Schism

By Glenn Marchand

We seem amiss, afield. I search for keys; in turn, to angle a piano. Something grand; something full of grace. A piano that speaks.  I was like a sponge, collecting keys, pausing to whiff the breeze. An inrush of thoughts, feeling musicians—the art, vivacity, and velocity. Over ink spills, plums and pears, sensing asymmetry. So great in thought, sublime keys, nothing ever solidified—and we slander abstracts. Poison of draughts; piano of intellects; the fields of corn. So languid at times, feeling components, stirring lavender, palming violet begonias. Such is the flux of life—ever opening seas, penalty of its search. At times, instruments pour out from the depths, gut piano, gut violin, deeper streams.  

When we speak about freedom, intuition defines her. Such a lavish war. Fetching freedoms. Both literal asphalt and creative abstracts, to know what freedoms I chase. Freedom wings: Freedom debris. We’ve become lenient, taken to certain freedoms, ever reminded of ethnicity. I thought riches obliviate affects. I’m reminded of the error. Surreal freedom. Uncertain liberties. Blinders 

up on high, just to move forward. So proud to adore, such caged birds, similar struggles, a sermon upon deafening ears. Consciousness affects freedom? 

Topics shift. Such drastic motion. Something for it, something against it. When it erupts, it’s similar to what we yearn for, deeper currents. The sun is witness, the earth is notary. The mountains have written us. Appealing forever, or surrendering to prominent temperaments. One made hungry for arts, another for justice, I come to believe the art haunts its creators. It’s 

unmeasurable, plus, deemed apropos, by depth—it’s different, according to texture. Inner xylophones, interior excellence, persons adjudged according to status. To know a spirit’s feelings, in desire to account for wings, as to disrupt union, a trapping, attacking any of the spirit’s joys. By reluctance to assert it, one takes pride in rechanneling. As if to take into one’s 

arms, another’s potentiality. If fearing for others—what might take place. Maybe some congratulate chi; maybe others deem there’s other things to worry about: no need in taking a hard 

stance, it just is: butterflies never consider it, dragonflies waft higher, flit further; as upon a dream, a casual whispering, to know for realities, to withdraw from intervening. (We were given little, enough to remain maladjusted. It’s not for tears. I wonder why it’s necessary. The poor will be with us forever.) The message is in the piano; the music is in the soul; to go through so much, 

as to climb ladders, one sees—and decides—it can’t just be; muddy mayflies, marshweed adoration, wondering about a select few—to induce transfixing, to witness and respond, to convey what was first a hunch, to have a soul consumed by his body, if impossible, I lie, if 

possible, it’s a sporting haunting. The measure of its intoxication. The fire as living. The grave merging with hell. Precious purgation. Titillating smelting. Souls coated in the callings.      

Glenn Marchand is a poet-writer holding an MFA in Creative Writing from Mount Saint Mary’s University. Marchand is a poet-writer speaking to various realities created by the human condition. In exploring religious and scientific truths, Marchand carefully employs observations. It is with a sense of pleasure and enthusiasm that Marchand presents these prose poems. Each one was written with an eye on enlightening the author and given audience.