the dangerously devoted stalker.

Who discovered that
"this one" was foretold
in Sanskrit texts
to be recognized by the five stars
stitched onto the orb
based upon the torn tissue,
ample for geography but
not made for maps.

Combustible, there you go

jumping
off

the edge of the world.

Seamen say,
there is perched a monster
kneeling, jaw
spread like a trap
devouring the crews
the whipped, salty refugees,
exhausted
drying like starfish
on the rocks.

When it all runs out
remembering
the distance between
mountain and ocean
or between the graveled tongue
and the ears nestled
into a happy hum
means
nothing without
closing the distance
between

origin


and


source.