Proof
(Love In A Time of Voluntary Diaspora)

Gesture after gesture, we pause
gangs of human flesh, wanton, exposed
backs bent, arms outstretched,
bloody hands slit by the oiled blade
of the intangible orb.
The bushels of proof, tied in bundles,
as if knots of twigs, or bits of brush
culled from the soil of our earth
to kindle the flame of the soul.

This pulchritude
not borne of acrid prose
meant to violate the pure page
or drift rotten across our tongues
like a corpse, tossed about purple sea.
Nor does it lie dying in the widow’s web
or passed from breath to bitter breath,
in a tangle of crooked limbs
and gently breaking bone.

For the proof of our {be} ing
will bloom again in simple things
like the frying of an egg
or the twisting steam
from a pot of Russian Tea.
Proof lives just beyond our breadth
snug in the arms of the aged willow
and alive in the sunrise whisper
of the morning paper
landing on our winter porch.

© 2011 A.g. Synclair

At The Gate

endless loop

the circumnavigation of four,

            not horsemen,

but just as foreboding

                                 recurring

apocalyptic ribbon

visions rebound quickly

plunge deeper into

more

        of

              the

same

                      isolation

evolved of a curious mixture

the turning over of stones

miscalculations of

         time

upending our supposed bliss

the poetic half-life of

                                    absolute

             insurgence

© 2011 A.g. Synclair

Ascent/Descent

we scale the walls of treachery

pull the teeth from winter's yaw

with delicate fingers

deft hands

grimy, gutting glances

a bloodletting

consummated with

soiled paper sheets, you

milking shadows from the breasts of naked trees

closer to me than words on a page

these fragile things, like sleep

or paper thin prayers

illuminate you in fiery glass shards

for we are splintered

and sharp

for cutting

© 2011 A.g. Synclair

Fort Edward

an old pulp mill

wrapped in the arms of sugar maples

sweet gum

hart's-tongue, and roseroot

white-tailed deer

the manascus

churning dark and violent

under a low, seasick sky

© 2009 Ag Synclair

(Originally published in Gloom Cupboard #114)

Untitled Love Poem

the poet Jamison Gilley once told me

of his penchant for lying naked

in a fetal position

on the cold tile floor

in the bathroom

of his Manhattan loft.

unable to move for hours

waiting to feel something

anything

and feeling nothing, seeing

nothing, being

nothing.

and I thought

if I could lie down

on some milky black night

and detach my retinas

swiftly, like opening a vein

I could use my mind's eye

to see

how you pulled me in

gutted me

disembowled me

and bled me out

how you opened me

                                     skillfully

© 2010 Ag Synclair

(Originally published in Gloom Cupboard #118, Amphibi.us)

Ten Hours North Of Daytona At A Rest Stop on I-95

pissing away

three cups of

acrid, black

vending machine coffee

alongside men in wife beaters

who force deep coughs

and spit gobs

of tobacco staind phlegm

into a magical piss trough

where all things

suddenly

become equal.

© 2009 Ag Synclair

(Published in Calliope Nerve 4 January, 2010)

Coeur d'Alene

I wondered aloud (to myself)
why the two of us-on a train from Chicago-
bound for the coast,

should be seated alone
at separate, impeccably set tables for four
in the dining car of the Union Pacific #1401?

Each of us with our paperbacks, junk bags,
and frayed notebooks arranged perfectly
on white linen tablecloths

yet looking tired and worn
beside Lalique crystal and ornate candlesticks
brave enough to live on a train.

I watched as you chewed the cap of your pen
and hurried to raise your glass
whenever the car would sway too far to one side,

and I imagined the possibilities-a table shared by strangers-
the way they seat you in Jazz clubs
if you come alone.

We are lovers of books and trains
sharing a table and a destination
with hours to kill, and poems to write,

and in between bites of your pen cap-
where plastic mingles with prose-it would occur to me
that there must be very few travelers heading West tonight

as a new arrival to the dining car
stops at the table in front of me
and removes a paperback, and a dog-eared journal

from a shoulder bag of some unnatural color
and arranges them carefully
atop the table where she will dine
alone.

© 2007 A.g. Synclair
(First Published in The Foundling Review, July - 2009)