n a m e l e s s h o r i z o n s p o e m s

N A M E L E S S H O R I Z O N S

p o e m s

V i n c e n t A . D i o q u i n o

copyleft 2014 by Vincent A. Dioquinoall rights reversed

any part of this work may be reproduced & modifiedwithout prior permission & without further attribution

Printed at Antonio High St., DapitanManila, Philippines

cover art modified after Toshitaka Aoyagiflow | modified particles on digital surfacelayout & book design by authortypeset in Candara, headings in Ogirema

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Edition of 100, digital copy.

t h e s e c o n t e n t m e a n t

a p r i o r i

d a w n

a f t e r m o o n

t r i p t y c h

p u l s e

c h a n c e s a r e

f o r w h a t i t ’ s w o r t h

No poem without accident, no poem that does not open itselfl ike a wound, but no poem that is not also just as wounding.

— Jacques Derr ida

The philosopher does not ref lect, he creates. — Gilles Deleuze

a p r i o r i

if not foolish, what else is it then? this heart

knows well when it throbs, weightless water

without a r ipple, only feeling what is

already there. keep gazing, nevermind

the still uneasy dragonfly: it eventually learns

inertia. this world holds no givenness,

asks for too many limits. as though wind

has no answer to breath, as though

love can always be measured in terms of

what is heart, if but space already taken

because given, because always there?

only waiting, only heaving. foolish despite—

d a w n

where we witness grief, we locate cinders, where

such pace beckons. some break in this wake. saketoo, is too bitter to absorb. or taste, a gesturefor sense. understand that distance offers you

no boundary. just more moss. look back at how

we have mourned what was inevitable: whatis yet. here, a lamp persists, if but uncontrollablybrief. doused by air, despite this fatigue, de-

spite wound. or something after the fact that

here, light does not weave horizons. no footmars this ground. only silence. then suddenlya chant, and you are gazing with such yearning

at some lake in the middle of this day. this day

will pass on. they’d give you a sob, there. thereis that dew. or a statue corroded into soil, bonesall collapsed, highlighting this moth’s unceasing vigiland its flailing body taken nearer to the flame.

there, you observe cobwebs spun, ages withouttouch. or that proximity outside these fragile tufts,claiming opaque strands as its own, its strength.

then guilt, pressing there:

a f t e r m o o n

I saw the hedgehog madly trailing a scent, spines protruding, gnawing

into stranger darknesses, snout scurrying thru blades of grass. Something stirs

from the clearing, the sudden crackle of twigs snapping into halves, untended vines

dragging themselves into some posture. The Narra tree I’ve planted somewhere calmly keeps

its branches swaying, as if to hush the surroundings. Meanwhile, the moon does not mind the undergrowth,

its light tenderly stabbing at the canopies high above the strewn leaves now murmuring a few inches off

the ground. Then suddenly the thickets ceased to whisper, and I heard the hedgehog grunting, its

protective quills still hollow, wanting to spray themselves, disheveled after suddenly being

impelled by the great forest fire. I went back to the village, back to where it all began,

and there, I saw the hedgehog in the great river,gnawing at my own heart

t r i p t y c h

fig. 1 train

because fatality is a gesture, bodies remain motionlessuntil moved by some force which, unless unmoved,examines the wreckage wrought by trains. fazedmust be the word for it, but then again I prefer not toname it. two birds, one stoned. if the sun is too far,what of burnt forests? who started the fire?

fig. 2 trees

truth is dull, it creates incisions from what believes in.like how the earth cannot glance at itself,or that doors open because, gradually, less larva, more nymph. lines to indicate age. how,of late, stars withdraw as if distant, already distantfrom a cloudless sky. I mean, how do I writeabout a f lower? to find confession in concept,that is, to excavate innocence from innocence,from innocence, from innocence, from innocence

fig. 3 roads

were history to confess: world in transit to otherworlds. mind a mere geography, sketchedfrom time, from placelessness. each eventan opening into something else, something,

for example, the moon

tonight. I could write the saddest lines. Write for example, the moon | tonight

is inexpressible. the semiologist feels:

2. The full moon this fall, All night long I have paced around the pond.

Then came rain. I had to find | shelter. HereWhenev-

er the wind | mutters, all else

becomes | a mere fluctuation. For

example, | this moon’s reflection: is it

really there? What comes is what gives in lieu of a ,

Perhaps it was lost | in some r ipple. Does it

matter, then, that | this rain will at one point

cease? Nevermind these sur faces,

never mind this crease | or that which

p u l s e

to owe nobody no nothing, no thing owned, no body owed

that is, that Cerberus tightens no figure, no place

here where her name is not her, where, her name is, not her

but to behold, perhaps witness: tragedy without location

spheres of constant struggle, worlds without border

an archipelago without the arché, without fixation

for loss, equidistant failure, history without place

a withoutness without, trees, the breeze, this

noontime cup of coffee, or a locution of tongue, herd

nonsense. to capture the subjunctive flex flex flex, muscle

against skin, skin against bone. violent commas, equilibriums.

