The green is full of this hour

The green is full of this hour  of
    need   trust in the thrust of
    giving – at most two mistakes are allowed

The age of the sun is now   of
    need   brown in this burn of
    hurt – after two mistakes the count is lost

The loam of the river sinks   of
    need   claim this calm of
    void – when you lose count you are free

history of song

chance as the beginning of song
  there grew in the forest of the possible a word
  there grew in the forest of the palpable an act
  there grew in the forest of the facile fact

fact as the beginning of wrong
  the forest priested, the grief of word
  guiled, the hum of sunk roots unhummed & by chance
  there grew in the forest of the possible a word –

These wounds do not wish to pray

These wounds do not wish to pray
  their fall is counted in distance
  stars are kindred
but they have yet to burn –

These wounds have no taste of enemy
  their wishdom is lost in distance
  stars are kindred
but they have yet to yearn –

These wounds amount to the green of money
  their worth is allotted to distance
  stars are kindred
but they have yet to earn –

Poet as gift

I give this poem to the lost word – to its bearing and ball – & I give it to last a forever that is more river than eye – I keep this poem as found word – as wet as river – to sing the word into a poem – sink it as a stone would – would it not? to bring the word into a poem – brink of being word or wordstone – to stagger onward with the word as if it was the last one & the first – a poem is lost in the trees – it does not know how to wait to listen to believe in ether – give me one branch of one tree & I will give you a rainforest – give me one wordbranch of one song – speak into the hollow wind – howl it stories of lost trees & lost poems – the wind will whisper it to the other –

the red bird’s plea

چ
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

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

خ
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

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

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

iii.
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 –

iv.
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?

v.
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 –