Casey Bush


Broken egg shells fall off the shoulders of an emerging lifeform. Beware this avalanche of uprooted trees sliding downhill, enjoined and entangled by flailing roots and limbs. Can’t we just hang it out to dry on the clothesline? Small incorrect calculations eventually drive excruciating fragrances to the limit. We have been captured by the gratuitous prerogative of an unquestioned certitude. Ruptured displacement is obedient to dissonance. This unrequited propriety nullifies specific conclusions. You are left holding the bag of volcanic effluence to be consumed by those elements of the hunt: hunger, lust, and fury. Our carnivorous clan salivates stumbling forth upon unsuspecting prey just a moment from satiation. On this hopelessly rutted road we are confronted by frightful dreams igniting unkempt beards and moustaches.


You can never make up sleep lost in the fog passing a lighthouse on a ship that refuses to be confined by the ocean. Wiggle room in the contract sanctions an unutterable indifference to suffering and sorrow. These anxious thoughts are symptomatic of an unsettled mind burdened by the belief that this can be a better world. Despite such good intentions there will be no end to conflict whether it is on the other side of the mountains or inside the chambers of a beating heart. It’s impossible to live life backwards but that’s how we remember it, twisted in knots by the gravity of explicit events. Maps of the night sky reveal that a single satellite has been liberated from its orbit and is headed out into deep space.


Blame it on these new glasses as I can only now see clearly in the twilight while my inner ignorance is soaking in a salt water float tank. Put on your best face dog man, we’re going public with a burning comeuppance, a phantom widget out in the desert just beyond the rodeo riding a bronco cyclone driven by both particles and waves, duality challenged by the uncertainty principle. This is what you might call an umbilical misstep, crawling back into the womb without a proper epilogue, unwilling to bear witness as to what is on the outside. Lucid splendor dances a two-step along the hypotenuse of an isosceles triangle. Now is the time to un-pop the cork and force effervescence back inside the bottle, demand everything from nothing.


Sun wrinkled cheeks hide misshapen tears shed for friends and family passing into bliss just this side of rhapsody. Open windows witness and reveal the wounds of shattered mirrors. What does not perish is chained to the fate of each shadowless day. What kind of savior orchestrates miracles just to mesmerize the masses? To what axiomatic attribute can this essential fabrication attend? Can it cultivate corn? Can it scrub floors? Can it ululate the profound consequence and significance stuffed into a suitcase? Well-oiled flesh simultaneously nurtures and suffocates the being within. There are no adequate means to distinguish between sources of momentary blissful splendor and eternal wretched horror. In the distance I see another mirage marching forward. Every time the wheel turns it becomes more and more rounded.


Language is informed by mathematics as numbers replace words, a flag fluttering in the wind. Sandpaper the integers. Decode the bivalve. Transform this puzzling maze into a divine labyrinth. Share the serenity of the wheat kernel, the olive pit and the peach stone. The mummy’s tattoo indicates that the signal is not just a simple message but is convoluted by another yesterday’s waveguide. We are all dumbfounded caught in this burning barn surrounded by a herd of terrified horses ready to break down the door and stampede. When I say we, I mean more of me and less of you. What I really mean is it’s better for all of us that you have felt obliged to confess your luminous consecration. This is not just a testimonial but the testimony itself.

Casey Bush is a longtime Portland poet whose 8th book of poetry Student of the Hippocampus was published in 2017 by Last Word Press (Olympia, WA). His work most recently appeared in Elohi Gadugi, Caliban, The Inflectionist Review, North Coast Squid, Poeming Pigeon, UUT Poetry and Unlikely Stories.
previous page     contents     next page


Post a Comment

<< Home