Marc Zegans is the author of the poetry collection Pillow Talk and two spoken word albums, Marker and Parker and Night Work. His latest collection, The Underwater Typewriter, will be released by Pelekinesis Press in September 2015, and is now available for pre-order. As a spoken word artist Marc has performed everywhere from New York Poetry Brothel—which Time Out New York described as “New York’s Sexiest Literary Event” to the American Poetry Museum. Marc lives near the coast in Northern California.
Excerpt from The Underwater Typewriter
©Marc Zegans 2015
The Reunion of Darkness Imagine two perfect absences separated by interval un-reckoned by the cycles of light.
Imagine a longing distance the separation of gravities aching...aching, aching to combine.
Imagine a life of no moments an un-heating painful awareness. Would this life without markers
have a sensation akin to slowness or is that a layering of time’s perspective on formless yearning?
The darknesses relinquished the ache blending gravities without ripple conscious of each other’s density
groundless, lightless conversation will-less and without desire playing together these darknesses.
Imagine the quiet of no hurt when the silent call is abandoned by the darknesses interleaving.
Night I kiss the night because I have no one else.
She responds languid, smooth.
I relish the liquid tumble into her timeless opening.
She scares me when I brace and stand apart, aware but unwilling to look in refusing to enter continuing to tumble till she tears with a streak and dissolves into grey light.
She warms me, holds me round when I embrace and enter her relinquishing reserve tumbling deep into her folds relishing the milky drop.
By now, you would think I would just give and go no urge no impulse to teeter on the edge fighting her embrace.
By now you would think I would amble easily into that liquid trust knowing her as I do simple and simply.
And yet nothing and I mean nothing is harder.
By Which The scars peppering your back are shrinking. The opaque wash coating your pale irises grey, in moments you remain unseen recedes faster and more frequently now.
You’ve become familiar with letting go your mask, the dropping of your guard taking the line of ritual newly learned. Without the pattern it would not happen.
We both know that. Yet, whether you follow the thread is never a given. We must discover, in each taut moment, the means to continue, and it isn’t easy.
I so want to break with this ritual to pull you close and smash all that binds you to peel the scars from your back, the fibers surrounding your heart, the enigmatic
shell into which your face withdraws, and kiss your fresh pink skin, your eyes hiding nothing your heart unhusked, unbound, completely mine no interval between your appearance
and arrival. And because I love you I forgo the violent urge to have you other than you are, and open, instead to you and to the ritual by which we meet.
of a door
you bit your lower lip, letting your hand fall from the belt of your robe, arm extending carrying with it proscenium fronting curtain, as you stood in the stained wood frame
of a door built generations before one of many facing maids’ corridor showing shadows as you released your lip drawing me cross the threshold onto your bed
your buckthorn berry, spying dress, slipping from the foot, sounding the roughness of silk piling, a lost sheath; the cover story forgotten amidst the flesh, I suspect.
would that night be less valuable to me less direct, if we had met under cover?
leaving the land under my eye is swollen like an elephant I’m grey and sag, loss lines covering my body, my time past a wrinkle, and underneath I see the thin muscled turn of a supple body yearning to shed the hiding history to move again with grace and power across old bones
this is happening now, the walk to second life, across the scarring fields, from under the interment, out beyond the gravity of the sucking east, a hole from which lighter than I was, but heavier than when I came, I now depart.
Passing Moving through death Unwinding cell and stem Introduces slowness and spread.
Moving through death—giving up heat, gently uncoupling, allowing space to come between structures once purposive, now in decay.
Moving through death Un-mixing hope and sorrow Discovering the kind turn When all is received.