Chris Hamilton

Between things that never
existed, inside nightmares
that last lifetimes but never
come into being, among sensations
that remain nameless, and intuitions
that never take to words,
deep in the heart of a planet,
or a pebble—
there is a conversation.

Before the wind obtained
a body to breathe on, before the heart
of the human body
put on my clothes,
before the alarm clock went off,
there was a conversation
not whittled into words.
Before the evolution of the tongue
(following the evolution of the saxophone).

Here I stand on a round ball with my heart raining—
sunshine spilling out of my chest
from a center that I cannot touch.
(but unbroken from the source).

Inside I place the tablet
of your parents
and grandparents
and their parents,
tracing all the way back
to the original explosion—
the simple proof.
The heart which formed
xxxthe endless ocean
of the urge to exist.
xxxxxxxxx(without which nothing would exist)

xxxThat
was willing to become known
for this:

conversations with the source that sent you—
xxxconversations
xxxwith yourself.

The lie is a simple thing
but difficult like a dragonfly
to hold.
Oil burns loosely
and gives way to the study of teeth.
A deck of cards
and a bug light
drank whiskey in the desert
near a pile of empty wallets –
and the Dow took note.

The lie is a simple thing
that is easy to say,
not so easy to read –
often with good manners
and good teeth.

dogs barking don’t lie
and birds don’t lie.
neither do the sun
nor a white moon.

But the spider’s trick
is to pretend
it does not exist.

Spiders come to every window and every doorway –
the lie is a simple thing.

The lie is a simple thing
and easy to use on your friends.

The lie is never (rarely) punished by jail.

Most good people tell
lies sometimes.
Prior to the mythology of serpents …

when was the first
lie?

The visible universe
is an entire deception
unto itself,

and lies are things
I say to myself.

(10.11.2010)

a soft purple stone
or a newspaper,
watch the sunset
or stand on a mountain, I have nothing—
I am a wristwatch: monotone
and worse
I don’t have anything
xxxto say

that hasn’t been said
within a day or two.
don’t toss coins into a lake.
don’t drink wine
from a coat pocket.
don’t walk with trees that are concerned.
who have you been talking to?
tell me what they said,

Tell Me!
of all the things
that come and go
you tell time the worst—
this has to change the way
that we think about things.
No duality.
the spirit of the wind
exists,
but not separate from the wind.
there is a door that is opening
and closing ceaselessly—
and I hear the same sound
from a candle
or a crowd of people
or a car passing.

or a wristwatch.

underminer of faith,
murderer of belief,
flower of wisdom,
drain the blood
from my legs
and replace it with sawdust
from before the fever
of the ocean.

how many times in a day
do I notice
the sound of my fingers?
I sit before a candle
consumed with the ticking of a wristwatch—
not images
but the fading of images.

and then my body becomes a bag—
I like to be free of it—but
I can’t seem to separate the two!
what happens to the song
of a bird
if there is no
bird?
this is a very complicated
question
and there are many wrong answers.

xxx:be careful:
My wine glass is empty
and the wax of the candle
is my body melting,
beneath the flame
I am shadows
—and near proximity,
smaller than a room,
more quiet
and much closer to home.

(12.21.09)

my alone time
next to the candle
in darkness
is worth a universe
of televisions,
cocktail parties,
victories, triumphs,
recognition, acclaim,
acknowledgment,
or all the things you
sit in,
wear,
stare at,
eat,
or bow down to.
all of this disappears
when I am alone
next to the candle
in darkness.

please don’t turn me away
from where I belong
color going
I don’t see the difference
between yesterday and tomorrow
gravestones say terrible
things to yellow mosquitoes
that come to kill
bad things happen
so long as good people
are afraid of mosquitoes
there will be no revolution
there will be many SAD THINGS
I LOVE, but nothing profound
will come to me
I am yesterday
and before that I was before that
now I am a Persian rug
a quilt, a scarf
a rag doll, dirty
socks.

(9.4.09)

The shirtsleeves
fell off my shirt,
and you burned my coattails like a matchbook cover,
and I was not happy about it,
but I was still standing
above the ocean, standing.

The moon reset
and stood silent before midnight
stood silent.
And I said my prayers
and fell off the face
of the Earth.

No explanation was offered
for any of this
and none would have been necessary,

but the desert next to the ocean melts
and becomes glass,
glass that you can dance upon,
and build houses with raindrops
where no explanation is necessary.

Sirens and horns
scream from centuries
we have not seen,
seasons that we have not worn.
Disciples do their best,
but they are no match for this:
the day dances upon
the endless night like the flame
upon a matchstick
that doesn’t exist.

And there is no explanation
for any of this.

Where should I begin,
again?
There is a song-storm
brewing without secrets,
seeing without the sun,
living without the night;
distant no-answer
of forever drinks from the fountain
at the center of the city
next to Martin Luther King
and John F. Kennedy.

Where am I standing?
Where is the forest?
Where is the blue angel
fish with the orange tail?

I stand next to the color of starlight
and HOPE.

The implications of this
are subtle
and they make me SCREAM.

There’s no explanation for any of this.
This is the purple fountain place
that stays close to the volcano,
this is the eye of the sandstorm,
there’s no explanation for any of this.
Painted upon darkness,
resolute but floating,
dying with direct intent,
and knowing why
and what for,
there is no explanation
for any of this.
But this is
what you hear
and it is here . . .

No explanation was offered
and none was necessary.

(1.30.09)