Alone

This sound says more than I can say Your trail stretched out in front of me But I don’t feel capable of walking it It’s like a cold shadow that doesn’t allow the seed to sprout, An interrupted laugh still in my throat…. And I’ll still be here at midnight At the nearest train station, towers of fog lie on the night roads of the mind, Follow the line of reason; the intrepid destiny of dawn, Before the world spins and the heart shakes, The space opens for another farewell wave…

I want you closer, but I don’t know where to start. The night kissed the wind and the rain fainted around the corner, The welcome signs faded into the landscape. One time, joy folded her tiny hand and snapped her fingers into glittery lights. In my thinnest version it was necessary to be vast and embrace all sights. Only among the white-capped Nordic mountains did a new day emerge transiently, And each step made everything coexist simultaneously, and perhaps it had been like this since the beginning: white sand house, blue flame of the northern lights, coastal mill headquarters, salt dune, matrix flora, abyssal paradise, rainbow in the shape of a pinwheel.

COCOON

I saw my externist today

and got my prescriptions filled

for a well-curated array

of armor auras and pills

to protect me against weathers

and germs. And also to blunt,

like a cuirass wrought of leather,

the intimacy of hugs

and the taste and touch of kisses.

In this invisible plate

I can discover what bliss is,

now that I’m inviolate.

THE ENGAGEMENT

Every man must embrace his war.

Our crown and temples we must defend,

our missionary positions enforce.

Ignore our sacrifice of semen.

We engage body against body

for the future sakes of all the children.

 Until a little peace is rendered

we expose our privates at the front;

we bear arms but only to surrender.

A ROPE AND A PIPE

The sharpshooter’s father

learned to dance

when he married the ropemaker’s daughter.

“No saddle

instructs the horse to prance.

The lesson is always in the bridle.

Nothing is so efficient as a gun’s

violence,”

the marksman taught his son.

“The bullet

can establish your best environment,

find your foe and kill it.

Sing to me when I die

if you wish,

but know that music’s a waste of your time.

Don’t get drunk,

and put down that damn flute! Be like the fish,

who only dance when hooked.”

And the son followed his dad’s direction.

A trigger

captained his affections.

But his flute

and humble philosophy and liquor

led him to peace and truth.

BY INVITATION ONLY

No. Lacking your exact welcome mat,

my poems/your name cannot attach.

Not entitled to your writhing nights

or flash-thoughts of unsari’d thigh,

a-thirst I stand at the Well of Unrequited.

THE SHIP

Oh, the mariner is like the moon;

perfect the once in the month

when my land concedes to your sea.

Our boat was, before, a forest,

leaves like sails, winds

like a petrel’s exhale.

Anchored by a stone that once

hugged earth, like mom and son.

And the sea, the sea. The basket

of stars upside-downed, so all

its flowers scatter everywhere.

HOLOCAUST AND REGENERATION

Fires hibernate in the trees.

The forest flowers,

red and gray,

race through underbrush,

uproot wild life

and humanity.

The burn tattoos the earth.

But growth curls within the rain.

Balmful sky rivers

swell heaven’s banks

to soothe scar wounds.

Seeds find footholds

for a newer green.

Creatures settle in.

Havoc hides inside the grain.

Fields uncelibate themselves.

We clear space

to celebrate

to dance to drink

to lure relief

from the caress that grinds.

Election Results

He’s staying 

Up late

With a box

Of wine

And a frozen pizza,

A meal 

That he’s hardly

Able to taste,

Except for

The worry

And the sadness

And the fear.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published in May.

***
Getting to know silence
The clouds in the sky burst silently
The veins on the arm burst silently
The dead cry silently
Thunder rumbles without any unnecessary sounds
Fish heads don’t scream
Even mosquitoes don’t squeak
A military pilot prepared to drop a quiet (but only for the time being) air bomb

***
the existence of clouds for the sake of the existence of rain
the creation of man for the sake of the creation of god
I know everything in the world except the truth

***
The future is water
The future is a spit
I collect spit and tears
I pretend that the cemetery is a space rocket
I pretend Im going to the stars
But in fact Im picking mushrooms in the forest after an explosion in the forest near
Hiroshima

***
Religion was invented for those
Who have not yet died
Each of us dreams of being Jesus Christ
Each of us is a baby
Вut where are the Magi

***
БОГ
ГОГ
LOL
LOLA
LOL A
LOL Æ
LOL
ГОГ
ВАН ГОГ
ONE GOG
VAN GOGH
VAH GOG
AH GOD
A DOG
AD OG
АД ОХ
ЛХ ОХ
ХХ ХХ
ОО ОО
Zero
Nothing

***

Chorus. 

Silence. 

Silence kills. 

Silence is a source of information, 

And the deader it is, 

The more valuable it is. 

Music. 

The choir repeats the same thing, 

Nailing silence to the emptiness. 

Creepy, fascinating. 

Chorus is loneliness. 

It is unbearable to hear 

How insanely lonely 

Each individual voice is. 

All voices arise from silence. 

All voices arise from loneliness. 

All voices are singing. 

Singing is the twin of music. 

Music is made up of sounds: 

Silence and stillness. 

Sound is a movement 

That moves towards 

The one who hears it. 

Hear the silence while waiting 

For the end of life. 

Listen to silence 

During your own apocalypse. 

And sing. 

Almost die. 

Life is almost dead. 

Death is almost beautiful. 

Death is silence. 

Death is a song 

Without words,

Without a voice. 

Chorus. 

Silence. 

Silence kills.

***

Blind people do not interfere with those who are happy. Night with silence. Occasionally there is the sound of cars on the street. Steps on the stairs. The noise of neighbors voices and the clatter of dishes.

A blind man is looking for a roof. The stars are shining and there is nowhere to hide from the shine. Its not snowing. There is no access to the roof.

A blind man is looking for a basement. A blind man plays hide and seek. The door to the basement is closed.

A blind man is looking for a home. A blind man does not want to live in a house without color. There is a sharpened knife on the table. The soul turns into a bird. The door is open.

***

I teach the lights to light up

I learn from people about combustion

Matches have no soul

Matches can break

You can build a house and death out of matches

The flowers in which the cemetery is floating are fake

Lighters are much preferable to matches

The peace of the grave is guarded by a cricket

***

no one knows 

the autumn cemetery 

as well as worms

***

the rain washes away the dirt 

from the face of a homeless man

***

again no one was born 

in the cemetery

***

the ship floats away 

into the distance

the clouds float away 

into the distance

people are floating away

no one will catch up with time

***

the grass opens 

its spring temple 

belatedly