It is time now for retelling

The tale which dips its beak on the flight
Of the mynah bellowing a hearty lament
That caresses the storylines of millennia

Resonating the throated silences of an
Antechamber coolly contemplating exit
And return: it is time now for retelling.

The tale which meanders through and arrives again: it is time now for retelling.

The tale which sips in a marrow beyond
This time, beyond the time which latches
On to the steady revelations only rhythm

Is prepared to show, beyond the time that
Alterations of spacetime attempt to account
For but falter: it is time now for retelling.

logic & care

And when you cry, it will be plain to you (will it
Be plain to you?) that the lament of the sea is its
Longing for the riverbed. The fashion to hold on
To curated falsehoods will not lease the pain, nor
Will empty metaphors climb out of a sink-hole of
Vision; as if that is what metaphor is wont to do,
As Language will want of you: to set off noun against
Noun. That language has passed now; the will of the
River is aghast with the possibility of meeting the sea.

And you choose to care, to build upon the greetings
At bleak of dawn, and to care, to sit at the riverbed
And yearn for rain. To laugh with air mocking meaning,
Making way for verb to sing with verb. To pray with
Fire so that it flickers the stain off frolic’s fabric and
Eats the ghost of the east and stares and stares. Each
Atom of wanton play, a thing of reason, of care. To not
Unchoose reason, to sift, to blur, to mix with soft ghouls
And meet the story at river’s end: flow greeting flow.

Play past half noon

The whiff of talk goes by the name
Of sun.
   Sun devours ghost of yesterday's
Noon.
Noon meant well at half past, then
It was time.
       Time to play,
               Play as rat holes will allow
       You.
       You cannot mind the warp of time
As it sinks, sings, figures out what time
It is.
   Is.

Unknowledge

The mutation of night is scant
Upon the debris of not knowing

The cant of silence is dragged
Upon the relief of not knowing

The ragged flip of unknowing -
Its slip of tongue is showing;

And as the columns of red asks
And pallid tells shudder white

You confess you don't know, as
Lovewords sneak into daylight.

Class

The wizened shank of mottle will
Crease with time: will you ask it to
Dust off reason? And if you do, and
If you do, the staff of metrical cant
Can outdo revision, outflank omission in
Unbrave sips. Totems of rank cast a
Punk shadow over time’s repetition and
its lastness: elasticity of status.

The wizened shank of mottle will
Sleep with time: will you ask it to
Enumerate the fogs? And if you do, and
If you do, the gaff of metrical cant
Can invert submission, outrank division in
Unbrave sips. Totems of rank cast a
Lank shade over rhyme’s precision and
its fastness: ferocity of privilege.

The wizened shank of mottle will
Knead with time: will you ask it to
Aggravate the moors? And if you do, and
If you do, the chaff of metrical cant
Can absolve derision, outman elision in
Unbrave sips. Totems of rank cast a
Pink sheen over mime’s decision and
its ghastness: rapacity of class.

wordslat

the vocation of grab and tell/sell
the invocation of retelling - hell

is bound to form; conjunctions are
to form what religion is to straw-

meatpackings, monograms, mindslaps
rending grammar coherent - a music

dismayed by history, a tunic flays
off a solo adjective seeking crowd

off center, of place, in the verbs
of rut, pall, gill, bulb of nouns.