SPOTLIGHT: Integral Series by Ric Carfagna

Integral Series follows in the wake of Ric Carfagna’s Symphony project (currently at Symphony XII).This new work shares some of the characteristics of the Symphonies,but also departs in directionswhich offer the reader alternative paths and novel insights onto a multi-faceted poetic terrain


Through a doorway

without a continuance

a narrative

to unearth


retuned to dust

null         voices


as an ocean wave


to return to

the flesh voids


these recesses

these columns of blood

        these presences

which solidify

“the forms of an indeterminate architecture”

scribing on a page

vector fields

on wet paving stones

the evolving embryo

at home

in this  






Colors merge through a window

clouds quieted and constant

thin areas of light that are passing

now a particular shade of gray

a cold rain

in the path the dragonfly takes

a fate mapped in stages

of dispensational drift…

no mystery to this

            obligation of sorrow

no fragmented revenants

or unconscious cathedrals

to absorb

a world dissolving


a common perspective

“…and he said nothing retains its presence”

in this an overture of rags in emptiness

illusions slow to take on solidity

maya inside a mass of sinew and bone

a prism’s splintering the spectra

quanta returning to its embryonic embrace

for this duration of a day passing

(time’s irrelevant measure)

embers blown from a mountain





   misshapen by fate





Exactitude has left

its mark

on imperfection

on a feral gust of wind

inside this skin

it is here

“I return”

to enter another

world       imperceptibly

“some call this death”

yet it is a perspective

that paints a canvas

as a two dimensional plane

as a landscape

showing only

what can be


a still life

insistent on change

a visceral enclosure

formations of galaxies

and molecules

malleable atoms

released from the shattered glass

free to transubstantiate

and enter into

the dispassionate womb

to return again

“some call this life”

where inexactitude has left

its mark

upon perfection

as if there could be

a known quantity

in the cycles that skew

a belief

that stability exists

in the crowded spaces

that efface

the intimacies of identity

in the cluttering din

that masks itself

as silence

and shrouds a fate in haze





These words exist

to speak

of loss      again

the subject of surfaces

glossed over

a stain

on the pavement

that remains

an identity

for endings

that are


for narrow doorways

of annunciation

for voices

of beginnings

for points

of origin


atmospheres heaving

entropic clutter

a bloodless stake

driven into common ground

these words exist

as silhouettes

empty entities

that refuse


a definitive form

to gloss over

an encroaching overcast

which will soon


any semblance of illumination

 “it is said

we live

in a dark world”

where any matter

of accepted verity

will draw its attention

to a blank

on a page

to words


that will not cohere

to debris

that is intransigent

to the terminal stare

of eyes veiled

in ashes

of eons passed

of eyes observing

enigmatic revenants

glimmers in a window

without a molecular substance

scattered shards

of scarred ontological nomads

returning to flesh

to hold breath no longer

than a fortnight lost

to words

as identities

as individualities

to speak

of loss    again


in a solitary din





In too much geography

    of the mind

eons unaccounted for…

clouds bordering

an empyrean

visible reflection

accidents of existence

“any sufficient collection

of atoms”





of invisible intelligences


            possessing senses

the eye’s inability

to perceive

a limited reality

“so much of what

     we see”


shifting quantum surfaces

mercurial pretense

malleable presence

mercurial presence

malleable pretense

consider stones’

retentive potential

a primordial wisdom

beyond humanity’s ken

eons unaccounted for



not annihilated

lost to sensate presence





She follows light

into its shadow

transforming visions

that leak from

her sleeping eyes

following the many fractals

that form

the edge of an ocean

always distant

from her touch

as in a labyrinth

of shifting walls

or a mirror


the image of herself

buried beneath years

of accumulated debris

and when

she dreams

there are weeds

rooted through

her heart

crows gorging

on carrion

rooms without light

where painted walls

have worn thin

and windows

greyed by clouds

filling a peripheral vision

and when

she dreams

night leaves its mooring

to wander

and drown

beneath her

isolated ocean’s

turbulent surface


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