Archive | May 2012


Oh, my crooked girlfriend,
It is time for radical thinking.
You dance on hallowed ground,
And every bit —
Bone and blood
Root, wire and wing —
Is demanding now
A bent knee.

It is yours to ask.
Yours to take.
The coveted illusion —
Individuation —
Always was the sin.
But the beast
Does not know better
In these distorted
And distended places.

Still, leading
And following —
There is an instinctual dance,
And wisdom in it
If you would just listen.
And there is nothing,
To find or reveal.
No tools.
No method.
No path.

She is always filling this cup.
The feast —
Such myriad pleasures —
Is always on the table.



There again,
It makes us mindful —
Like daily bread,
Teeth bared
Against the bright-eyed
Mechanical beast
They could not flee
Or frighten away.

Fight and flight —
In the face
Of such weight and speed.
We believe our minds broader,
But we are delusional,
And these —
These wounds
Are self-inflicted.

Quick glance
Into unseeing eyes,
Like a mirror reflection.
And no matter how
I snarl or howl
In protest —
It always overtakes me, too.

So weep for us —
Because what chance do we have
When the carrion eaters
Are already circling,
Anticipating the feast?

Muse, Refused

For just a moment
I could imagine it–
Something there
That wasn’t.

Now I hum along,
And don’t want to hear
These words collected for me.

Haphazard they slide
Across the divide,
She wants me to listen.
But I am not listening.

And in this refusal,
Alone or joined–
And phrases uttered–

Fall from heights
Of hymn or hidden message
To become mere penstrokes
And rain whispered against new leaves.

Her missives are the medicine
Scratched from the bone-dry riverbed.
My rusty bones
Need those healing hands.

But not ready to deconstruct
The angry dream-village,
I let the river take them elsewhere.
And I cannot hear her now.