• by
    Jé Maverick
    Monday, January 3, 2022

    The commentariat in every age and epoch, with their eagerness to adjudicate and their need to dictate meaning, have in their various commissions formulated countless ways to capture the essence of liberation, as though it could be tapped and extracted like a syrup, or clad about with a definition both bespoke and interminable. The impulse to frame and fetter, to bind within some concrete distinction, may occur any time a person becomes narrativised, the story etching out a permanent record within which an existential death is often guaranteed. It is said that a person is not a person without a story, but in the end a story may after all serve as executioner rather than liberator, undermining the very personhood claimed to be inhered.

  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Sunday, January 2, 2022

    This being, for whom those that tried found impossible to articulate or apprehend, was neither individual nor horde, neither avatar nor void; this icon built from negative space; this blank dream whirling like a death mask in a feverish mind; this conception wretched throughout with the ultimate antithesis of all conceivability - had any known from which procession of misfits this impossible being had escaped, or to which procession of misfortunes it found itself destined, they may refuse to talk of it out of a fear of all disclosure - for those things set free by truth can never again be restored to silence, and truth, however one envisions its freedoms, may yet give way to the most hostile and witherward of liberations.

  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Saturday, January 1, 2022

    The saga of your brokenness remains incomprehensible to whomever it is told: fragments usually murmured from the corner of one mouth to the next, often shared hurriedly on thresholds, sometimes spat. You are only glimpsed on the periphery of life, a fog shifting under a dim and distant light, a shadow dissolving at the edges of vision.

    How it was you came to be known as Kintsu, the one who knit calamities together not with gold but sprezzatura; the one who appeared as thoughtform whenever spoken of, who would evaporate when the utterance came uncoiled and incomplete to a breath's end in the idle air. How it was you came to be bound together by sangfroid and apocrypha - an indestructable and impossible being.

  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Sunday, September 19, 2021
    There was once a poem so long that it stretched from the heart of the interior all the way to the coast. It was an important work, an epic that spun histories of an ancient and mystical people. But being a poem, it had no cash for a fare home, so took up living on some rocks beyond a breakwater. It survived on kelp and mackerel, and shaved with the sharp edge of oyster shells. When asked why it didn't sort its life out, the poem used to shout that it was complete as soon as it was born, what else was there that it needed to be? As with all things that cannot change, people soon lost interest in the poem, and the world continued to turn. Every now and again skylarking kids or drunk adults would come to throw rocks at it. Lonely as an old grey bone, the poem would curl up among the tide pools in the night, breaking itself with riddles, trying to understand why saltwater didn't cure everything, as promised.
  • by
    Jé Maverick
    Wednesday, September 30, 2020
    You who turn from love in pain,
    turn gently: heed the softer counsels of the world.
    As a slender branch whips back
    from the weight of so many ravens;
    as the tulip wilts for moisture in the heat
    to stand once more within the glistening dew,
    rejuvenation whispers,
    as subtle as the snowflakes meagre shadow.
    You who turn from love in pain,
    turn kindly: seek the tender cycles of the world.
    The winter greets with joy-flung arms
    the first fog's slow return, and so the moon
    shall know its lover's face, the sun sinks
    without quarrel. Spring dances without clothes
    as Autumn looks on, waiting, and neither
    will depart the grand design.
    You who turn from love in pain,
    turn slowly: nothing exists but purpose,
    and the born to love must love
    although the season's on the wane,
    just as the quiet swan floats upon the lake
    and the heron wades the shallows,
    though the fickle water's edge subsides, and rises
    and recedes.