the red bird’s plea

Long is the terrain of
    forgetting – it can’t be otherwise; if it were so
    rain would stain

Each corpuscle of longing
    & cries of mud would stare infinity cuspless –
    the rain prays & forgets

is it true that magnificence is at heart a red bird?
if so, I can fly with minimal contortion of limb

Is history a mumble,
  Or a tear   is it the

Broom or the hand? I have visitors from history: they are well-trodden, huge in
      Angst but low-fat
      I have townsfolk claiming to be history-ridden, but their angst
      Is fatty & sticks to mud –

inaction of rhyme

Buddha thought
    the action of time is wiser than the vat of knowing
    that saddened him
And that is ok

Lao Tsu thought
    the inaction of rhyme is timelier than what-not
    he was not sad
And that too is ok

I think
    the Lordessess gave us time to sort it out
    but there is little time
And that is not ok

what takes the place of fire now

What takes the place of fire now: it’s
  not heart not snow not the
  color that blots (as snow?) not

art not the feel of thick (as rabbits or
  guns) not some not home not the
  color that blots but blue but

ink & dream & sun & sun & the art
  of belief in the heart of sun
  what takes the place of fire now –

v wordsoots

the preliminary nocturnalities are
  an externalization – its prongs are
  delimited by fancy but they multiply if they so desire –

whichever way the soot rolls, that is
  my way – howsoever it chooses to decipher
  its prongs… that is probably best left misunderstood –

high noon is the elder brother of chance
  otherwise it has very few relatives
  that might be construed as negative, if there is enough blood –

the risen have spoken in loose tongues
  yet there is little evidence of wrong-tonguery
  could it be the loose-tongued torch a treacherous cantankery?

nine lives follow eight follow the exponential
  distribution of pie – there aren’t enough skies
  to fit it all in: infinity is the younger sister of wordmongery –