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Showing posts from November 15, 2009

A CROWD HAS BEGUN TO GROW

He has taken off his sandals.
His feet seem new as he moves about.
The sandals have been on for far too long.
Walking in them seems pointless.

Within one hundred yards a crowd has begun to grow
from the moans of protest because something lives there.
Something breathes the jarring dust of solitude
and cries out without a throat, tongue lashed to pretense
with all the trappings of hostilities’ offspring.

O! He wishes to see the sun!
Alone, unshackled, while wearing his own sandals,
his own clothes, his own wish, his own sky!

How long now has it been?
Years… years alone. Loneliness is just a word,
like worship or friendship or death.
This man has a crowd of words, a horde of thoughts
that are his, yet heavy with chains like some rabid beast.
His voice now an echo unto himself. Unto himself.

He has concluded his begging for freedom and is now
ready to move along. He had things he wanted to give away.
He had things he wanted to relinquish like rolling thunder.
But they did not care to he…

The Lords of Death

We stand out in the cold for the fog of life to paint our silver breath on the thickened air, we cock our heads to watch it drift away, vanish really, to assure us that we’re living.

We clasp our beating wrist with our fingers to hear life’s deep thrum holding rhythm, while the things of art and sky whirl and our hearts complete what our tongues cannot speak.

We make no murmur as we enter into nightfall and have no pang as the birds return the sun, this is the world and we sway with her. O! Lean down with your tears of morning for our delight

And when the lords of death thrust their blades, hold us near, and steady our lance that they might feel our resistance in the red corridors of dream! Keep the lords of death at bay until our child is ready!

We stand out in the cold for the fog of life to paint our silver breath on thickened air, we cock our heads to watch it drift away, vanish really, to assure us of our living.

We are tired of these charlatans of supervision with their slabbing…

GROUND LEVEL FEEDING

Of their time, the goal was set by cruel decree, strident air inside the darkness, makeshift home, the winter birds in their towering cage, peering out at all the swagger of green, ground level feeding under neon strobe where filled yellow taxis and fancy blue suits jingle turnstile iciness against the ancient use of this globe.

This is where children dream, dirt and cardboard cushioning their hunger with cold and fierce eyes, holding them close, kissing their thinning red lips, and the concrete humming low, echoing, hungry beasts marching toward their grief like a serenade of giants rising out of the fiery ash, Brontes, Steropes and Arges reaching up in fury with brightness, thunder, and lightning.

They rise not for the hordes of sleep-tattered children, they rise for the noise made of coldness, their heated hands wrapped in lava with the reaping of the unkind upon their breath. They’ll seek the cultivators of gloom, the progenitors of war and the ravenous well-to-do so there might b…