I met Revolution again the other day recalling how a younger me was smitten by her fire & song so now are you the peacock or the Mountain? neither, she said, I am the dust that settled on the monkey's breath after your wars will you then sear through our dreams as Violet-green clouds of remembrance? only the monkey's breath knows when your blanched sword melds with the colors of a million ants -
sun draws not a single breach of song carries over lucid breath of trunk & color inches forth the grip of vapor, move of word, strum of earth - sun forgets what it shone over carrier of branch & home, humor & moan inching away from caliper & scale, it remembers mostly mirth -
It's a counting problem - ones turning into other ones, the count depending not on the leopard's spots but how they roll off her back teaching clouds how to fold song into rain
The transformation of a dual world into a binary world is the transformation of the world of two and of many inequalities but complete into a world of one and deficiency. If duality is one of the variants of the multiple, binarism is the world of the one, of the grid and universal referent.– Rita Laura Segato
could you tell which rain it was that gave you words: was it the one which knew the ground was as certain as the gash of sky from which it fell, or the one tied to the shadow of an older rain, or the ground itself turned sorrow turned rain?
and if the bird knew how to solve differential equations would she hurry up & build funeraries, motelsarais, warehousings, or would she find ways to link flower with stone, leafred with riverbed & heartsink with lamentories, joylings, trepids?
I as earth singular as plural river indigenous
there is a semblance of a poem at the heart of where it calls out to new voices some of which are known to poems of old the semblance too is known but hides in fear of knowing too much
white as the perspired block, black as tame spiders, red as the withered leaf on mooncall, brown as daybreak tending rivers -
to think the night kind is to believe in song say it is kind, but not so loud in an other song, you can hear it think but not as loud it is kind, this night with lost dream and lost language bereft song, lost to kindness and dream -
night with its many deaths is a song read with the eye of a pen dipped in unfettered ink with a hunger leavened and fit to taste - remnants of what I knew but longed to dislodge from arid haunts & inarticulate wounds -
if the tethering of night to stillness were a given, I could believe in riversand enough to conjure up the absence of sky - if imaginings of the tether were to roam skysand I could believe again in riversong -
the castle, most watered down, shrieks - its bottom spared the moth of beginnings, it hums an ancient bawl the river, riven in its gutted wear, bends - its weave turned in to speak of beginnings, it gnaws an ancient crawl