Poetry

Rising Sign

So,
I do not think
any longer should wonder
be entertained
in this waking dream
as we apart
seek that bridge that spans aeons
and even stellar cradles.

I have figured it
in the alchemy of
quantum entanglement,
on the blackboard of the heart,
inside the mandala of time.

Listen,
for water seeks to give.
Waves throw themselves
on the shore of the land.
Rain falls to the skin of the earth,
liquid seeking the embrace
of the deep
and sanctuary of the bedrock;
and roots to drink it,
feeding the hungry pulse of life.

Water gives; so what is water
without a heart-receiver
but only a universal solvent?

Into water one may throw
infinite strikes;
ever will it resume its shape.
Onto water one may project
mountains of rage,
and it will only reflect
what you already know.

Fire,
fire is simpler still,
and only seeks a hearth
with the fuel of an endless heartbeat.

So,
while the free winds
strike their vastness upon the sky,
and paint what they will,
a vessel of water and flame
would be only placed at the altar
before the ancient tree
whose roots grow deep
into the sod and stone…

…combusting growth into dreams
and gifts eternal and warmth in winter;

and silently,
offering a song of praise
for the birth
of earth on earth.

Caesarean

And I was conceived.
That was the first time
I lost you.

I know, now.

I was rent from the pages
of the ether
from the universal fabric
as were you.

Torn? Oh yes.
Torn from the dark
torn from the valley
and the enervation
and the deepspace
beyond this visible incantation.

That was where I last held you.

And thus was I given this body;
these raiments of oxygenation.

So this is why
I am friends with Charon,
and why my two cents
count for something at least.

This is why
whenever I saw the evenstar
break upon the last light
of our sun,
I felt the wind
and breathed deeply;

and why I lost my mind
in sheaves of cotton
and plugged the cables
of adventure
direct into my brain;

and why
when my gaze was swallowed
in the arm of the Milky Way,
I missed you
far below my words.

Time is the mist
before me on this path,
and all I know is
when I held your eyes with mine

one thing out of all
made sense.

Orison 5:22 AM

Christ, these bags are heavy…
what exactly did you get?

Come look, I got
10 things they don’t want you to know,
and my god could beat up your god,
and 50% off,
and at least I’m not a deviant,
and she’d never think you’re
a good dancer,
and you really aren’t married yet?,
and they hate our way of life,
and that’s not what I meant,
that’s not what I meant;

static,
and these dreams go on
when I close my eyes,
static,
and rock my world little country girl,
static,
and let’s stay together,
static,
and they stab it with their steely knives,
static,
and lovin’ is what I got,
static,
and fire is the devil’s only friend;

1,000 days, 1,000 drops
of my saltwater ocean
hitting the ground,
and you’re not good enough.
Did you know that?
I’m and You’re not good enough.

I used to keep my drawings
under the bed. I never showed
anyone
the
burning running biting broken sheetrock lover’s footprints falling breath of evening illuminates the smell of bread in the oven colliding with rainwater tracked in from the science museum where the Most High God smacked my ears and eyes and lungs with the burden of dying stars and gave the final joke as a Christmas present tied up with a perfect bow.

My cells want to fall asleep.

This still makes no goddamn sense,
even though your head fits
perfectly
in the crook of my neck
and everything else matches
like Lego pieces
and dust settles
on my grandfather’s desk
(a middle finger LOL to entropy
in this universe of endless light).

Continue?

K.O.
!
!
!

this tree reminds me of home;
if i sit here, i can’t hear anything else.
don’t step on a crack,
or you’ll break your mama’s back.

you’re ugly, your family’s poor,
no one cares what you say.

what do you want to be?
you can be anything;
follow your heart.

what if my heart is wrong?

come here- do you like that?
oh my god, that was like
the good parts of Revelations…
you left scratches on
my ribcage skin.

you smell like the Hanging Gardens.

i’m going to use you until you break;
i’m going to wrap thorns around you
and drink your blood.

i’m going to show you your pile
of broken failed foundations of tears;
and your pillars of light
no one else saw.

why did you stay with him?
jesus christ those scars.

more than my own life.
friend lover shield-bearer,
sovereign empress our kingdom,
headstones side by side.

i wish there was room.
i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry.
you’ll leave.
i’m damaged i’m stained i’m emptied out.

i think i could marry you.

yeah right.
jerk nerd preppie slut OCD failure.

can you see the skeleton outlines
where my cathedral glass
used to be?

