More events:
the greening of hysteria
buried under strata of
empirical fact
the singularity of
your once affection for
the Leaning Tower of Pisa
and wrangler histories
in thrill-thrall plazas -
open porticos to the
sun.
So we dance
to songs we improvise
on harmonica and amplified
ukele, hoping to bless
each surprise that spills
forth from
the shuddering, root-tangled
wall of numen
that encloses the universe
behind the woodshed.
Have you ever felt that
this incarnation just isn’t going anywhere?
Have you ever had the feeling that
you can’t remember why you
incarnated this time in the first
place?
There’s a cure. Implicit trust
in the Powers That Be. Buy War
Bonds. Give until you puke and
bleed. Always trust Microsoft.
The light flashes out.
A pain on sand, burning
tires and molten machine
integuement, gunpowder
and the rut of jetting
hemoglobin from the
boys’ play getting out
of hand and carving up
nations, and peoples.
Enter the mindtunnel;
winds howl jets powered
by unknown fuel solidify
notes. Jimi Hendrix still
plays from subspace.
Peeling the orange
to taste sour
skin, sweet
juice drips down
the chin; she comes
behind fourteen valleys
of sorrow, she is
there when I think
there’s no tomorrow.
The tower reminds me
that there is work
yet undone.
The 21st century happened
to us.
Waves spoiled the
trade wind weathered
lifelines tethered
by weary sailors in
mockery of a homecoming.
It wasn’t what it was
supposed to be, the shipwrecks
collecting like coins in
a fountain. Over centuries,
but to Gaia a heartbeat.
Where did all this nautical
detritus come from?
Is the fact (a fiction!) of singularity that
the instant shoots cords of decision in all
directions - past, present, future, and into
dimensions we by definition can’t imagine
given that we have water and meat
brains and our feet are calloused and
sore.
The journey harebrains sidewise, and
the journalers skew like sandflies.
But reconnecting and recentering like
mosquitos in a swarm -this through
reams of incarnations and bitter cliffs and
chasms of history better unwritten
but remembered by the souls recycling
through to make sure it doesn’t happen
again. Not on their watch.
Not ever.
Sunrise over
not Eden
definitely
smoke high from
bombing and
the children wounded
are too exhausted
to cry.
The dunes compress
sound into their concavities and
the humvees are not here
to stay. So why did they
really come in the first
place?
A banana plume of
misbegotten combustion
adorns the retrograde.
They are not retreating.
They are advancing
in the opposite direction.
Musical nonsense clouds
nine minds from Hebron.
The rabbi knows
a righteous man
will fight evil
but not according
to evil’s own methods.
The angels descend swiftly to
help their human brethren - none
of whom even believe in their
existence - and the fight is
on.
The well runs deep
into subterranean caverns
we know not of. Fool’s gold
abounds on the shale slopes,
but deep underground are the
electric roots that drive life
itself through the brooding
cosmos. Ocean and desert,
savannah and rain forest are
one in domains untouched
by sun but illumined
by a single key.
Filling the empty drones’
lankward roiling motions,
detesting the thought
of having to work with
people they can’t protect
because they refuse protection,
they move on through the layers
and angles of diamond and
sweat and trifling sabotage.
To refound a donkey’s cradle misnamed
peace.
He determines never to
heal by scorecard; he vows
never to crush a heart again;
he reminds himself to stop
dwelling on killing people
in Iraq; He fingers his scars,
which comprise him.
The numb flotilla’s dunce-scape,
wayfaring winds blew him from
desert to scuba depths
in time out of mind,
vanityless chronic deceptions
for pain, a narcosis of
ice, and tonic for the
slagged conscience.
The St. Louis Arch lurches
in sad winter limelight,
hangover stained brain
appraises the few ways that
remain to reacquire the target:
compassion.
He turns off the tv
and picks up the phone.
Slow structure acute-noodles
odd chords, wringing
hands in an atmosphere
we threw out with the
stained rug; it’s rolled
up in the ditch and
overgrown with weeds
now, and insects and
small rodents have made
their nests in its shorn
fur.
Life squirms on.
Dirt shakes in its
ruts. The volcano shafts molten
light to heaven, heaving
from fracture-leavened plates,
a fitting offering of clotted
shrieking elements to resound in
the adoring, sustained
nano-light year concavity
as the physician incises and
the students applaud, paean
to glories that can only be
numbered in scientific notation,
enunciated in slow fire
of hammering hearts and
thirst-swollen tongues.
Node strums forth self;
transcendant calamity
is the eleventh dimension
from main street,
sweetly tucked in
beneath the railroad
ties, or lazing
on the rafters
watching sunset.
Adam eats mangoes
beside me while the sisters
process pizzas. Everyone
knows there’s a wild
ride inside. The light
comes on when the
oven is pre
heated.
gingerly dangling the thermometer over
the cliff to measure the frigid airs spilling
from the earth’s bowels, he realizes he
cannot hit rock bottom because there
is no bottom to hit, least of all his,
here, at the edge of all that matters,
nothing, an aurora blinking in the
shape of a wedding ring he does
not notice in the stratosphere
above him.
He is married to
ice particles floating
upward, scurrying in sympathy
to the volcanic miasma
beneath the ebon
surfaces of rising gases
several kilometers below
the ice shelf.