Tuesday, January 12, 2010


Sometimes The Night's hot whisper
is nothing more than a black snake's hiss of a word
we cannot always quite discern-

a momentary corridor
of connectivity between us
and the haunted darkness
between the stars-

a smooth shiny pebble of a word
barely graspable in its hard

nearly as ethereal on its surface
as the thought
at its dark heart,

a thought with a tiny drop of truth
in its blood, like a poison,
secretly insinuated into
the winding stream of things
in an attempt to stimulate
some sort of healing
between it and the world,

a truth that by fevering up the blood a bit
and dis-quieting deep dreams
and there-by prying open the inner onion-eye
that sleeps, deeply, at the center of the mind
forces itself

to at least be


-Jason Ryberg, 2010

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