CONFESSION ZERO

The sky was clear, the stars glistened with rhythm, the ground stood sacred, openmouthed with sorrow like the gaping of a self-inflicted bereavement, a cheerless revelry meant to imprison truth’s throbbing, a delay of my own failure. The stars then spoke to me, seek goodness in all things.   Resist all suffering. Cleave away all noise that nests within prejudice. Hoist no flag, nothing that separates you from Love's kinship. The wind tossed its breathing over the yard, conjure no name, face, or verse for the creator. Place no demands upon others. Walk in kindness. Love. © 2011 by mark prime

There will be no revelations of the failure to love. Hatred’s come on solid legs; struts of steel, water and wood, bending the throat to gloom. Love and goodness breathe next to this world’s gravity. There will be no revelations… © 2011 by mark prime

I must prepare to live for what I believe, for if I'm not willing to live for what I hold as truth then what good am I, save for death? Whoever accuses humankind of having irreparable misery… Whoever accuses humankind of unattainable importance... Whoever accuses humankind of having no purpose… Whoever accuses humankind of being an orphan… Whoever accuses humankind of being loveless… Whoever accuses humankind of being godless… Whoever accuses humankind of being empty… Whoever accuses humankind of ownership… Whoever accuses humankind of being evil… Whoever accuses humankind of mortality… had best be prepared to live for what they believe... © 2011 by mark prime

If I am to love might it be full-throated and soaring like a songbird? If I am to love might it rumble, cough and spit like an old truck clunking its way home to a gated community of metal parts; a gold and silver paradise of rusty gadgets as far as the eye can see? If I am to love might it be a clamorous breath come forth to lift the darkened sky and hold the weary worn that they might greet me with a lover’s lips? If I am to love might it be a panic, like that of a terrified people, a family who’ve pulled down their shades to shroud their fears as if the world didn't exist there amid the electronic beeps and lights and the grave rumbling heard just outside their front door? © 2011 by mark prime

Steak knife, orange, half peeled, coffee, smoky morning, moved inside to write, clock read 11:11... It's gone too far. Peace cannot breathe air into the waters. Love’s unable to recover from its suicide. Torture and war; their oppression, failing too. Goodness pushes its scent like a petal’s breath in the wind. The clock reads 11:11?  What’s "too far"?   The scent; a reminder of her beauty.  Eleven eleven. That’s too near.  A mirror for love to hold.  I’ll need more time!  My reflection, my fortune, full Love.  I’ve gone too far.  My regret, my sadness, my complicity.  Yes. M y greed, my lovelessness, my death.   Something is coming. Haze trippin’ in the morning- s omething’s going to happen.  ... November the eleventh, twenty-eleven, not horrific, but tragic nonetheless... II-II-II. IIIIII. IIIII. IIII. III. II. I. Too many I. Perhaps I arrived a minute ...

Dear Afghanistan, a New Year's Call for Peace. Nearest to collapse, upon razored-edge, emerges a light and a certainty; a mad Love and dull worship, a garrote, an empty prayer, a grand illusion, a vacant stream, a fading truth and budding lie... peace. © 2011 by mark prime

Bathe in the blood of the shuddering people, cleanse their pain. Won’t you smile, asked the redwood, I am Love... And collect the limbs of affinity, stack them high in Iraq and Afghanistan. Bury them in exactness… then sleep. Years and years will soon fade without truth- without compassion, our most ancient vow. If the redwood breathes, might our love? © 2010 by mark prime