_______________________________________________________________ by anita maritz

On a winding road some miles west of Austin

A silhouette repairs the incline.

Steep and dry the oak trees bend towards

Grassless patches of sun.

The man who built this land leans

Like a whitewood frame - his pale corners

Both a church and dancehall. He’s a jailbreak

With a hall of praise.

A decade earlier he dreamed that Luck

Would bury this town. Now the bank peels

From its wall and the post office cautions

A long time to the left. 

Surroundings fall without senses

Into an open lock of non-touring days.

Sometimes it feels like a playground,

Or a burnout joint in a cupholder.  

0 Notes


Posterity will be kindest

To the lifetimes divided by degree,

Not interest. In the final decades

Commentary will swell into a kind of excellence,

Artless for its intellectual impulse.

Neither knowledge nor tone

Can exile the punitive damage

Established by instruction.

Years of companionship will stifle

Under the heavy sedation of fractured affection.

Not even brute imagination

Can seize fault that isn’t there.

What matters favors no act.

Still, influence prowls like an evangelical desert.

Restless and dry it searches

For prey more than prayer.

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Only by acknowledging our nature, embalmed by amber sap, can we avoid solipsism. Breathing won’t dispel monotony. To be precise, it is my insertion into your experience that opens the body. Without it, words would be impossible.

Underneath the atom, before learning, was a lesson poised and it suffered of passion. The depths made it indistinguishable. It made it heavy, with limbs, thick and embarrassing. Eyes too are inconvenient. We must acknowledge this.

Why is knowing not inseparable from the ever-widening arc of who we are and are becoming? Each step marks openness, indeterminate yet too difficult to shift thinking one century to the left.

Do you understand? To be sure you must demolish hope and compile a philosophy outside of your senses. Invent powers and throw them to wonder, a fathomless pit of disbelief. Then watch intelligence simmer and walk away like steam.

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Long candles bend on the altar.

Their yellow throats sigh

and make the church swell blue.

Children never smile at the

Masquerading women. Their

Silence is a strong cologne.

Does anyone here know

What it means to grieve?

The inside is painted with you,

And there is a cloud that surrounds

The only hand that held us close

When the other shook

Beneath the book.

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On a moon coloured lawn bound by false security 
Heron laments, as I wait: cold and barefooted 
till time loses measure and shadows earn names. 
Starved of oxygen a street light whimpers and 
drowns, adding gravity to my thoughts

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The life world organic is an enigmatic fool

Open-ended by conceit and caught in static space.

The “facts” are representations invented in some vain attempt

To explain life. Inevitably, genius is eclipsed

By the living dimension of the sun.

Surely, the endemic will outlast cultural acquisition

Because it overlooks space as a mathematically infinite void.

Our convictions traverse disjunction, but still we say,

“the sun rises and sets.” Earth, does not move.

In this way history is primitive.

The most unfathomable enigma is not infinity, but language’s structures. 

It makes no sense to the common world, yet remains a guide

Supporting forgotten ground that is first felt, then undervalued.

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Although not far by being old he lived too far away

In a time I could not grasp nor enter. The walls stood pale and

Solid, sleeping with faded pictures that had long lost their meaning 

And so robbed the sitter of a wonderful splendor –

Of immorality’s enduring fame. Even art aged here. 

His smile rested under the shadow of a heavy frown, and I

Wondered whether it hurt to smile under all those wrinkles

That weighed down a face reminiscent of a handsome past. 

How often I had walked these halls bound by an inescapable and

Unsettling presence. With all or no amount of effort

My attempt at revival had rendered his world abstruse, and I felt cheated

By time knowing I would never know him as I wanted.

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Life was no grand fresco. It was in these quiet moments folded into the sleeve & shadow of time, concealed but not hidden beneath its own beauty, that with patience revealed something far more vital, something far more essential.

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