Tagged: Poetry

A Short Trip 

by
Gregory JM Kasunich
______________________
I’ve never been to Papua, New Guinea
Don’t know if I’ll ever go
Figure, I’ll sleep on it as ambivalence metastasizes into despair
despair resolves into action
Not quite knowing where it is,
I:
pour over digital maps
prevaricate and price compare
sort reviews by star rating
select a hostel hovering at 3.2
I pack poorly, in artificial haste, for a conjured adventure
an attempt at Lachesism – hoping for the worst
The priceless porcelain of my edgeless days
pushed to the precipice,
praying a ponderous gawker sends it floorward
Over ocean now – soft shades of blue perdition
Sibylline in my seat, predicting disaster.
Maybe it’s just the recycled air, the cabin pressure,
the inability to know what I’m doing here.
We descend into heat and humidity,
fat drops of moisture impossibly suspended.
I’m greeted by a kiss– a never felt sip from a native mosquito,
(taking his fee from the tourists and travelers.)
The itch and bump materialize in the aging cab,
all fumes and friendly questions.
In the Genesis I take in a hard pull of the musty hotel air.
I don’t unpack, and fall into an uneasy slumber.
My malarial mind swims in untaken Atabrine dreams. A million minor tragedies play out and I awake—
Alone, in my studio apartment,
the keys of my computer keyboard have waffled my cheek.
I see the digital maps, the tabs of hotel reviews.
I begin my bleary shuffle to my bed.
My pre-occupied mind fails to see the
opened,
unpacked
suitcase
lurking on the floorboards.
A misstep.
The short slap and crackle of my skull on the tables edge, unheard by my neighbors. The warm bath of leaking blood.
I close my eyes and attempt to return to Papua New Guinea.
This was not the trip I had planned.
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Awake The New Year

By Gregory JM Kasunich

_________________

In this breath restored

(drawn in and waiting)

floral and budding– sour in it’s newness

Will we awake with a start? 

A Jolt! 

Oh Joy!

An exaltation! 

Deploy! 

Revere stirred [and slumber stamped out]

Sharp and stretching into–

the trench?

the hill?

the perpetual argument?

the till? 

Will our exhalation be a bellicose cry upon an ashy wick,

re-lit and flickering against the bitter winds of the same?

Or will we drip languid from our downy warmth?

Languishing and tepid in torpor state? 

Stillness lacerating ventricles (breaking down the proteins)

A same sort of indifference, time defiled and fleeting. (easy come/easy go)

Stretching into the still lit sun

a yawn?

a thought?

a fight?

un-fought?

Comfort and joy (abound and surrounding)

In this breath restored- a demarkation hardly worth noting- 

A moment between then and now we rise, once again, and choose to face  the thing, any thing, new and again 

repeating forever for the first time. 

An Abridged History of Photography

Gregory JM Kasunich

_______________

 

burnt honey, bitter sweet

lithographs haze and bloom

leather soul browned butter

Memories before memory

 

then coffee&cream daguerreotypes

stately, still, preservations

iodine and bromine conspire

to make a more precious silver

 

Kodachrome confections emerge

strum and splendor suspended

betwixt cellophane and linen

shelved and stacked and well-thumbed

 

to wafer-thin rolled paper

abandon frozen Polaroid poses

almost Instant palmed nostalgia alchemy

pinned in pressed particle board

 

and now brittle binary clouds of content

ephemeral pocket pixels – innumerable

immaterial minutia everywhere and nowhere

all at once serving time.

 

 

 

 

Requiem for Neurasthenia

By Gregory JM Kasunich

_________________

 

Today I learned a word:

Neurasthenia – now arcane and obsolete

And yet I found it resonant,

(A root?) (A seed?) deep inside of me

It’s definition- ill defined,

It’s practice- out of time,

An embarrassment on the books.

(like blood letting or phrenology)

But I was drawn to it vagueness

Its lassitude, its weightiness

To plumb and mine that consternation

deep inside of me–

So I wonder if in our haste

to refine and define with precision and grace

all such abnormalities, we have laid to waste those

unfounded insights from physicians of long gone centuries

perhaps- (back then) before the DSM, there was a word

a term

to describe

me.

 

 

A Dream of Ouroboros

By Gregory JM Kasunich

_________________

 

Sometimes I fantasize about a life already lived

100 years ago,

a century,

already lived well.

Gracefully, grateful

penitent and painfully,

full of mis-steps and masterful

mistakes and powerful

moments. And oh how I felt as if I was there at

the cradle-

the hearing-

the blessed revering-

the pity/the wondering-

the dark hours/the wandering-

I’ve lived it all before.

And in that life, I’d seen, I’d swore

that there was another time, for that, for me-

A Season! A Tree!

A moment of Earth! and Sea! that meant

–a possibility–

for something else

some thing before

a nostalgia for

a life un-lived or un-written yet

So here I am, unsound/unset,

remembering a time, a place

long ago- a dream undreamt

and I Ask myself Right here, right now–

“Will my next me wish for me somehow?”

 

 

Glass

By Gregory JM Kasunich

_________________

Everything was glass.

Safety glass.

Fiberglass.

The bones surrounding the marrow, nothing but glass, shattered and splintered along the road like the rest of the debris that littered 405 south that morning.

The windowpane of the indifferent apartment building, reflecting the scene, holding the witnesses inside with their muffled gasps.

The unseen stoplight glass – redgreenyellow repeat.

The eyeglasses found three days later, sixty-three feet from the scene.

The voice on the phone.

The time preserved.

Everything was glass.

San Fernando Solstice

By Gregory JM Kasunich

_________________

heat and hum backbeat freon plays upon wet marrow

paper waves the sweetstink jasmine refuse breeze 

warm still unsatisfying

every delighted particle dancing

every dog panting

the slouched singed sierra weeping ash

the briney brown skin

languid limbs bleached and bare bone 

blood orange freeway tinnitus 

diminished hiss spit sprinklers

low pressure system prayers 

refused by exhausted angels