Monday, May 31, 2010

The House of the Wind

I am living, I am alive, I am alone in the house of the wind,
where the walls are my hands and my hands are reaching out
to touch the others who will one day find that I have gone,
and where, and come and be here with me quietly.

I am living, I am alive, I am in love in the scent of the storm
as it cleanses the walls of my house
and the world of my home
where I live, where I love, where I am.

I am living, I am alive, I am continuous and ever-changing,
I am following the path of the endless and the overarching God
to find him in the house of the wind,
where I am, where I will be when I have found it,
where I have been before.

I am living, I am alive, I am not God, but God is with me,
God is building a house in the wind made of breath, made of life,
made of knowledge, made of wisdom,
made of skin for a time; for a time, but always forever,
he makes what is made of the wind.

I am living, I am alive, I am alone in the house of the wind,
where the walls are my hands and my hands are outstretched
to touch the others who will one day find that I have gone, and where,
and come and be here with me quietly and live.

Friday, May 28, 2010

Eyes of Joy

Words are not rain in the night to reflect a golden moon
in overlapping series of concentric light,
prismatic circles in the road.

A streetlamp shivering its skin
amidst the heartening proximity of raindrop to raindrop

and answering thunder with an echo of ringing tin
is not a golden moon.

Eyes of joy in the face of splendor,
drawing together the endless, ageless worth of beauty seen
into a blur myopic of contentment overwhelmed
are not a fleet of raindrops,
nor breaths drawn in equal in truth to thunder.


No, but God, they will suffice.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Rain in a Forest of Leaves

The cannon sounds, their eyes strike sparks,
the cavalry stampeding quickens
and tastes water spilled like blood.

From the woods, from the night,
to wage war on the doldrums and secure
the virgin beauty of the light of a hundred streetlamps
and the loyalty of an endless armada,
the breath of a ceiling of stars.

The cold of their cries comes first;
then the crash of the light in their eyes, then the sound.
The cavalry drums to itself and it quickens and quickens,
it follows the voices of windchimes and trains

running fast before day.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Portrait of a Woman Weeping

God, there is a woman in the street,
a woman with rain running down
between her breasts, across her skin,
to clothe her in water as her nudity is magnified
droplet by droplet by droplet.
A woman in the street, her eyes forever
aimless wandering in all directions,
standing frozen-cold and still,
hands rippling the air, breasts bared
to a naked world through water;
a woman of rain.

God, drowning.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

I Run and Run

Between two trees, two souls,
two pairs of eyes,
were met.
My own, my world-reverting windows;
the unknowable depths of the eyes of a doe.

Black orbs reflecting brightness more
than ink and darkness fathomless
has ever done elsewhere.

Encompassed by the woods,
the green and stillness,
by the water and wind and their words,
separated with a gateway of two trees and longing so
to cross a threshold of well-thriving earth
and intermingled, twining roots.

My body in the gentling breeze,
naked and defenseless but for clothes;
a space of empty nothingness of twenty feet;
a soft and supple unease:
movements of a doe in the woods.

The space before my life,
in all my eyes, in all I'll one day hope to be,
in the voice of the wind and the hands of the trees bereft,
wherefrom a doe, frightened, left me and fled.

Emptiness echoes from the sylvan spaces,


you son of Cain,
I run, and run
from you.


A forest sounds its depths and finds its echoing in me.


The work of decades is accomplished in a moment,
the dreams of kings and fabled castle ramparts
are thrown down and travestied in ruin
in the ground beneath the surface earth,
the superficial soil of a heart or its conviction.

Build, hammer and build and create where once,
a moment past, a moment more, was nothing.

Here am I, will you take me? Will anyone take me?
Is redemption here standing,
or has the poet cast a question mark,
inverted desperate fishing hook
amidst a straining sea of torrential ink?

There, another king, I see him.
A king in a purple cold wrapped up,
marked over by his own transgressions
and unwashable stains in his eyes.

These will cleanse me, he cries of his tears, they will do it by heat.

The king of the world is a fabric ill-set in his seat.

Awaiting the weight of the world on weak shoulders
and bones that are yet to be born,
the lord of the empire is drowning in shame;
he is made by all subjects
the subject of scorn.

Melting Dali Clocks as You

An anatomical description of metaphor in best intent
to demonize the miserable oppressed and trod-upon in seeking out
the greatest love and longest sentences, like lakes in
droplets falling on a dew of green and envious nothing to hold the
wasted pieces in my broken blood and weep the silent screams
and lie upon a back of porcelain feeling.

This intent to mediocrite the stance of true sacrificial,
to shout and true till the depths, exhausted, fall into slumber
like the bitter clouds that sit upon an empty grave.

This is all I am today.

Tell me and I promise.

Tune to melody, and working in reverse is fine to feel out the shuddering
contours of a beauteous frame before the sheets give way of white to stain.
Beauteous and marred, thus trembling and holding out the crimson
to examine the status of a virgin soul upon the cracks
as hope and truth and innocence coagulate.

Decadence, be it far from me, further detached from those
it needs to powering them for it be.
Hold and repeat the rifle till there is no more felt upon to stick the powder
in burning for the world to fall
until the decay becomes as low and filth and despair to hope the time
of melting Dali clocks as you.

Noontide by the falling lakes;
recycle imagery to keep the knowing strong,
to lean upon not understanding your own truth, and fall.
Coerce me into a pit of pink elephants
and blue tigers
in order so successive
that may fall and spell oblivion,
fall, fall, fall!

You desperate reflection of a broken pulse gone cold!

Monday, May 10, 2010

Near Eden

All my life is lived through windows;
today the glass has sprouted gazing-globes of rain
and, to watch the world, I run my vision through them both.
Bent, reflect-refracted and changed, two streetlamps, double-headed,
rest their glowing faces in the cloudy sun,
one and one and one and one,
a pair of snoring sentinels on either side
of a flagpost without a flag.

Away from this, behind a swollen fence of rain, a satellite dish,
too large, too inefficient, too there
to have been born in the last ten years,
is missing several of its wire wings stretched out like webbing
on the space between the sixteen radii reaching away
from the central arm, still calling,
still moaning in echoes for stars.

I do not know what is its metaphor;
but it is broken
and it is beautiful,
and I find that it is worth so much
in bravely being worth so little.

* * *

God, is the rain or is the glass a window?
God, when did Eden draw so near?
God, were we all sleeping?

* *

Were we sleeping?


Paper-Okie Hands

Create anew these old and tired veins running thick with dust,
course fresh blood to quench aching hands.

Cold, crackling, paper-Okie hands.

This is no graveyard ground in to bury spent roses,
petals gone to rape like violent waste,
thorns like bones like blackened bleeding
bent and felled into the earth!

Warm streams instead for planting,
tending veins;
grow a field of lilies
not made for red
or flowering for the hands
that will lose for them virginity.