points, confessions. circumventions. vents, the sky, a machine

observations. shoes. coins. the withdrawal after we both came

at a party somewhere either we were too drunk too remember

or too afraid to concoct. poison the river because it is red

cite a receipt, binaries, exact change. forlorn lovers embedded

against a sunken garden whose lattice precedes word, object

partition, form. extended because real. entanglements, bus tickets

pre-ordered from a website whose hunger is. because to breathe

c h a n c e s a r e

we’d run at night not knowing howto reach what we’ve lost:cellular phone without line, without signal

dial zero, dear subscriber. a reversal of sorts: that isthis arrangement. refer, i.e.,color, breakage, bone. to dream

of a throne, written as corpse.empires without memory.this sea is a labor to behold, be held.

as if laced carcasses after some typhoondisturb fire, not water. while we floatpoints at an ocean: unperturbed bottle,piece of paper, laser-printed as dirge.

currents run through fossil, extractsof an algorithm as vast as—what?that hesitation is a prefix for loss,

this gaze. specify which to tackle:said he meant erosion. the fault liesin ruin. because cities prescribe exitas emergency, primal urge, calmer settings.

The messiah is a siren who cannot sing this universe.

f o r w h a t i t ’ s w o r t h

I

allow the sparrow to circle an empty sky,leave the snake in a bottomless pit.

procure direction from wind, sunand shadow. let length point to discovery,

locate risk in depth. set sailto an endless ocean east of where

home is. retrieve the possible:all sorrow believes in is rain,

moss draping crevices, shattering stoneinto soil. how hollow is sound?

bone conducting rhythm, tensile breath.undo posture, toil the earth and bend

until breaking becomes a gestureof color. place cataract, incite vision

II. unless thriving begins by giving up,the city will throb until nightturns to dawn, again believes inattempts to recover luminosity

III. cobwebs straddle a thatched roof, the ceiling unawareof a gecko snug between bamboo splits. the occasionalhum: rusty air-conditioning unit, a dog barkinghoarse syllables into this sundered night. rumblelow and deft, 110cc tricycle engine almostspent. from boundary to boundary a relapse,causeways and roads flooding with specks of light,mosquitoes sipping every other second. somewherea door hinge creaks, the knobtrapped in hesitation. then the click. bottles clink& brandy pours into glass, as ice relents to liquid,understands melt. as in grass, as in ashes.the neighbors are coughing, I am leaning on this wallto listen. nothing but the hard earthstagnant in a pose. bones, pebbles, fishing rodssitting inconspicuously beside the rocking chairnow moving with wind, now placing into calm

IV.

bait is about persistence, never mere weight. the hookis there to alert of a still possiblecatch. sinkers, or otherwise a line bent to earth,right beneath water. surfaces, and a ripplecreasing into rupture. as though this trout i s a trout:you observe exactitudes in relation to depth,but you’ve to reel it in. outside mere calculationis risk, heart passing into failure, closing in

V.

to attempt to describe feelingis to surround the transitorywith wonder. eye commits sound,

the entirety of a breadthtwo hands cannot hold.something strange about voice:

think it beautiful how wordbecomes body without organ,immaterial between throb and bone

VI.

skyline looming, some cityscape. rockstones& unmixed gravel, dirt roads, endless trees.

how vision conflates meaning: photocopystalls & engine failures. the horizon

an arrest. this is exchange: loamagainst concrete pavements, night skies

without beginnings. structure upon structurewound between lines, between countless

revolutions of some wheel. how to outlast,persist: the struggle still there despite

t h e f i e l d b e i n g a n i n f i n i te vo i d , a n i n f i n i te vo i d vo i d b e i n g f i e l d

d i s r e g a r d myo p i a & t h e f l u t te r i n g l a s e r d i s c ,ce r a m i c u n d e r t o n e s t o a b a t te r e d s h o e —

t owe r u p o n t owe r o f c o m m u n i c a t i o n l i n e s& s i g n a l s d i s r u p t i n g s o m e w h e r e , t h e l o c a t i o n p u n c t u r e d b e t we e n l i g h t a s i n a s i g n , a n e x i to r p e r h a p s a p r o p o s i t i o n a b o u t r a i n , te l e p a t hy V I I .

t r u t h u n f o l d s , r e ve a l s . t h e e x p a n s e o f a m o u n t a i n

p r e c l u d i n g s k y. c o r n e r l e s s c i t y b l o c k s , m a c h i n e s

w h o s e f a u l t s E p i m e t h e u s c a n n o t t r o u b l e s h o o t

s te m s o f a r o o t l e s s te r r a i n . s a l t s p o ke n f o r

w h a t e l s e p e r m e a te s c a n o py, u n d o e s b r e e ze

n e x t t o w a te r i s t r e e . a l s o f r o g s . f r o g s

w h o s e t h r o a t s c r o a k e l e c t r i c p r aye r s

b e t we e n r a i l w ay s f r a u g h t w i t h f i b e r o p t i c c a b l e s

h a l l u c i n a t i o n s o f a n u n c h a r te d r e g i o n e a s t o f t h e re

t h i s p o l l u te d r i ve r b e d w h o s e n o i s e

r e a c h e s f a r t h e r a n d f a r t h e r i n t o

t h e s e n a m e l e s s h o r i zo n s

VIII.

padayon must mean there, not merely

onward. this, because vision proclaims

a vastness not its own. deserts are real,

before wind, before cities collapse

in the given. every morning a blessing

from within, an ocean bursting beneath

waves, shadows. each dawn a struggle

to contain a while, become limitless light

Vince is hungry, somewhere. He can no longerwrite about flowers. This is his first chapbook.