The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass - Scarsscars.tv/pdf/2011/20110524The-Silence-Brushes-My-Cheek-Like-Glass.pdf.The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass . In the Belly of the End

The Silence Brushes

My Cheek Like GlassC h r i s t o p h e r H i vner .

2011 chapbook .

Scars

Dedicationto the muses of life and myth

. Christopher Hivner Scars Publications chapbook http://scars.tv .

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Table of ContentsUnnoticed..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................4The Past is Our Eclipse..............................................................................................................................................5In the Belly of the End ................................................................................................................................................6The Quiet..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................7My Tongue Moved Like a Snake..........................................................................................8I Took the Mystery ......................................................................................................................................................................9Distractions of Woe ..........................................................................................................................................................10The Lovelies......................................................................................................................................................................................................11Theories of Revolution ........................................................................................................................................12The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass ........................13Show................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................14The Documentary....................................................................................................................................................................15Tremors................................................................................................................................................................................................................................16In the Halo............................................................................................................................................................................................................17Daybreak........................................................................................................................................................................................................................18The Sky Sins Against Us................................................................................................................................19Arrivals and Departures......................................................................................................................................20Unnoticed Redux ........................................................................................................................................................................21

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. The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass .

Unnoticedrushing

like water

but to the stars

beyond

leaving unnoticed

those that ask

fade

as voices

bitter with

he black and white


4

The Past is Our EclipseIt crept in, tender as a missed greeting,slowing to pace when we turned,making a play for our affections.So easily taken inwe can’t be trustedwith the objectsthat pronounce our future.

The past is our eclipse,predicted by the expertswith maps and photosand proof of ancient denials.The past uses what it needsand when we tryto speak,to defend ourselves,it takes our voice.

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In the Belly of the End

meditations

The razors hang from rusted wire limbsdancing in a balletof glinting blades.

ruminations

The forest is dark.The forest is seething,an engine grinds in the belly of the end.

reflections

How many memoriescan the riverbury in the silt?

lamentations

Too many miraclesthat never come to pass.Too many leaves left on the trees.


6

The quiet floated bylike giant balloonson Thanksgiving Day,bobbing and weavingin the air,recognizable,but distorted.I wanted itto surround usso we could talkjust you and me,revealing some truththat explainedthe look in your eyes.It evaded meno matter how manychances I took,while younever moved.

Chaos dancedaround youin a ballroom dressand you took its handfor a spin leaving behind a trailof blue-eyed staresand half smilesthat I could trackto find you again.

I started to followbut caught some peaceand had a conversationwith myself.And I stoppedchasing after youlike a dogthat finally realizesthe futilityof its twirling tail.

Two worlds collidedand the chaos wonbecause it had youand I hadthe quietto remind meof the distance.

The Quiet

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Thieves came.

My tongue moved like a snakeas I mouthedmy open woundsinto air I had already breathedfrom the morning on.My mouth formedwords

and the thieves came,night feversrazing the mercy in their eyes.They destroyedand I lay still,they violatedand I continued my silence.

I couldn’t see their facesbehind their hoods,they couldn’t hear my wordsas I wouldn’t speak aloud,but we watched.

Movements like a ballet,they coordinated their crimes,tokens turned to iconsuntil they believed themselvesto be sacristskneelingat my bedside.

They heard without my voice.Thieves cameand my tongue struck themlike a viper.

Thieves camethrough the unlocked door.

My Tongue Moved Like a Snake


8

I Took the MysteryWhen he spokethe light becamea dreamthat overtook us;the air, perfumethat insistedon a response.

I took the mysteryand required too much of it,then put it downand ignored it.

He talked of living,he spoke of needand yearning,aphrodisiacs to a rapt audiencewho never left home.

When he spoke,the light dreamtof becomingand smelled ofoily perfume.

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Distractions of WoeTrance-like movementsbring distractions of woe,

grinding the meatwith a turn of the crank.

Shouts of beautystill loading in our ears

try to drag usfrom our stupor.

Night holds a meetingwith the firing neurons

not spoken foramong the reluctant crowd.

Speeches are madeand shouted down,

women swoon under heated talk,men pound fists into their hands.

No monstersemerge from the lair,

no answersplay the peacock.

Distractions hold in the air,a breath to be taken slowly.


10

The LoveliesCan you dreamwhile the lovely loveliesshout profanityoutside your door?Can you sleep throughthe readingof the tome they wrotein abstract prose,a collection of footnotesand misplaced prepositions?Can you dreamwhile the world talksat the foot of your bed,making plans tore-arrange the furniture?Open your eyesbefore the church bells ring,wake upbefore the dancesare stolen from your feet.You can dreamwhile the loveliesbreak down your doorbut put the swordto their throatwhen theycross the threshold.

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Theories of RevolutionPassed

between usthe laurels of folly and fortune

Differencesarise

from the center of the island

Dissidentspurchase

the only viable currency

and they tore the mission downbefore we could say goodbye.Affluent memoriescuckolded totheories of revolution

1martyr yourself2bring friends along3throw a party to be seen4recant previous beliefs5feel the love

Differencesbecome

love to the desperate

Passedbetween us

the laurels of conscience and heartfelt gifts


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The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass

They can’t see me, now.

