the vial of all beginnings

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..”