In the Wilderness of Reality
The truth will commit
to an asylum where
no step can repeat;
a captivity of the truly free
where none can follow or visit.
There are no food parcels there,
no small installments nor
down-payments of liturgy:
salvation never signed a contact.
The grasses rasp the belly of the wind
for they too have sinned
before they binned
the biography of my intimate
indiscretions. I am not one of them
bowing to Buddhas of brass.
Rather am I the snake sunning
on the rocky outcrop
rattling a warning to intruders
while vultures hover.
Fragile Paradise
A million butterflies!
A trillion yellow flowers
lift up a daisy head.
None survives
beyond its given hours.
I dance around the dead.
For we are rare as stardust
and the rain is still tumbling in,
to water the roots of our lust
our sweet pain:
juice of the fruit of our sin.Her shape was a dream,
her tiny hands
a miracle of light.
Can a child redeem
our smitten lands?
Return us to delight?
There is no better world,
no better day,
no melancholy more than this.
The ringlets of God unfurled
as so to say
I give you my eternal kiss.
Incontinent Banking Bonuses
Piss trikles
or comes in tsunami
sized bonuses
as the naked collect
unearned arsenicum.
The grape of champagne
makes a heady brew
after which we are all relieved
to survive to spend
a penny or two.
When the shouting
dies down, the dust
of disintegrating dollars
will be swept away
by the under-paid men
in blue collars.
Impermanence
The virgin of our darkest days
brings forth the child of light.
The Janus door swings lazily,
now grey, now black, now white.
Old Sol is watching, drawing lines
along the edge of fate;
we ask which way the wind inclines
but always ask too late.
Change is the ruler of our hour,
he's laughing in his beard;
the freshest milk will soon be sour,
hope bloomed then disappeared.
A merchant came in dark of night,
he brought our daily bread
and silks and gems and all delight
to celebrate our dead.
The virgin of our bright midday
goes singing in the eve
and in the night goes on her way
and we are left to grieve.
A Fall into History
The dark ages got me
to leave my ledge.
Over the edge I was
pulled by the strongest,
towed into the longest
tide, that runs beneath
ancient walls. I rode the arrow
of my misadventure
and became the guest
of old Merlin
in his cave beneath
the deep. And here
is where I sleep.
For Her A Man
Love be patient if you can.
She enters my labrynth, lasso in hand,
knocking on locked doors
with no key but longing,
seeking the shadow of my minotaur.
Tracks along the sand.
She is learning the foreign tongue
in which speak my exiled sores,
learning it better than I.
In that hemlock land
the indestructible concordance of
a thousand nights of dread and awe,
forgotten but not erased,
can be thumbed through only
by one gowned in wrapt admiration,
self-forgetting.
Only she is such,
seeking the lovable,
the chink in my broken vessel
by which entry is still conceivable
and I, thus penetrated, am still conceivable,
for her, a man.
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