the offer of walking
above our breathing
the action on the outside
the sensory invisible
above our machinery
our expansive thievery
equal to leaving things
where they were
before the rivering escape
becomes the encounter
with a practical split
among recognized forms
the cognitive invisible
by the walking of the visible
the inside visible
in the swing of our heel
our way to remain
as our tail remains
how many goodbyes and hellos
are there in the ocean
how much time gets to fall, between waves
between words, all those goodbyes
all those hellos
what is that time between
that ancient significance of time
of words about to land
hello is a gathered mobility
a hardship for someone who dwells in movement
a family in the act of mobility
wave upon wave in bloodlines
the ocean, consistent with hello
is master of goodbye
when will you join
the conversation, ocean says
standing at the edge of what you join
is it any different
the other way around
what can I catch
right in the middle, with this pen
this paper, look
just look and stand
do nothing but stand at the edge
and ocean will speak
will come to you
at your feet, the waves
coming up and back, your toes
at the lick, of hellos
support one star point
with vapid dismissal, northness
in the elevated solstice
the early beyond of a knowing ember
take heed, and goose across
the folding migration, many envelopes yet to fly
obelisk inscriber, affect feathernight by hopi vibrate
cheat the clouds
arabesque the indivisible object
the seer’s wall, maybe dressed
maybe fought — might feint, all points west
all crowns relieved by a disappeared sun
and yet here’s the risen quill — did you disappoint
by disappearing — or is that clever use of d words
a dis in the prefix of evening
a kind of darkling that takes the breath away
sleep for a day’s worth of knowing
— what completes
what is, saying so…
…to clear the voice
inside the road — would take more
than there is to imagine
— more from the internal beyond
connect look with how, the breaks
pretend to see how the puzzle of time
is a reminder, a string,
a celestial wrinkle, across how many digits left to bury
another night, a torn expanse
blooded interweaver, crossed — was it there,
but look, was it us
seeing the look, the connect — that so much of make, is good for
and there it goes, doesn’t it — just, something to capture
something to remind the fingers,
the human extension, of what passes
from one world, into the next
the one to sit at, when stars decide
to drop their glory, into the lucid rememory
that passes, again, for the capture
of one more version — of removed interpersonal planes
with the framing devices
that we — if we can claim an us — can be
the us we claim
for a moment of a second's impasse
the turn — now captured
in the directionless kiss
of word, of mouth, by brain — where the landing
presents something soft, a reminder of what feels
before the touch becomes the neck,
the sift, or the eyes on the back
where the fingers know best, the gathering
of trails, of passages
imagined — as hairs that stray the cerulean hollows
— where you, soft, where stroke
is borealis, applauding prima-dawn
what is that part of me floating in the water that I can’t touch
that collection of mystery interwoven by dust and daze
how far am I trying to extend this reach so I can swipe a part of my past
just out there, surrounded by water, another island to claim
another intersection in the byways
in a field of water, an island will surface
as often as its gaze
the tips of understructure, invisible
to the looking glass, the fractured nobility
of land in the mess of its grounding
what is the open sine wave from my seat, here on the train
to the empty rooms and hallways of broken brick
out there, on a patch of earth formed by spirits to endear
the imagination, to re-involve the revolvement
of intricate wordplay, at the core of my personal castle
in the dungeons of a supernova, where impulse is a tributary
for reason, a body will rise out of its echo
invisible to the solar reflection, the sheet of glass
masquerading as sky, in the mess of celestial
who can count on fingers, align the proper number
of lines in a poem for permutations of obscurity
to latch onto incoherent talismans, out there,
on the interplay of satisfaction with reversal,
a dome to submerge most imperfected hearts
in the borrowed inversion of another poem, is where
the brother remembers the blood, the coursed
enveloping that frames a sunrise
out of its reflection into the woven path, the daisy chain
of neuro seers, that clean up the mess
OH WATER MAN (published in “Yes Thing No Thing” Roof Books 2010)
milliographic fillia water
slides me towards infinity
I have left the green she of dragonfly sailors slayling by
streams of dribs of beautilays from my
back blewndown behinded left assume-ily-ing...
I have chiesled a chist-niche trust fund for myself in
globs of worldular consumony, those
that wish they couldy,
wish I haddy, been,
I, havvy had, a load...of experience, showveled from these
shouldobos, beneathed mountainous rovolos
reached ever’d’evileep periolous owerful
everful sub-semblances, of
monomoments in charge...strung together by cautionous, I.
She is lugubrious, invisible.
She is...leaves - not there - rain - on you.
Skypiss lugubrious dipshit - damp some - ain’t it...
She runs into glass walls - an invisitor, by the shaft of her own samba.
You’re made of things you said you’d never be.
On my side, etched in sylla-graphicantations...shrill your boots of infamy...
Poseidous-water-faun-filligree...water-lawn pageantry...surf-il-lows ‘irically.