The silence brushes my cheek like glass,leaving behind cool innuendo.I don’t react,confusion becomes their testament.Hear the prayers whispered with a voice sliding from my mouthin silken essence,so softthey can’t imprint.

They’re dying, but remain insistent.

My hands show no marks,place no wagers on their return.I won’t take credit,only my share of the painand wishes for an encomium.The waiting turns my heart to velvet.The waiting burnsin blue arc light from the temple windows.

It’s over.

The stained glass loomed over usin the shadows,protectorates formedin the candied glass.

13


ShowIf it were that easywe would all risk it,taking chanceson a high wiremade of textured yarn,our mothers trailing alongbehind, knitting our bridgeinto a warm sweater.The audiencewould howl with indifference,booing untilthe houselights came upand your father gaveeveryone a refundand a sincere apology.Friends would speak to the pressabout the pressure you were underand how worriedthey were aboutyour self-medicating.The word ‘trainwreck’would be bandied aboutwhile you were issuing denialsfrom the backof your limo.If it were that easy,we would all get a showand baskin the artificial light,clapping for ourselveswhile everyone elsewas busy.If it were that easy,no one would be afraid.


14

Turn it off.

Flip that switchand it’s an easy reverie,a Texas two stepon an empty dance floor,blank spaceswhere your puzzler used to be.

If you could turn it off,

you wouldn’t think of himso many timeswhen it wasn’t convenient.You wouldn’t wonderwhat love meant to himor when he hadthe last of the cigarettes that were killing him.

Shut it down.

Then she wouldn’t appear,smiling for the camerabut leaving no impressionon the film.The whole documentarywouldn’t runat the Theatre du Memoire,morning, afternoon and evening show times.

Turn if off.

But then I think,I paid for my ticket,I should stayuntil the end.

The Documentary

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TremorsThe door closesbut the lockdoesn’t click.

The star explodesinto a ball of lightand we blink.

The wine hasturned to vinegarin your glass.

Stories of glowing tributesbore the gathered crowdwho want realism.

Clouds hold lightning,starving animalssearching for meat.

I open the doorcovered in blood,and blinded by the flash.

People starebut don’t try to stop me.They don’t really care.

It can and will end,maybe in a cloudor conversing with the boatman.

Raise a glass andtoast the happy coupleusing words you can’t pronounce.


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I wore the halountil it singed my hairand it was removed.

The texture of mortarsoaked in rainkneaded my back muscles

as I waitedunder the eavesfor my message.

I wore the halowhen I was youngand infinite,

when the bells rang outand I gathered the peelsfor myself.

Lured one way,coaxed another,a third road cut down the middle

into a nestof the sullied and forceful,bored in temperament,

left for the future;following means one thing,followers another.

I wore the halounder a hoodand the hood

under the starsand the starsunder the nebulae

that hid my unease.When it burned,my skin blistered

and new starswere bornin the halo.

In the Halo

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Daybreakpatterns in the glassrivuletsbeadsturning pointspatterns in the glassseen by eyesthat are lostpatterns in the glassredemptionsalvationdecisionspatterns in the glasslight streamingdiffractingchangingpatterns in the glassseenand missed


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The Sky Sins Against UsThe moon cast down lightto dance in,light to make sureof our intentionson the road to Hana.The moon rose high aboveto be our beacon,our raison d’etre,to check our glancesfor more than we plannedto reveal.The sky sins against uswith no open transomand footprints to follow.The suffocating expanserises in shadow,rises for the deathit drags behind,for the harvest of women and childrenit expects to feast upon.It rises over the moon,our moon,who casts down lightto dance in.

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The train whistlesa haunted greetingfrom a mile awaywhile we waiton the dockfor its arrival.

We answer the greetingin our own ways,with impatience,gratitude, longing orresignation at itsinevitability.

The woman in bluewill get aboardbecause it’s whatshe must dowhile the manin the funeral suitneeds to get onbefore the suitbecomes his skin.The family at the frontcan’t wait to starttheir adventurebut the mannext to themwith the wild eyeshates them for their joy.

The tracks clatter and shakeas the behemothrolls on,controlled by ordinary menbut capable of wrath.

The train whistlesa haunted greeting as it appro a c h e s .The pack answerswith their collective eyeson its belly.

Arrivals and Departures


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Unnoticed ReduxDo you see the foamlayering aroundthe balance of my desert?It’s time forall of us to leave,bounding down the frequent stairs,slipping on the oilsleft behindby the rest of the dead.The resultwill take us beyond,traveling at speed,chasing the silencethat left unnoticed.

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The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass

C h r i s t o p h e r H i v n e [email protected] http://scars.tv

writings Copyright © 2011 Christopher Hivnercover image of glassware Copyright © 2011 Janet KuypersDesign Copyright © 2011 Scars Publications and Design

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The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass - Scarsscars.tv/pdf/2011/20110524The-Silence-Brushes-My-Cheek-Like-Glass.pdf.The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass . In the Belly of the End