Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Thirty-One Observations of Salt


Despite the lack of postings, for the last four months I have been writing— in the traditional manner, pen to paper, almost on a daily basis. Currently, through a new approach to the development of projects, I have reinforced a stronger sense of a fragmented and fractured narration within my themes. It all ties in of course to the creative exercise of generating a nightly haiku. From this continuing practice evolved a collage of different strands of thoughts, a random range of broken phrases, fragmented sentences, fractured impressions, and imagistic paragraphs.

Unexpectedly, happily, what resulted: a full poem emerged from the collection of detailed scraps, a long work soon to be sent out into the world for hopes of publication.

What it all comes down to is the fact that every month, due to a controlled environment, thematic prose and verse were produced. At one point I considered posting these writings on a daily basis on Twitter, or for this blog— an option I still hold in reserve for the future— however, at the moment I like the manner the broken shards of sentences work together as a litany, similar to the commentary I posted earlier this year.

In May, the following material resulted:



Thirty-One Observations of Salt

—the random nature of pure salt, collected in glass shakers

—at one time, the inheritance of kings, now a mundane necessity

—the child pours a handful of salt into my hand, laughing

—I find strong poems carry an aftertaste of salt

—your words leave traces of a fine salt along the edge of your lips

—after dinner, subtle layers of salt coat the table tops, linger on plates

—everywhere I go: a small trail of salt is left behind, as proof of existence

—a poem worth placing in a grain of salt

—the grit that layers pockets: salt residue from living

—the name of a small southern Texas town: Salado

—when adding a pinch of salt to boiling water, her hands always flurried as sparrows

—she remembers some winters when salt licks would be left out for deer and the neighbor’s blue-grey pintos

—the oily saltwater of the Gulf leaving a muddy film across one’s body

—the taste of salt along the edge of your chin

—the slow salty calcium dripping from the teeth of underground caverns over the course of centuries

—the hour of night when couples unknot their desire, leaving a salty taste on their tongues

—there are days which leave me emotionless, a ruined pillar of decayed marble, as Lot’s Wife, nameless and wondering about cities left behind her

—the cliché of tears tasting as salt—

—afterwards, he feels the heavy night settle over the two of them in bed

—a layer of salt lingers under my fingernails, settles between my molars overnight

— in winter, a trail of salt always leads strangers across the ice sidewalk up to the front steps and the waiting doorway

—Tonight she soaks her feet in epsom salts

—he recalls a recent dream of salt, with characters bundled tight against the winter conditions of the spice

—he finds himself leaving ripped packets of salt on park benches—watching the slow wind shift away the granules—

—the sand paper tongue of a cat seeking salt on the hands of its owner

—the taste of salty grief hiding under the tongue, within her two cupped hands

—while meditating he views his life as a broad salt marsh at low tide—pale water birds circling in dense numbers

—the outer edge of my creeping shadow: a pale, fine line of salt

—Ophelia brushes salt from her lap, bread crumbs from her sleeve— gathers a bouquet of dried flowers— then considers the edge of the water—

—the silence of a closed book of poems equals the silence of salt chambers miles under the surface of our cities

—Insomnia leaves salt in the inner folds of an eye closed in tight frustration—

—the salty taste of a poem at twilight, within the silence of the house deepening into blue shadows


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