How many revelations can a life handle?

As many as it takes

… as many as it takes
whispered Thoth
an Egyptian god
of writing
magic and the moon
one of them gods
who prefers craters
to being durably misunderstood

There is a repetition of mood and memory
There is a vital ambiance that repeats
There is phasetime in the evening
that flowers and goes to seed

There is a phasetime when spring and summer coincide
It used to fall in the winter; nowadays things are different
Those moments dovetail when we sit side by side
listening to the tides…

at Riis
or Rockaway
maybe a lake
now a sink

We’re awake because we’re not asleep
We’re not asleep because dialogue for us feels

like breath                  billowing through a curtain

like a breeze                                coming through a window

by the Aegean                                              swung wide open!

What is this phasetime, its contours, vectors and texture?
I don’t know yet; it’s still being made
But the rhythm? I learned it from you
You see, we had no choice but to break the bars
that kept us unfree.

We went down to the river
because we needed to see
the materials of the occupation firsthand

So now when I get weathered, shaken, or distraught
I roll up my sleeves and take care of things
And each day
before I grab my keys
I move my arms this way and that
to wave at the sea!

F. Magellan was killed in the Philippines
He mostly planned the trip, and made it partway
You know, I think he was afraid
of going all the way around
only to become
his own shadow

Of the 270 starting crew
18 got through back to Spain
Magellan planned the trip
but a ship—named Victoria—finished it

Magellan died holding a collage of wet frogs
listening to the sounds of artless deals
wagers and war
and a bunch of freaky little earthbound tarsiers
screaming under a palm tree
bent by a hurricane
your earliest dream
the one that keeps you steady when you go walking
climbing those beautiful urban-schmurban streets
semi-rather conscientious of the effects of technoscience
on brains, sex, and meaning: a hike through spacebrine

So tell me! Do you remember
the night we met aboard the Victoria
which rested for awhile
anchored in an estuary
where we slept
and safeguarded our memories
from the fishermen
riding the tides
of our aconscious history?

You reminded me of another phasetime too
when we shared a cabin on the starboard side
of a ship without a name
that unmoored        unmanned                      unmendable
rudderless barge
drifting downstream
the backwaters of our lives

You told me those were better days
and reminded me of the time we drove off
to the Great Victoria Desert
in a beat-up indigo Outback
to get away from it all
and laugh at our love

Then you recounted what the misanthrope announced:
L’ami de tous les hommes n’est pas mon ami
The friend of all men is no friend of mine
A fine old line
One of those French pronouncements
the dead renounce

The underworld is less of a house
and more like a wound
a wound on the idea
that our Earth is a mound
that life is a monument
that there is no spirit, movement, or sound
beneath the rubble, soil, and sand

The underworld is a jungle
in an endless state of rot
binging on the organs
every body leaves behind

Or did you forget
that decay
is one of life’s
provisions?

The underworld is wild, nasty
tight and botanic
a song of aims and limbs
sutured by the phantom of the organic

We danced there
lounged and canoodled
then drove away
looking for an afters

We lost signal a little while after
your aunt Elohim’s Honda Odyssey ran out of fuel
The worst thing at first was the absence of music
No surprise there, your playlist was perfect

We left the Odyssey in a field
five miles south of a town in Texas called Uncertain
discovering side by side and step by step
why the underworld had to be

elsewhere

A comforting thought for some, boring to us…

When we got back to Queens
and went our separate ways
you told me how you changed
and asked me how I changed

I replied with the same shit
I always say
Summed it up like this: “Amerika
is a conglomerate of cruelties
and a manifestly bad comedy
illuminating the tragedy of the totality”
“Yeah,” you said, gazing at me, rolling your eyes:
“It looks like an infinite alluvial interior”

But nowadays things are different
The doves are outside
and I stand by the sink
listening to the sound of water and time
swirling down the drain
collecting bits of gunky hope
caught in the trap
as I sign with my hands
moving them this way and that
to get this message across the sand

signaling to you
from the other side of paradise
called refuge

The sun set and then I remembered
what my grandfather said
that the shadows of all would-be prophets
are shackled to the earth
which tarries in the valid
antonym of the void

I want you to know that I love you
and how I’ll never forget something you said once
and never again
that mountain ranges looked like crumpled emerald knuckles unfurling
a pretty harsh visual
so why do you put up with my waste of words?
“I think one day I just woke up and touched the world
and your hair
and felt really sad
though in a formative way
Traveling became insufficient
I grew fond of birds and the unheard”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alex Dolabi
Brooklyn, 2025