I have this sense of deep
winter embedded
in doubt engendering a hollow
spring this is
the knife of knowing, the easy
east struggling
the molars of autumn trying
to figure out
whether it is language or hearsay.
the rapid ghazal slows down
as humid voices
raze the nozzle of humility
piques the word
of wonder nuzzles we slough
off the ghazal
and it beats we slow down
as humid voices
I took the wine cup and it spoke to
me of the treachery
of its grape the nuance that held
it tight against
each drop of severance it was then
the sun blew away &
I remembered each bite of livid
separations joining
The law is naught but Ought
Where is reason
Able and when? which sound will
Love make as it descends upon
The breaking of all law, the
Sense of non/ the
Frolick of crush and meaning &
Tendency, pain, thresholds..
The crow, which now dominates the totem of the Haida nation, was the grandson of that great divine chief who made the world.
When the crow wept asking for the moon, which hung from the wall of tree trunks, his grandfather gave it to him. The crow threw it into the sky through the chimney opening and started crying again, wishing for the stars. When he got them he spread them around the moon.
Then he wept and hopped about and screamed until his grandfather gave him the carved wooden box in which he kept daylight. The great divine chief forbade him to take the box out of the house. He had decided that the world should live in the dark.
The crow played with the box, pretending to be satisfied, but out of the corner of his eye he watched the guards who were watching him.
When they weren’t looking, he fled with the box in his claw. The point of the claw split passing through the chimney, and his feathers were burned and stayed black from then on.
The crow arrived at some islands off the northern coast. He heard human voices and asked for food. They wouldn’t give him any. He threatened to break the wooden box.
“I’ve got daylight in here,” he warned, “and if it escapes, the sky will never put out its light. No one will be able to sleep, nor to keep secrets, and everybody will know who is people, who is bird, and who is beast of the forest.”
They laughed. The crow broke open the box, and light burst forth in the universe. – From Eduardo Galeano’s, “The Memory of Fire: Genesis”.
I’ve got daylight in here, cawed
the harbinger
I’ve got the measure of all things
stray, pray
Tell me what should I do? But there
is law that
Inhibits the stroke of the sun, the
measured qubits
Plying, playing with truth – ooof!
i’ve got day
Light in the shades of a distant
hades, you’ve
Got to speak with a bent garble to
make any sense
These dark, dark days – I’ve got
daylightinhere.
The way that can be spoken of
Is not the constant way;
The name that can be named
Is not the constant name.
Tao Te Ching
The seed of knowns and pretexts have at my side nothing but a compensatory bulb these are non-expositions gaining ground as it seeks further ground as it pronounces the tenor and say of what precedes this pretext is known it is seeded alongwith supposition the compensation has life only when it tremors bulb-like these are non-expositions seeded in known ground unknown in all ways except in what is granted supposition
This movement slows your inward
slope it
has the river’s back it has the
kind face of
molten deed this movement will
wish you a
smile upon its hearse we can
not say we
will not begin to sing unless
the movement
flips out its mirror song and
all chant us
terminal seedling
An ugliness settles down well
with the
grass of
lonely abominations: terminal
seedling, dormant,
effaced
a further sentinel
on the steady possibility of
this mirror being
a pawn in the dream of things
this mask being
a sentinel for the furthest
harp of hope &
this now being yet another how
of tremblings
coagulated enough
when the brew has
coagulated
enough
times to strangle
hard, enough
times to
know what it does
know what worries
this willdofornow
the starched sky
I could starch the sky white
But would it respond
With its claws immersed in
A shy disappearance?
I could disappear the noon’s
White into a worthwhile
Void, but would it rest upon
My shadow till
The ink dries?
fortune as remnant
to breathe with the fury of:
i) an ancient stalk, ii) the
last remnant of void in
relation to time,
iii) space as it unwinds
relative to mind, iv) luck,
as it depends on v) mere
fortune, the remnant of
void in relation to
vi) more luck, chanced
i
in movement, the song prepares
to break its
peace with the architects of un
peace in movement
the ink will never run out of
bleed in movement
we you I are personal pre-nouns
attached to the
still core at the heart of re-move
ii
In dream we subtle,
supple dare – and as the ink
of each morning graves a tender
Slide, moves, lives, meanders;
as the will of my eye slices
off each whiff of dream, we
Care subtle, supple & we dare –
in dream we meet again, again
as the whiles of yesterday end
iii
as the harshness of word
formations create a ripple
of touch – as the mounds of
hate course through actual
pillars that are the past –
as we coax the sweaty now
to unveil, to be, to sing
along with the yet to be
