June 24, 2015

idolatry and viruses...

idolatry and viruses

buried for centuries 
patiently waiting 
in a clay pot 

someone's tome open sources 
pit viper vestiges 
copper plated 
on fine stock paper 
hand bound 
sewn pages 
animal skin 
forged spirit well 
emotional impact 
stretching truth toward 
un je ne sais quoi
dipped in shiny rain...

poem once asked, 
with the gold all gone 
is humanity about to become 
another of God's abandoned mines


you are nostalgia, the poem says
(I am looking at old photos) 

I am sentiment 
I said, looking back 
here we are, surrendering 
to every future almost...

poem says 
we ought be boundless 
a gone toothy awry 
poem is keeping track 
of place and purpose 
I am laboriously
slipping between 
riding and ridden 
hidden inside myself as
an elliptically social sometimes
funny farm-hand piece of work...

has many names 
and charms 
all one has to do 
is think it through 
any I and you 
poem said 
would do...

and since Sumeria 
we can, enslave minds 
with our pens 
and pretend all life 
is a pattern 
and pretend freewill 
is only God 
in shadow disguise...


(poem particle)
(now talking to one's self)

...formless ink, 
the wind says 
is a lot like 
the glass you make 
at night 
when the desert cools too
slow to bleed out
not needing much 
in the way 
of construct...

I like bees, infinities, 
the lead roles 
in bone cage plays 
and of course 
I like being right where 
I am supposed to be, 
hear here inside the poems 

I like being dead 
to most of you 
poem says 
I am home 
I am loam continuous
a re-purposed self
outside insider definition 
defamed debunked 
debauched deforested 
and delirious 

the poem writes, 
"...write me"
speaks, says things like 
"...bite the bullet" 
"...eat the poison", 
"...have fun while having at 
your fertile dark destructive bits"

for the more serious 
of inquiries, you must
go stump pulpit serendipity
Madison-ian manifest destiny 
a clearing overrun 
traversing comfortable 
as sickness transported 
o'er mountains 
seeds and grasses 
fire caught hold of wind
in the low bramble arms 
of thirsty pines 
that know Jesus 
like their cones
was born 
a Summer birth too

so...poem and I say
are You there...
God, are You listening in 
or tuning us out again

with want 
of sky, perhaps
and declaration 
are we keeping time still 
enough to eat into our
character becoming myth...

I leave that question hanging 
twisted wading what wind wanders in, too 

I stick to
our here and now
and on occasion...
I wonder aloud...
does pride know us well enough 
to fall for the light of a divine You as well...?

God, did You know 
poem and I 
are an is 
an island 
a creation 
a sanctuary too...

a flag fly freak domain
something we have 
been claiming 
as divinely written 
no intervention or mention
of whatever bent fun
we could use to escape 
from this promissory world 
with Your subscriptions 
to an infinity 
that needs 
like we do 
all of our tomorrow(s)
wheels, cages, 
barrows and bones 
to keep paying 
the debt 
of the dead...


and faces 
places we made sacred 
and time took back


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