This is the final note,
this is where it all ends,
this is where it all goddamn ends.
And ends.
And ends.
This is the song divergent,
this is the souls’ reaping exigent;
this is the last pace before bloodlet-
ironscent tang in the dust
mingled,
oh yes.
This is the echochord of a sunset lightbreak;
this is your eulogy,
this is where you die.
This is where you
take
one
more
step-
for flame breeds fresh ash
and ash breeds a fertile ground.
Keep watching.
Stop. Shut it all out,
if you can.
I promise you won’t die.
Even the sun must set,
ships must be moored,
dogs come into the house,
oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange;
and garments of the day fall
so the blankets of night
can cover the dreams
of 100,000,000 minds.
The world wishes you not to sleep, nor to rise
(what a pitiful thing that cannot make up its mind)…
I can, though.
So kiss me as you will:
like a calculation of space
enumerating the differential
under the curve,
like a bonfire
writhing
in the apocalypse,
or even, if you prefer,
like the owl flies-
hunting softly in the dark.
If you go out into the land,
towards the wild, into the realm of no realm
with nothing but your own gospel,
as a disciple would:
First, unplug your devices. Shut them off.
I’m serious- put all that shit in your desk.
It’ll make you deaf and I’m, unfortunately,
speaking from experience.
Because then, if you’re careful,
if you’re quiet,
you have at least a chance to recover
what you’ve lost.
(if you’re alone, good
if you’re not, so be it
if you have a little one with you, hold their hand)
-listen-
Green things are sprouting from the ground in song
and voices of thunder gather on the horizon.
now this is where you say
“Shhh.
Close your eyes.
Can you hear them?
Can you hear them?”
What are they saying?
Can you hear them?
Do I count myself more grateful at 12,
or at 32?
Is the pressing of time like water against a dam?
Oh, but I can drift backwards
into the fullness of the ripening earth
beneath my boots,
the rank tang of ammonia in the barn,
the scent of aging hay in the sun,
the heavy shunt of horse-breath
clouding my face
under the stars of an early spring.
One day, before you die,
you may stop worrying and know love.
So- will I emerge more of a contradiction at 32,
or at 52?
(but
there is a hunger now-
for the trophy, not the food)
I find I’m beating the claws of this world off,
taking note of what bleeds most,
standing aghast
at everyone’s rushing,
at everyone’s talking,
the endless documentation of ourselves
and all we claim to care for.
Do you all fear death that much?
Are you running from the dark?
Or from the light?
a diet high in clocks increases your risk of heart attack
talk to your doctor
Ah, well.
Hopefully, at 72,
I won’t find in me the demon-
and
I am called Legion;
but perhaps,
if I’m lucky, instead,
something of Whitman-
and
I contain multitudes.
We are gathered here today
to mark the passing of death;
Death-of-the-Inside,
the clinging fear
and the dénsed darkening,
nurtured since birth
that says
“No.
Not good enough.”
Mark well what you’ve missed
and what remains,
what you thirst for
and even what’s flayed your soul at night.
For this is all a kind of prayer.
So then stay with me awhile
after these words,
and we’ll lay our flowers and shadows
under the arms of the earth.
The tears of the air
tamp the ground,
erasing even our footprints,
and there will be no markers or epitaphs.
Say it now, and say you all so.
This dawn I sense beating draws close;
so I’ll join you at the wake,
when the clock strikes sunlight.
What are you doing?
gathering blooms and sprouts
and shards of ascendance
Why?
all things fall and renew in form and time
Shouldn’t you be working on something?
well, yes,
but
either everything is holy,
or nothing is
I ride on the edge of the night,
where sacred-looking things arise
from power lines and signals of the civil-
doesn’t the wolf come sometimes
to the edge of the city?
So I feel alive and electric in the neon,
merely from contact and rhythm;
we are wired for this.
claws click on sidewalk pavement
Yet
I still need the full-breath,
the long-hale up from the blood,
the consonation
and synchronizing hum of your body
rising from the earth,
dripping with mud,
calling to the darkling beyond dream.
Skirting the trail,
sowing and conjuring then I traverse time and space;
it smells wet and rank-sweet in here,
but this hunt
isn’t really a hunt,
is it?
I can hear you
from my bones out
to the stars.
I wander home, alone in the descent of sacred things;
I wander home, alone,
riding on the edge of the night.
Why?
Why does she run,
always out of reach,
twisting halfway
in a leaping dodge through the fresh powder
and over the melting riparian edge
with that sly and challenging smirk,
that furrowed brow?
All day, I thought it
-play-, thought
-pack hierarchy-, thought
-willful child-,
which I accepted, of course.
Leashes are to be used sparingly.
Should I have even been asking?
It only occured to me
after some time had passed-
she was trying to show me the
(secret)
and that I, being only human,
couldn’t follow all the way.
In case you ever again enter
the winter of forgotten things,
listen-
You are of the transcendent.
You are of the wild and hopeful,
of the beautiful and terrifying Light.
You are of the rising storm.
You are of the running herd,
and hawk on the wing,
and fin cutting the waves,
and the pack-howl at night.
You are cloaked in honor,
you are of the ardent-hearted,
and the sword and the plough
and of the green, growing things.
You speak for those who have no voice.
You are worthy, and I am worthy,
and every single thing is worthy,
and it was deemed so
in the forges of fading suns
containing every single atom
of yourself
and myself,
aeons ago.
In case you ever forget-
are you listening?
I wish I had answers.
I really do.
I wish I had the secret
to a good night’s sleep,
or that I knew what you mean by
“the best hiking trail”;
I wish I knew how
to look the devil in the eye,
how to visit all 100 places the magazine says to
before we leave this world,
how to eject the tape in your head;
or the one in mine;
how to learn the language
of the horse in summer,
or the wolf in winter,
or how to dance
like they do in the movies;
how to exhude the proper passion,
how to fix the brokenness,
or at least clear the wreckage;
and, perhaps,
why folks bring swords to the dinner table.
(There is a reason, you see,
why I’m on one knee
when talking to dogs,
or children.
Do we not all in some way bow
to wisdom and grace?)
So, yes, I wish I knew the secret
of the method
of the madness
of the song
of the soul
of the fire
and the rain;
or that of your your finely-gathered pain,
which is a gift only to be offered.
Ah. Never mind me.
Here.
I found a piece of driftwood
while walking.
It’s yours.
Gnarled,
old knots and curves,
scent of earth in spring;
water and wood at last
consummating their affair.
(How else do I explain that,
to me,
your whisper is thunder?)
Litany_of_the_Lost 