Past the brittle reed of wonder past the unwrit unspelt large of words lies the worn underness of warm things the vial of all beginnings scratches dawn and you wake as the snake does to its withered skin if you float a lie on a river will it flow as readily as one that made its way to heaven, reborn as scripture?
the lips of vapor
When hugeness trots a while
becoming song and sits
you can sense the
thrill of small in the quiver
of lost meanings it is
as if the sun was
beginning to read the lips
of vapor throwing shadows
where words dithered
the laugh of reason
Yonder the mist that followed
a dustful path not a story
of words that lingered but
that fell yonder the laugh of
reason fallen through the
roof not the wellness
of body but of flesh that weigh-
ed in on things, the wooden
density of human things -
morning song
mourning tools are not set by
stone they are chosen by
the howl & sore
of wind mourning sages do not
rise with sun-shriek nor
tire at sun-sink
mourning song is neither presaged
nor pretooled it is worn
by age & tear
the burden of yesterday’s sleep
Twenty warriors in front -
words as knives sharp
as the teeth of
Innocent windhowls carrying
the burden of yesterday’s
sleep twenty
Wars fought on parched tongues
longing for song each
worn as cloudcover, unsung -
We hum the age of syllable
We hum the age of syllable we cuff
the rims bind the seals arch the
soles & wait we hum the age
of syllable & read our palms stoke
Our days fill our heeds with wish
we calm our bleeds sun our soothes
& hum the age of syllable we
cuff the rims blanch its cores we
Hum the age of syllable & wait -
v word ekes
i - the most beauteous of rots
clasps the yellow roots of sun
ii - in the absence of song, should the
syllables falter, there is dirge
iii - in the absence of humor, fear
follicles thread a dearness
iv - not since morning sought knife
did the word begin to cut water
v - what the grasp of heaven misses
earth catches as wish & loam -
What remains
I could dust off the rain’s remains but
there is just too much that resounds
I could feel the knotted night and
Seep it of its wounds but there is just
too much that reminds I could trip
the river’s run as it feels its way
Over rock but there is just too much rock
Somehow song goes away just when
you want it to sing overwhelmed by
All that remains -
rope & hammer
when the sad go out to play, sing
the sad song, kill
time with either a
rope or a hammer (don’t matter) -
when the sad take
the lonesome road,
walk the tortuous line, kill time
with either a rope or
hammer (don’t matter) -
but it does, it does: when the
rope runs out, the
hammer loses its head -
algorithmically impune
Which fragment of geometry is
soil and which is property?
Do you have enough plastic
to wrap it all up? Do you
Have enough rubber to bounce off
your impunities, enough metal to
drill them further into the abysses
you have dug through millennia?
Whose fire do you use to burn
down houses? “we don’t really
have to go down there anymore,
we have a button for that..”
Does your shrapnel seek little
Zaynab’s permission before
entering her heartchamber? “we
now have algorithms for that..”
