words

the light trembles,
an epilepsy of thought,
the air sizzles and sparks,
the words arc outward
and do not return,
if i live to be one hundred
the words will still scatter
at my approach
and i will try as i do
to lasso them in
with ropes made from smoke
that dissipate and vanish
before they’ve left my hands.

they are there, by god,
i can feel their shuddering presence
just beyond some mental dam
where all other seekers
must go fishing for trout,
where we cast lines and wait
for the water’s surface to break
and catch that brief glimpse
of aural lucidity,
pull their thrashing shapes
into the melting grass
and bathe in their iridescent glow
as they struggle for air
before throwing them back
so others may have moments
such as this.

and when i try to take them home
they grow legs and dash away,
their spines once delicate
go strong and their eyes
move closer together
and they inhabit the woods
outside my reach,
the impenetrable cluster of trees
wherein at night their strange calls
can be pulled from the wind
but no meaning derived from
the strange language of raw genius.

if i live to be one hundred
perhaps i will die
before one hundred and one
and then the words i have known
will come from all directions,
leaving little trails in the dirt
at my grave and weeping at my failure,
but know i will have tried, elusive things,
to capture your essence
and only when the end has come
will you notice the void i leave behind.

-S.C. Martinez