The Recondite Wayfarer*

Nick Piombino


As such, a word has color.
Its program
is made of reversals,
a trapeze swings emptily
after the circus
because the performer
has jumped and is
no longer safe. These
constant switches in time
during which
an entire inheritance
of living flesh is
endangered at the
mere site of the social
occlude any impulse to name:
now the performer
(the word) has moved
to the forefront
(the forehead)
of thought.

To keep reason
in the background
brings forth the
elephants, the
elements of style.
Exactly this repetition
reminds us of
children because
here the coughing
and jumping are
gleaming with the
bright play of

Reminders are
nascent in the
American state of
the land. Noise
travels forwards
and backwards
in time, continuously
covering it. Decisions
are made at the
edge of action.

combining with
the social
makes the
shape of the
room and
the shape
of liberty:
feel it
with your
heart this is
the boundary
of the flow
of freedom.
Now you see it
whole, you see
it flowing with the
vast complexity
of temporal
networks. Such
are the voices
of the shy and the
bold, thoughts
cling like
memories, they
slide forwards in
rhythmic twangs
beating their joys
in pumping
farewells, announcing
a concurrance of
of present

All this
happened in an
interval of time
indefinable by the grace
of received ideas. These
are measured by the
metronome of
absolute zero,
answering and swaying,
beating a fist at the
side of feelings
announcing a tone
of total trust.

Yet by this measure
time can be swayed
to unite deficiency
with a scale
of being. The
recombinant nature
of complete response
denies the limitations
of exploded
will.This torque
promises access
to the pespective
of seeing the future
curved by joining
opposites. In the end,
the apolcalypse
is a prelude, the
expected revelation
is a call for work.

What masks the slowing
of growing love,
or should I say
who? She sees
the gestural language
of bursting, while I
count the chimings
of change.This is the
same, but the
gathering memory
of childhood's shadow
sings in a turn
that must be heard.

A listening held us
captive, a hearing
meshed with the
ringing of cash
registers, blaring clock
radios, the bursting of
hydrogen, and the smooth
sucking sounds of the the
quicksand of property
engulfing its owners.

Love keeps us loose
while certainty
hardens us
for the continuous


*This poem originally appeared on fait accompli. It has been reprinted with the permission of its author.


Copyright 2003 Nick Piombino