Truths Unfit For Our Times
women with the sun
The sunny alamoth
A congress of truths and one lie
With hands on our mouths, our souls cannot speak
Is it worth the all’s while
Field of wheat and wane
Where truth is sown in all places
Father’s forgotten watch arms
Waxes powerful
A box holding big feathers or reaching
Alms for seeing
From depth and silence came truth
True in all it’s emanations
Pursued by the dusty dead
The errored fog step over this truth
Drawn of all spaces in all places
Tied with sticks
Emissaries advance with their right fingertips raised
For fears we’d have to fight another day
young death
Our reflection now contains
Crests of waves as small
And powerful as the
Scarlet stained in youth’s
Constellation of masses
Their contagious trees beseeched
Open mouths of gray
Toil everlasting
The earthen spring
Takers of psyche and sail
Fallen to a spell
Boughs of salty, savage kings
Their cured often fallen t form
Free not
To call nor cull
The great golden borrower
Beckons returns to hollow thrones
Her spired arms
Wasted to unkept dying gods
Vastly held and wishing for wanderers
The long home, an undesecrated altar
Devoted to a reproduced hunger
your ground loves in imprints
I remain the beloved daughter
Of dug up trees
Falling into holes once full
God made it very beautiful
Their demise
The sun shone
Even
While the moon rose to greet it
The implicit towers you erected
What couldn’t grow
But nevertheless stayed
Our offerings
Of what could remain
There lie pasts I did not properly bury
Did not cover with stones
Surrendered in spoons, fed fats
Greased for leaving
Free from pleading
A union of causes
The most frightened waters wail
Mothers to cry
No distinction between their fates
To retrace their fiery pneumatic steps
Leading back to the seat of
Thing not yet pertaining to simple ether
Either
I’d like the impact to prove illusion too is real
Her life,
Both summer and winter
A dance to follow your lead
In a dim wisdom
The importance of broken things
Not unlike running away with words
Back matter
Only allowed, permitted to speak in
Parables line, we collapse
A proud sin, fear is
Breaking the square of the circle
Swollen with time
With sickness, despair
Rust finds it alone
Preparing for gold
Desperate to bind together
Our collective tissue
at fault
The enduring myth of Heaven
It rides
On a hum
Of those whole build the Kingdom of solitude in kind and form
And angels,
Who are their rivals?
But nostalgic sympathy
The outstretched land
Where the unconscious wept
They beg,
“Providence is a valley”
Grace
Seasoned with salt
Your wounds
Burned into my palms
Blood wasted in libation
Stomped
It lies fallow
To weep
Are those birds words
Lamentations
Wearing the poetic crown
Broken by grieving
filigree effacement
Welcome to the Museum of Being
Veins closed, protected from light
Proof remains
Embedded
Where pyres burn for no witness
Depths congealed
By floods standing in a heap
Waters named for rivers
Melted
Buttered
Mourning for strange speech
Left here
Under the broken but balanced bench posts
The tentativeness of a scheduled ambivalence
Pomp of prescience
An absent arrival
Welcomed home to all those fragile vessels
Holding their case for justice
A wobbly waltz, learned
And a try to teach, profess
Salty lids for containment
When the mirror of madness breaks
Maybe the worms will have us
Only the rings of our bones will know
Our carried tales grown tall
mechanics, maybe
We eat the sun now, fate and fury
Having hung Earth
Over an abyss of teeth
The realm of morality
Our conceptual husks
These bodies
Contemplative and manifolded
On wooden legs of suffering
Call to the birds of Heaven
Named “WHY”
A self consumption
Because we long for more moons
The elegance of the unknown
It shines and dances
A wax or a wane too soon
attention’s carriage
Palms full, heavy at the stones
I see practicing their lies
Although they no longer hold water remain
The Gate Keepers
But too pass at the offing
The final chasm of light
An atlas of the sky’s tide
At our sea’s cessation
Frosted over
We simply collapse, shattered
Under the weight of our own arms
A marriage of words
That make the wise head of the mountain
Where time lives forever -
Wisdom's Ruins
And still we sigh
No one to know how well we’ll die
virtue/deceit
Spoken from lungs deep
And acquainted with hidden things
Well springs from man
His remorseful starving body
Crying out for a name
He’s initiated into these mysteries, where
You can plant churches
But not turn soil
Cedar cliffs erected we breath under
Swallowing ships of passions, prayers
These signs performed, tricks in begging
Election to surrender to the immeasurable waters
We’ve all taken our flame from the fire
Where the prophets long sent in stream
Our sons not yet rose with all their bright ambition
But buried in the grounds of the ten thousand named
long lived
Through what phantoms do we
Invest our snow
In dialogue with dismembered darkness
A theater for the poets to endure
Under the threat of mirage
We’re salting the Earth
From dusty sawhorse compartments
Tortured by what is all attractive
That which stands and falls and lingers
On black, sad lips
By gone articulations
Stray while reigning tall to tragedy
Blame laid regards power
Power to punish
And the punished wander
Their resentiment merits
Serpentine suspicion
Low under to curiosity
Having met the monsters of your cave
Familiar with the consequence of that maze
Shelter, stained
For A While Now
Traveling on sun’s beam
Sinking on ocean’s inhale
Sighing out love
The most
Lost on the out breath
Denial to pause; to serve
Having tied the loose ends
And contained the spills
And mopped the sloppy footprints
And what’s left
I am
Unused that is
And maybe those borders
That which hangs around the edges
Pending disposal
