February 10, 2016

the acts of our spirit boxes: a repository poem

the acts of our spirit boxes: a repository poem

despite modernity's insistence 
there are archetypal  
eternal and infernal 
collection agencies 
of light and dust 
we are prone 
to worshiping for meaning at...

so with any number 
of material aggregate temples  
divvied up along geo-politcal-religious lines
we understand there are these places 
that wholly fine one's divine 
to know, mostly, we are fortunate rain...

you can stumble upon 
awareness, it is possible
with accidental articulation 
and a tenacious groove...

it is usually the music you bleed out with 
your conscious life here, it is in
waves and pieces 
and born of the seas 
in seeds and grasses 
and with honed luck 
and help from roots
it ambulates, almost in ritual 
and whether we admit it or not 
it tithes with our bones 
and fleshed free will, the here and now 
rule the eyes, the nose lingers behind 
to mine traces of once was
what did or do you remember 
of when and what 
you were before this...

try getting high or low 
or hum sa breathing for a bit 
you may have to sit for awhile 
but you may just spy a nautilus spine 
your soul has been following too...

at this point 
those of you 
in the northern climes, please
turn to the cardinal directions 
for the mockingbirds 
want to find you needing 
a song or two 
between your rests, 
stops and rides...

I lied, I am not impervious to being worn with you...

but if I had said something like that to shield you from empathy or feeling as if you had hurt me in some way by not giving in at that moment, it was probably only because I had a momentary lapse of greedy immorality...drink tea you'll age this body well...marrow will continue to flower as long as you remember to smile and stay eating by way of thirst and opportunity...

sage brush for instance,  
asks how intimate 
do you want me to be 
townsfolk usually say, 
stay long enough to know 
we need the rain 

ghosts of twilight 
gleam in the gloaming 
they're pie lean spirits 
out of boxes, shapes
spackled caked earth take 
in carve and rise 
any day you stop 
to wonder why 
turning away, caught 
in another goodbye 
in long stabs of light 
where there are no surprises 
when trees are mirrors 
of the seasons 
and playwrights 
of every reason
to weave 
our exhales, showing life's
truths as theater 
with nightly reprises...

souls are windows
old tides rattling 
when wind blows 
though, we do know 
to always seek scent 
to see here 
at the divide(s)
without our eyes 
to listen 
to the ways
calendars play 
before principles 
and every extra 
wanting to stay 
take the stage...



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  4. What a nice humming...'you may just spy a nautilus spine
    your soul has been following too...'