Poems by Claude AnShin Thomas
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I
don't
know
when it
stopped,
this
scratching
inside
my skin,
or if
it indeed
is just
resting --
I wander
around
town streets
paved
with their
emptiness,
a shared
kinship -
I sit under
A street lamp,
looking
into
a pothole,
committing
an act
of concentration,
touch
the aching
of 1,000
years
of loss,
confronted
by
wide
eyes
disappearing
the surf,
slipping beneath
the
sea,
held
in its
depths
far from
my
view,
never to be
touched
again
in loving
embrace
except
in
day
dreams
and
nightmares,
cry -
if only
had been
a stronger
swimmer.
Scroll down ...
I taste
tears of
confusion,
I ache
at the
question
of safety,
the grasping
for fixed points,
wanting to know
what's next -
I feel it
this grasping,
in a quiet
crowd
arguing
silence of
of
fear,
doubt,
and disillusion
crawling
through my
bones -
I think that
today
it would
be
a
good idea
to go
for
a run.
I make
noises
to sit
quietly
on a black
cushion
and was visited
by image
after image
each attempting
to identify
a particular
state of
of being -
I could hear
the drums of
marching bands
at half time
heads
stretched
tight
piercing the night
with a particular,
manic tension
and I could
feel the aching
of confusion
in my elbows
pinning my arms
to my side
as I watched
them all
helpless
one by one,
fade from view
surrendering
to the
illusion
of another
moment.
You
spoke to
me,
asked
to hear
more
directly
about the
war
that
lives on
in memory
as surely
as
the taste
of fried
bread
on a
cold winter
morning –
I will tell you
but
what can
you know
from
the night
sweats
soak
my dreams
in the smell
of too
fresh
blood -
mine,
mixed with
the young
and old
dead,
their intestines
hanging
out,
their genitals
now
in the wrong
place,
cut off
stuffed in
someones
mouth
instead of
just below
the navel
waiting to -
can you listen,
can you
step through
the ideas
you ever
had
sanity,
of social rightness
and listen
even when
you
want to
turn
away
or vomit,
because
I will tell
you -
and then
of love
will be
answered.
The youngest
of us all
have
experienced
danger
are
still hard of
hearing
comes to
the very
violent tones,
which
somehow
sound so attractive
the moth for instance,
always
pursues the flame
so, what is the point,
skin
against
skin I guess,
we have
always known,
this subtle information
acquired by
so many times
exposed
to the oblivion,
the desire,
not to feel –
and in the end
does it do
any good
to reveal
the corners.
Through
the transference
of heavy
to
light
I hold you,
all of you -
while you
cry
and cry
cry,
I wonder
where
all the water
comes
and am
I a strong
enough swimmer
to not get
washed away
by the too
old sorrow
that doesn’t
and can’t
stopped -
just now
if I could
look inside,
place my
hands
all through
you.
would I
find,
war shadows
hiding
the wounded,
or you
merging
arms
that have
been waiting
patiently
forever.
The past
can
look through
me
examining
my parts,
all the
private places,
and still
I seem
to be
not seen;
I stand in
the middle
of a crowded
ball room
in rags,
unbathed
for weeks,
my mouth
open,
my body
poised
in labors’
scream
to give
birth
to a voice,
that is
still
born -
I look again
for the path,
the word,
or the look,
that just might
offer instructions
to untangle
the crowded
thoughts
that get trapped
in the phone --
in reflection
what I realize
is that
Just want
sit
on the couch
or in
a soft chair
in the corner
of your
new
office
and speak
to you
directly.
It is a short distance
between
here and
somewhere else,
it is a
short distance
between life and
death,
it is a short distance
sanity and
madness --
only the smallest
of steps
decide our direction -
so many
misjudge,
slide sideways
and wander blindly
for 10,000 years
through unlit streets,
hell realms
of the
ignorant
confused about
the difference
in taste,
between apples
and poison,
dying
terrible deaths
convinced
the whole time
they are
really living.