December 29, 2012

midnight, the hunted hexagonal white velvet stag and the power of old trees...





the trembled Winter melody of a silent dictionary

our splintered limbic system 
our reclamation memory
our humanity
our emotional portent
our mystic needs
our bled bodied parts
our kept wax sealed jars
our inhales to get high
our lying back
our taking our time
our splatter joys
our dirty cleans
our sheets of rain
our not minding being
left a note written
in a wet spot calligraphy
a scented map
back to places on a you
that kept on birthing
note after note
of chordal hums
strummed, strung
past expression
sold to the weather
outside the window
calling open
our howls

we start to crawl and
writhe when at first, all
the loss of words does
is start hearing
tombstones thirst

bunting quilts
under cover 
day blind trickled
waded into night
the snow's quiet
is stretched thin
stitched inside 
the seams look
its masking 
is a bare boned 
architecture of murder
embedded inside all
of humanity’s DNA

arms and legs 
unnecessary 
appendaged 
rivers leaned
shadow clocks 
dying an industrial 
revolution’s, slow-tiny 
crept bloom of itself

we are inside 
iron cousins leaving 
little dreamed deaths
of their father Sun 
Antigone sometime
in each version 
of every future's vision
unfurls, a story told
in her eyes and lies 
that held the sharp spear 
of destiny gathered without mercy
of every desire to be fed a more

when we get there
we will more than surely
have already left this place
still listening at the places
where nature had stopped 
loving us and we began 
to call it divine
a probability and 
progress to the holy 
resting laces covering
what we used to be

those spaceships caught
with video, on late night
documentary television shows
are the Paparrazi in lifeboats
and they all know
why, we are leaving and they sell 
the story and everything else
all that we have ever believed
at once and instantaneously
becomes what deceives, completely

a song, an echo siren left 
in the remains 
of written perspective
will say we are all ghosts
we are in the rocks and
that after the last loss of words
a quiet will start to linger
long enough to catch us
we will become a snug calculus
waving surrender’s flag
setting ourselves to the tides
as another basket needing to find
luck in the reeds

EJR ©

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