Her Exquisite Eyes
My ceremonial cuts form
newer landscapes
in the symmetrical lines, the passive streets
through these symbols of simple notation
and the immensity of the life, ineffable
into the profoundly overlapping shadows
and the heat and loss of memory-
A dream of her exquisite
eyes' redemptive river
brought the sudden bliss of the deluge
called the power of the monstrous landscapes
older grey zones, to stop and glance above
and see the long breaths of the most still clouds
some unclear vision of my youth, haunting me-
I should have just let
it go, for a time-
This essential solitude
slowly blossoms
subverting the spectrum & quelling the lights
finding the wind and cold thrill of music-
The enigmatic tastes of
my own mythology-
This framed
imperfection, an arbitrary movement
and sweet the memories, sensations that follow-
Blue becoming the
perfect stillness
in this private collection of twilights
heavy breaths that I shelve and turn-
A chaos of overlapping
images to help find the silence
and her eyes' perfection again rising in calm asymmetry
© matthew w. beale
fragment
from my roadway sketchbook
the freeway freeze
museum & I snap
a shot
in this paper eye
of the store
where we
bought our wine
for that night
of ambivalence-
and now
I am sentenced
to speed through
with muzak’s
romance grating
from the car’s
blunt speakers
passing through
maps of movement
& memory
I glance above
the local fields
of poppy
to see
the long breaths
of the most
still clouds
-passing through Morgantown, WV
6496
fragment
from the sg8 files
turns - intersection with the empty
maelstrom – words themselves crush the moment’s anesthesia -
more still fruits and common gusts – the central interpenetrating
frames of day – these disembodied relationships – to enter the
stillness rising – a breeze enters, turns the day i dreamt her
eyes, our perfection of the still point, old dreams – the
commodity of souls and your innocence, a stranger, anticipates
breath – dreaming the eternal, a framed stillness – and of the
garden, and within the shadows of twilight and loss, book of
perfection, a street frame, her eyes – simpler the eternity and
the kingdom – drift down slowly out of a broken region beyond
transformation – in the absence of the dreadful human cycle of
contempt, spite, into the consuming breaths of god – a framed
breath and the solitude, forming cages, my meter and movement –
the still point – dream and movement through, the w(eigh)ait under
this occupation – into this sketch movement, solitude,
performance, and night – facing the fading slope – the birth, i
thrust to within the purest state – lend your wavering landscapes
to a calm rising breath – blue becoming the broken chaotic
fragments of connection
© matthew w. beale
