Poetry - Isis Zystrid
Celestial
i am not one to resist logic,
i do not need my head
to be in the clouds
to get through
the day.
though i find no fault
in trying to keep
your pineal gland
from calcifying,
do not doubt that
the things arising within you
are attached to the ethereal.
but i have to take
this overcast afternoon
to curse that the two
have not met
in this scenario--
my divine synapses
have not alchemically bonded
to the most bare bones
version of reality.
see, when you meet
the perfect person
for you
and feel nothing for them,
it makes one desire
to take blunt objects
to the intersection
of where the physical world
and the ether meet.
chemicals have stirred in me
at such grandiose velocity--
such acute emotions
torn from the part of me
where these things are created.
but so often in scenarios
where there was no rationale
for these sensations
to stand on.
logic had to refuse
when i had an entire world
growing inside of me
for a being who would be
of no benefit to my life.
but the turn of fate
has presented a soul
that would be an ideal
hand of cards,
but i look upon them
and i am all logic, logic
reason and stand bereft
of celestial worlds
growing inside of me.
Man Made
she expresses
the tales
of her logic,
"i'm an atheist,"
painting wind inklings
and senses that overcome me
as miniscule frivolities
to be discarded
as child's play.
i was certain
that the force
that held the scenery
was up to something,
had an elusive craft
that many had spoken of
and many refuted.
these tempestuous storms
and then the droughts,
droughts--
it could be according
to procedure
or it could be the drab,
calculated inevitability
of noncommital stagnance.
the sidewalk
held our conversation,
and one must wonder at times
why we are guided
on trails
that are discordant
with our fulfillment.
are there always proclamations
of cut and dry rationality
floating above
man made substances
that suffocate
the surface
of the earth--
i am caught
holding my breath
because what is organic
in me
has come across a boulder.
what connects to the electricity
beneath my flesh
from sources outside of me
cannot scavenge and gather
from this declared
plasticine lack.
Alchemy
i laid after your
sensitivity
that i had seen you
expel your inner
contents
for the first time--
did you feel this connected us
to processes of intimacy
long practiced
by those who crafted
alchemical ways two
souls could sew
into each other's fabric.
did you think
this allowed me into
parts of you
that you felt sheepish about--
did you feel this divination
between us
and think sorcerers
too risky
in their pursuits.
the chemical concoctions
existing
between our movements
were perhaps
stirred in scientific equipment
from entrepreneurs
of things doubted,
feared
and then eradicated
by man-made fires.
but in moments
of recalling
spells of
ancient subversives,
i am flattered
and concerned
by basic human reflexes
rendering you
to emotional
reticence.
Whims not our own
don't speak badly
of my father--
we are all created
on the premise of whims
not our own,
merely fragments of light until
we can elucidate
things unseen
prior to our presence.
don't speak badly of candles
in grimy windowsills
accompanied by prayers--
we can all find our fulfilments
running through and out of us
more rapidly than usual,
and there are those
who look to the inspired words
of scribes
from long times past
to manage the cumbersome
and thick of a present moment.
please do not speak ill
of the man who concocted
such effective biological recipes
to create the person standing
before you,
for maybe he is as complex
and nebulous as
the deities prophesied
to have brought about
the earth.
there is a human who has said,
"if there is a god,
he has a lot of explaining to do,"
but all my father has done
is explain,
he has intonations
and tact for such things.
he had knowledge for how lightly
i should tread
and how enthusiastically
to exist
within specific moments.
but what am i to expect
from a godlike craftsman
of all things?
they must have no teeth
for which to capture
the words they did not think through--
they must have no hair to stroke
as they contemplate how
to conceptualize all of this
succinctly.
please do not speak illof my father,
he did not leave me upon
a convent's doorstep--
but much is to be discussed
whether such instances occurred to
this world
once an either malignant
or benign creature
had had its fill.