The Absence of Wavelength

Sounds Having Drifted

Cross-Gate (having lifted)

The tremors begin before I can feel it happen.
Limbs stiffen as a familiar rumbling nears my core.
Just another train lumbering through intersection,
conical complaints higher, an invisible, dusty scene.

Deep rooted, anxiety grips, tethered in heart,
but won’t fly from a road that rocks and sways.
Voiceless, they tear screaming holes in nature.
No rumbling here, neither cutting words my way.

Stoicism has two eyes for every mirror angled,
where I am boxed in calm cabin, expressionless.
Faceless, invisible forces provocation swirling,
soundless twirling over head, circumspect seeming.

Mindless rubble-flecks inspect unwashed windows.
I’m to infer something from its lack of composition?
when up comes the gate and the last unease,
freeing, by absence, compelled by the heft,

prying open a view of a long, laureled line —
clouds ascending from the black, widening apron,
when I shift and further leave behind anything,
but nothing without quake on furthering exit.

Two forces fulcrum at once; no maw did open,
as neither serves the other but space that coincides.
About itself, everywhere consumes but an object
collecting speed, axled by muted energy with torque.

Acquiring molecules less dense, nor demanding,
a vague vehicle heaves paved tarmac, grounded.

Stoicism is easier when you’re not trying, dead inside.
I have no experience, just ignorant sensations tingling.

5.20.25
28 lines, free verse

Furthered 6.3.25 lines above could juxtapose, last two arrive anywhere or leave all together but an after-after thought on something yet fully conceived. Still unfinished…
lyrics to “Barely Breathing” hound since first moments of sentience arriving today. From performance on “…Talent (America’s Got)” the other night. Season opener? Seeking YouTube —

Not Compelled, other title or title line idea forthcoming.
More physics applications removing by quantum designs.

The Bard's Hall Contest  (13+) JUNE: BARD'S IS 20!!! PLUS: Annual Blog Contest! #981150 by StephBee

BOOK

The Absence of Wavelength  (18+) A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. #1149750 by Brian K Compton

To Be Lifted:

Three white keys open a protracted scene, post infinity, loop, yet never tell a story but of a feeling that could give revelation…still, energy chained no longer pleads be allowed to chase birds in the garden, chin to paws and barely breathing. If I loved you more…what? What happened to the inquisitive, fuzzy head?

Since the first head trauma un-recalled (misremembered), consider no further beating could get a nerve to leap where they once hit a ceiling; and longer after, no further can fall by reaction, nor ensuing calamity on the ground where it laid bleeding, reports of displeasure all around.

The victim could not muster a shrug to appease any, or the righteous, knowing manipulators, outside a muffling vacuum, spied, eyes sent toward the next hydraulic-drained disaster, happening everywhere, all the time. None looking for the other, either, where the wreckage lay, a dump decay and marred metal rust decomposition.

I’ll parse that later…inspiration for next ‘ooh, why’? poem.

A poem about auto-correct and decapitalization? Another?

I’m all fucked up and I’m barely breathing when I leap at percussion signal, with emergence of a rising feeling
and I cave … heads … in … lay in the ether…so long since primordial ooze release …

More notes, accentuate from that damn sonorous piano, replacing the percussion with a different beating.

The song starts somewhere, unless an endless sound-bed for eternal mystery of a reality show no one tunes in to see, lacking a script, succinct words, conniving to appear real, rather than … just be. Nor, pitched, arced, since the need of privacy in desire of falseness in hiding … hiding? From what? Sooo…no. No script forthcoming but oblique, pointed poetry ripping a maw in some-thing to inspect a cavern in cage of fouled bone to witness how it could live? Fake love?? Patent awww, as re-arriving as my deliberate nails on your chalkboard…to see it feel…some-thing.

It’s sentient. Now I am, too. But, bio block…line…what’s my line? Right. No viewers. Their loss. Mine? Make me own it, eight year old. And…it’s crying to Mommy…I can’t react, remember? Words — not the absence of wavelength that puts beating in pretty things once singing, all strangled in your garden, bleeding. The Labrador no longer hunts, should he sigh or pant where it once slobbered on your rugs.

I could have ended it. Now, here it lies…until tomorrow, Cyrano…technically, also a liar, hence the drama…but caused in your theater. You coax it, blame it, I infer none of it. I write, not manipulate unless…post manipulated, played, slandered and libeled.