March 9, 2016

we sat on scavenged milk crates and watched on a faded white brick wall how old human movies made us remember things that ate away the day sky

on a hill overlooking the Hudson River
some call of the June ago...

"don't worry darling it gets hard again..."

we used to wish for lingering moments 
of transparent infinity to hurl us 
into a void or some portal boil 
of marshland low tide collected shellfish 
and bi-valves, ears of corn 
and small stone potatoes sea water, 
spices and some apple cider vinegar 
we had made from last year's 
squishy mushy underfoot found harvest...

the Spring undulate fashion-ing 
of rooster and ring fetish 
worship was underway...
tacit Winter birds could hear 
the rumbling of southern songbirds 
journeying northward on the wind...
they knew seed, sprout and crocus...
all the paper and licked stamped lies 
held inside the blue mailboxes 
I used to shit perched atop of 
on a dare when in high school...

it seems every year around this time 
there are movies with jesus, 
moses and abraham in them...

the serpentine circular motion picture water(s) 
what they say not to look into 
but you think it's divine 
you strive to feel 
find nothing works 
and you begin 
from there to understand surrender 
is only a path to your own self...

this oblique processing will ensure 
a brain is held indefinitely capable 
of being uploaded into the future, 
no matter how carelessly 
you have taken care 
of its corresponding body...

an imam, priest and rabbi play usher 
at the town's house theater, Spring 
is the time for resurrection tales 
and many an army has been raised 
to trumpet and drum the future 
as a singularity of our own personal design...

of course you realize, heaven 
has no mercy for you...while hell 
is sympathetic to your cause...
you have the fear of label...
I have the fear 
of once knowing better...

Frank J. Tipler  went bowling 
in the low slung clouds above 
the Hudson river valley just 
to see the wee men and their woman-kind 
ambling about in boisterous concavity 
and reflection...shoot those pins 
be a-wobbling he thought 
as he drank too fast 
hurrying to catch up to them 
going through the zero 
to one hundred miles 
of separation initiation fees...

the omega point resort 
as a final sanctuary of forever...
was logo-ed onto every surface 
we could stitch into...
everything else was 
spun electric glide amplification 
and retina manipulation hijinks disguised 
as therapeutic end games...

every one had a home 
it was said as we were ushered in 
we only had to come to know 
it was somewhere hidden 
in the crooked fannies 
of these old mountains 
that fed the river...

and the brochures all had mentioned...
some bare footed thick sole place 
where people, mostly stayed 
out of sight and out of their minds 
and most times they sat around fire 
and watched time 
by way of all the rituals 
of the leaves in their lives...

the rhododendrons right now 
are conspiring in spiraling conical blooms, 
leading a pursuit of the higher angled Sun 
this March leaning past April into a May day...
I saw nothing but old bones being ground 
for some paste to slather onto our roots 
and of course the most thirsty ones 
are at the hungry head of the line...



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