This ruckus of storied time

This ruckus of storied time, passage of night
Styrofoamed day, meandering hushed blues
Crying noon songs of choked tears staining
The floor red, this ruckus of storied time that
Makes new the revelation, brings forth the
Trepidation, and shouts out the abdication,
This ruckus of storied time, this passage of
Grits stuck somewhere, finding not noon
Solace but evening shade, red with expectant
Markings etched on the face of a sleeping
Priest greeting you once again with open arms.

It is the I

It is the I which goes the distance
In becoming the tiny truth that 
Pretends to see the distance in
Believing the littlest and the stone.

It is the I which toes the grain’s
Burden in revealing night upon 
Night, in giving vapid vent to the 
Inner dark and the outer dark.

It is the I which grows the pining
Upon the bark of rootedness when
Solitude is pretending to root for
The uneven solitudinous retreat.

If it is not enough

If it is not enough, this passage of lugubrious atoms
standing as if there is no wall to silence the screams

If it is not enough, the morphologies of distance and
their formation of stars in the dark recesses of time

If it is not enough, those eschewings of sentences
which are like habits of the mind lulled into numbness

then the gradation of blue can be treated as shades
of violent greys and limpid yellows, then the fulfilment

of time’s unceasing gasps can be held in your fist
and stared at for a long time, as long as it takes.