Actually keeps us around
Across and through
As in relevant
This, not that
Peanut butter and jelly words
Black, no sugar
Life, not death
When character is wiped away
Fallen in simplification
More struggle comes with discernment
The removal of chaff
If I can’t say
With all the too much pauses
With the whelm
With the heavy, leaking trail that follows our stories loose
Their form ceases, their way, their function
The play ceases, drama arrests
Actors demise imminent
We cannot eliminate uncertainty without certain death to being
A Crooked Cure
It is said some threads must grow
Some waters must be subdued
And congruently recanted
Those same waters of the divine
Having inspired gods and monsters alike - unlimited and immeasurable
So the waters
Also having
Erupted from the firmament
On account of the frenzy, noisy flights
Require this degraded machine
An organization to quell spiritual inspiration
For when the floods rise
Their stance arrives elected
Came committed
They stand in staunch declaration of their presence
Thieves of the sacred stage
Tragic denial to patterned shelters
To courage of sensuality
Are we not too dammed
Peach Seed Womb
We are not machines
We are not blankets
We are not these sweaters meant to crinkle with age
We are not exactly their matrix of support
Our limbs do have a little rigidness to them
A robustness not unlike that of waters deep
Steeped too
So maybe we are grounds
To justice, to punish
A firmness in footing
For what dregs do we stand our truth on
But exiled all the same
Sacred Scale
Consumed by nostalgia
A kind of deserted home sickness
Where certain threads
Invent the lowest of sands
Beggars pause
Covered in the goo of seed’s rest
The ancient assault kneaded animal forms
A perpetual repayment
Knows the secret of it’s fruits
And hides them well
We define hell
Only to seek salvation
Only to hide from fear
The spectacle
And the suspicious, tallest gods
Of thunder and lightning
Demonizes imagination
The permissions of evil
An undoubting sickness
We exchange the superstition of guilt
For discipline of self
For spirit’s unstrengthened by violent victories
For what was bound to grow out of our bellies
Lights removed
Can man remain a bridge unto himself?
That which worlds are made of
Broomstick Courage
I took out the tiny white stars And palmed their potential We all have themReminders, archives The preamble of our childrens’ flower tasselsHow incandescent Our nature, our imitationsThey demand, “Creator, Creator!”Where the Buffalo Roam
Herds of only babiesLost for their wandering belliesThe love covenant rode away on some Marauding gail
Bones of their bonesFlesh of fleshA decomposing scroll With faith over fateThey lament Worried their guideposts will misleadSalt and lightPlow the plains To search for pearls in sunken places A formless veil fellSeeming to seeEpilogues of the world, the wall Provisions Promised
What are we leaving for HeavenA consciousness which broke its wingsIn search of permission to fly In what interests are those distant spheres concernedDizzying pursuits of suns’ rays Where the sweat pulls the dustOur assemblage of gold, of lead we earnedOf bare feet full of doubting leaves
Where everything is all at once Warp and weft propped, allegiance to counted starsElect, pursue
The demanded devoirs
Eyes of the spirit only hold the provincial gazeIn reconciliation In justificationIn promise of reason’s ruse
it’s romantic
Who thought to
(Or assumed of it’s possibility)
Unhinge, unanchor, remove the hook that has been sunk deep into
The lyrical narrative the colors your tears
The being that hangs and sticks
Words to its stained brick walls
White washed with reason
Often
The museum of sounds
Spells of tongues pressed to the roofs of mouths
Muses lie by those big red leather chairs where myths
Passed to mirrors
Our sole depth of reflection we cannot live without
Where holes tattered, spun wild heaps of knots
For naught
Needles for repair sneak in
Tricking the scene they too mend
In defense of a tightly bound configuration of similarities
Expressed by symmetrical differences
Behind glassy cases where dust webs gather
Their songs witness and wing to inheritance
That crystalline box held ephemeral movement in suspension
A beat which pounds at the sky
A million steps wide
Ticks out the tide recurring
Confirms why, will
Reminders for ever, never?
The existence of an altered sill
Insistent homes made by the display of decay
Where mockingbirds continue their tradition of wail and woe
Nests of lightened leaves
What was heavy removed by night’s sun thieves
Gates of Asymmetry
Providence hangs
On crosses at every street corner
Repented on undercurrent, on being
Its embroidered lettered coats
Cast sails to seas
Innocent as pearls are ancient
To what do we owe those who have nothing
But us
A grand clouded mount
A hope in lust
I would stand upon that grave
Proclaiming perfection
When our orders are perverted
Set to grail
Lost in some vast valley
Marching with no guide
To summit its peaks
No bright star to dive its depths
Their violence requires
What is more than human:
Our lions’ sunny halos
Light tempered
We eat our nation
Sucklings double take
At their climbed willow ladders
All I have is you
But all you have is freedom
For only in those high pitches
Are burrowing tombs
honeycomb
The ethics of bees
Which remain crying
In desperation
Their civility lacks reflection
How worthwhile is their punctuality in
A Nature great
For its forgotten adherence to chaos
Having lost not one of those to love
Their suspension, an antiquity
Lacking a pride that yearns for the uncommon
Buried beneath a shrugged weight of winds
Eyes rest for a long while
But hiding commits you to the custody of angels
For bees cannot blush with the spirit’s light