Jeremy Voigt

Jeremy Voigt

 

 







 

 

Towards Reality

 

Caught in my own particular pettiness

I decline people nearest to me for the

sorrow of a Darfur bird. The insistent

substance laden wish list of the heart,

inscribed with hieroglyphs I first saw

in Canyon De Chelly, a boy standing

in sand, looking at the origin of Hitler's

co-opted symbol, pointing in the four

directions. This is not about history,

this is about expansiveness and the

start of restriction, the place between

gratitude and fuck off. This is about

the constant emu egg rolling in my

chest, the crack in the cheap cartoon

mask I hang by the door, and the night-

mares I keep having of her in labor-

my first child asphyxiating in his own

mother's fluid, and his mother with

a broken back. No hagiography can

save me. No learning. Keats' desperate

falling through unknowing did know

that knowledge is illusion, that the

scar on the back of my hand itched

will fester, bleed, but still heal and I

will care about it as little as anyone else.

 

 

 

 

Balsa Wings

 

I'm not prone to rapture.

Nor the faith it takes

to risk elevations.

Icraus was an idiot.

My father built balsa

wings, gluing pieces

into long structures

to loop around fields.

He tried to teach me

the art of small planes.

I never finished anything

but the wings.

 

It is easy to subscribe

to idiocy. I want to

believe failure is rising

a brief second where

the world becomes

miniature and mountains

interchangeable. But

wax wings melt. Icarus

flies at the sun. I fly

at my father. The spin

 

is where falling begins.

 

 

 

 

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