I always thought
you reminded me
of a secret door
to some cavern in the desert.
I never cared too much
what was behind it.
that door, though, my god that door.

a million times
over and over and over and
over again.
mine.

in my dream, your hair was white,
and you still showed me
new constellations.

goodbye.

i forgot to figure out
what i want to be.

did you love?
did you?
not did you appear together
in public,
or try to impress the other,
or use someone
good-looking hey there.
but
did you climb the mountain
in the dead of winter
and give her your coat
and bring her food
and almost die
on your way back to the valley?
and no one saw and

what about tomorrow?

it’s dangerous to go alone;
take this.

go away.
i don’t need it-
put it back in your chest.
you’re bleeding.

i can’t, it doesn’t fit anymore.

i don’t have any more lives.
nothing makes sense.

does it have to?

9
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1

image

Absolution

everyone in this
defiled city
participates
in the dance of death

Not a blood sacrifice
on the altar of conquest;
not a dutiful chore
checked off with the groceries
and the collection plate,
and the towel-folding;
nor a stipulation,
nor a bargaining chip.

No.
Not a tool.

The vessel of our worship,
the unseen conversation
of tactile grace in the dance electric-

God damn you
and the way your back arches
when you pin up your hair;
I cannot get your stain
out of my soul.

I would trace my fingertips over your scars like a murderer’s over rosary beads.

You know better-
lightning can strike the same place twice;
shall I show you?

When
I have to come up for air,
or my hand is saying “come here”;
when
your forehead is touching the ground,
or you are knelt with hands folded-

Is that not all a kind of prayer?
Will we make one another beg
for forgiveness?
What is there to forgive? Shadows?

Shadows have no pulse.

So,
tell me…
how long has it been
since your last confession?

Bones

Then said Almitra,
“Speak to us of Love.”

were you born homesick?
why do you even have words
in this place?
it’s 2:37 AM inside you
here there is no clock
no slicing of time
there is no one here

to remember your first car
to call you Jezebel
to take down your blue ribbon
to pass you a plate of bitterness

that redwood
will not tie a weight around your heart
and make you thank him for it
the fog-blanket moving
will ask nothing of me
nor will it drain my self
and beat me for being empty

can you let yourself die?
you have known true nightmares
but… can you?

i don’t need that tree
for my self to live
i don’t need that fog
i don’t need your breath
inside me

but it would be nice

it would be nice to die / eventually
don’t you think?

i fear one day we may get lost
you and i
in the godhead of the wild
and uncover all the secrets
they’re afraid of.

credit: the author

Phoenix

So you,
spark fed by the wind
laying waste to the forest;
whisper on the ear
becoming a tornado;
ripple spreading in the ocean,
birthing the tsunami;

the soul of the earth
men would let blood for;
and the flower
growing from the bones of the dead,

what say you to sleep?

And what fault then
lies in the spark,
in the breath,
in the ripple?

We are, all of us,
formed from the dust of the ground
and the death of the star.

So who is to blame this night?
The beauty of this destruction
is in the birth from the ashes.

Leylines

Roads of dirt, and of pavement,
fences of split rail, and of barbed wire,
lengths of time, linked together in chains;
we move along them,
now racing, now clinging-
each of us under the same sun,
each of us with the same heart;
we stand in our own clearings,
build our own altars,
and send up our own prayers
that drift into the sky;

even though

we sit under the same tree,
ears crushed by the same thunder,
held by the same embrace of the morning,
laying flowers on the same grave,
and folding the same hands-
some smooth as alabaster, some rough as rawhide.

And sometimes,
sometimes,
the web converges,
sometimes I meet you,
sometimes the rhythm aligns,
the tide goes out, taking our footprints,
the shadows collapse, light breaks over the horizon.

Sometimes,
you rest your head on my shoulder,
and I rest mine on yours.

Angel

Shackled to rock
above high cliffs of white,
where clouds gather in the shapeless dark,
thunder growls
and spits lightning
on her head,
illuminating
rains that fall down her face,
mixing with tears
that flow around her smile.

Each drop is a moment.

When the air is still,
she lights what incense is left
in this nameless place
and prays,
making music without instrument,
holding the lock that binds her,
watching the flame dancing across feathers
torn from her wings.

There is a key.
I have seen it.

Now,
if you have ever wondered
how a star can die
or a diamond can form,
why beauty has no age…
if you have ever seen
a bird in its cage,
you will know why she sings
the way she does.