Miracle-ly, through its own spine, tragickalley falls to find...that...one…
Gravity’s seedling sits my plow,
kalimba-ly sings for a pillowless throw...carries her head into water.
Where I thread my needle with sirens and sound.
Where my beaut mute pumice boot treads true...sorries the sand...
cocoons the cilderness...possibles the planet...whirls the dervish...threads the mold...cajoles the konunga
of an inspired dobro, a dot-speck pigeon fancy,
pidgin-englished into bosom heave...I have
ammassed a suck-collection of crow gape.
Crouped the pus combed back from the Caves of Rupia...
on lonely nights - when curls puke febrile suspension.
HAH!!! The Nubs of Knowledge Along My Path Go, “BOO!!!”
Raipu, Raipu...Loosen The Noose!!!
I’ve sandpapered papuma’s through Palovia’s papoose!
Been chuckin’ Appaloosa...
Been gived, given dawn a-lavial-lindstrom.
Worn the rubbers, cranked of myth-storm...acummin’…Thunder Tonsils...Crane The Rafters!
I have carved millions on my side,
shattered the Big Glass along the fold and let the messofillia
and carve the course.
water bones me back to back to
water muscles me back to back to
water builds me back back to water
water mans me
I have placed the weight of eternity seven-stone cranberry
from beneathing malamattress skywash through
the folio-crackerbeards, through the must of milky wheat-potch, through the orbiting santatia...
gravitated wean-sapple through avoidance...
and there, was where I placed my trust.
Where I was, was a place, where I would stay.
Square-ily, curvily I, had plucked a tailor...invisible for a wish. Had him
sew scones in the skywash...foam-first, whish for a cranny, a crook, from my sides.
A sack of what lies behind...the simple-tude of continuous, I.
these boys have sweethearts and crocodiles
pulled like beads
from the ass of the sun...
hear me now
for I have sinned
it has been
invisible lifetimes since my last rain…
Is what pulls the tides into remembrance.
What courses the veins of revolution. The map of licks.
At some point of exit, when you deem it worthy to make acknowledgement
of my...ever-being, of my...presence,
when you find it upon yourself, to have that moment of recollection upon which
I, had a name...wait.
For I have had two O’s, H’d and riled many frees, O’s and ozones...
I have stood still for my naked rampart, loyal, layel, lay-vely low...
Slick to river lurk, I have coalesced 4-legged beggings from the furrows of
accounta-bulls, the-what-the-wheels-accounta-bleels, of sea-balsam-amoeba-me-rosea-sea-cows...
have, around mankind, beyond a sickle, to the left of my rancor...wounded what I’ve gone through…
afore, frist, afrarre, frond, afind...is...that...one…
there is a man
he had wireless glasses without the lenses
shoes with no soles
a shirt with no back
a book with no title
spoke without word
had me with his stare
made me talk to him without word
Mine, invisible to what scatters.
What brings, to my love’s glisten, his eyes of language.
Water-lingual-eyes that glisten
like the lakes they are.
PLIP. PLOP. PUP. BABBA.
LAPLAND - CAUSEYWAY
PLAP. PLOOP. BLABBA.
LAPLAP - FLOBBYWAVES....sowahanna man…
what amaz-aylings abouza-liquings...is,
it behinds you, while in you,
it finds you, while with you...
O...Ho-Sanna Man, Ojo...Water Man...
mostly, I am in you
mostly, I am of you
and mostly, of all
Fontana-tap-fillia-flipped...one slip of sand-scatter...this:
What mantle of man-matter might make man...matter…?
Is a man,
is a man...one glass wall...one prayer suspended in the wet, she,
wades through, what, I’ve gone through...her,
place H aside, on her side, her rosary wash,
her ‘lysian fields, her moonlight caress, her to find one
corner to gallop into...
Aipur, Aipur, sever the sun!
I have the map of licks, clucked under my tongue!
Placed my limbs in coherence to the galaxy.
Boned the Blanket! Swilled the Plankton! Dived the Diven Din of Grunge...
Squirreled arborial fantasm glocks in self-echanismic ertigo lunge...
Spittled ink-spattle on the test of time...carried the surf, where the shattered soon rise…
Quickened the pace of glaciers, where there is no air...mine.
What slips the pull into remembrance,
Where I have memories of the past difficult to quash themselves.
Where I have memories to make the future make me difficult make themselves.
Where you make me make myself make me make you into me’ture you in me I...quash,
the givering gash,
until we cross,
the rivering chance,
of seas I long for…
of seas I hope for…
I see my home…
she calls me home…
Edwin Torres’s recent books are XoeteoX: the infinite word object (Wave Book),and The Body In Language: An Anthology (Counterpath Press), which he edited. He has a number of essay-like formulations appearing in forthcoming anthologies, as well as an exhibit of visual work this summer at Photobook Works Gallery in Beacon, NY entitled, “Different Ways To Talk.”