Society

In the Halls of Light and Thunder

There is an aurora tonight,
and my pen is heavy.

Friends drove out beyond the light pollution
to witness this miracle-
out to where I came from,
to where my heart
lies beating in the wilderness
where it was forged.

I did not go,
and I have no answers for their questions.
This pen feels like a neutron star.
My soul has flown south for awhile.
That heart, out in the mountains, seems faint-
so faint from here. I strain to hear it.

I wander to the edge
of these suburbs at midnight.
I have no answers for their questions.
The distant voice of the highway
hums in the dark.

I cannot see the aurora, but what did I expect?

A thunderstorm is gathering, though-
quickly, insistently, intently
to the west;
cutting between the solar wind
and the city lights.

It is silent save for crickets
and I force this pen to move,
because I have to.
I have to.

A scent of summer flowers and water cleansing
pulses
nearer.
I force this pen to move
and I have no answers for their questions.

I cannot see the stars,
but they are where they are.
I cannot see the aurora,
but it dances on the face of the earth.

Rumbling echoes fading in the dark.
Electric arclight stabs and spits and forks
staccato into the cloudwall rising.

I strain my ears to listen.
I breathe.
I force my pen to move.

Heavy it may be;
but how else-
how else to hear your heart beat,
to hear you breathe,
somewhere out there,
under a storm of your own
(and, perhaps, a solar wind)?

How else
to hear my own heart,
softly,
singing in the mountains?

A stray dog stops for a moment,
at the edge of these suburbs,
in the rumble-echo,
in the rising summer wind;
we regard each the other in silence.

Finding no questions to ask me,
he resumes his journey without looking back.

Thanotic

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.

Exhalant

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.

Inheritance

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?

Pioneers

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.

Day of Rest

Behold,
His voice was full-wroth as the ocean storm.

“Cast out the unclean
and the kingdom of prosperity
will be yours!
You shall have all you want!
Even now,
your country,
your family,
your very soul
are under attack!
The enemy surrounds you
on all sides!”

And He was visible at the pulpit,
and also on the high-definition projector screen.
And lo, the fear of God
was among the people.

“I think I’ve heard enough,”
said Jesus,
sitting in the back row.
“Lunch?” asked the Buddha,
turning to him.
The question hung in the air.
“Thought you’d never ask.”

Verily, I say unto you,
not a single one noticed
they had come and gone.

Leaf on the Wind

[I]

Could be my heart’s a heavy idol
slowly tearing out of my body,
to be placed at the altar of Shadow.
Maybe not.
In time, then,
I will make pilgrimages and offerings.

So we pass into the unwritten season.

But wind it back if you like,
the clock,
if only to hear me say

I would help you walk, someday.

[II]

Would you gather my bones
in your embrace,
one last time?

Then lay them to nourish the earth.

If you can hear them sing,
then come to me;
come sit, and listen with me.

If the songs I’ve given in this life
haven’t been enough,
come listen then to the song of my bones,
that you may see cleared a path
to the cliffs of your heart
and dive headfirst into the maelstrom of grace
that awaits you.

I would see you untense your shoulders again,
and laugh until your face rains
before you leave the living of the earth.

Is this like drinking darkness?
You must do that sometimes.
We all must.

If you will it,
this becomes fuel for the light.

[III]

Come, then.
Sit.
Listen.

The secret:
the whole cosmos
is made of music,
and you & I
are fleeting consonant harmonics,
waves embracing in the echo-

watch how we soar.

Prowl

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.

Bailaro

Once, a while ago, when the rhythm took me,

(sorry, sorry, sorry,
lo siento, mea culpa;
have you seen all the ways
we learn to apologize
for being alive?)

it was Los Lobos,
and it was Spring,
and I was in the kitchen,
and I was told to stop screwing off.

The next day, I drove past a graveyard.

Most days now,
I’m guilty of screwing off.
(especially where rhythm is concerned)

Lo siento.