April 18, 2017

with entropy, eye smell deep microcosmic parts me ................................. NaPoWriMo2017 #18

art by Qetza ©

solitary practitioner solicitor of general amnesia 
in rural America one hears morning, gently unfurl 
in the cities one must listen to the birds for only they can fly away 
from the types of madness spent on keeping you there

<Mictecacihuatl (pronounced /miktekasiuat͡ɬ/)> 

She tills for bones, a distiller of what imagination says left alone 
She is bent doors, the handles on cages 
She sleeps with rages, has sage 
carrying on(s) about regal-ity and formatting 
with pages of how to be
once a day, the sun ...

we humans rise with imperial regard
we have rent kids, a skid row morality 
and we shine it, plate brass, gold and silver over it 
heaven slid us fivers, divers 
meant for us to keep a lid on it 
but the words knew we grew, in odd reaches 
do you shoe box emotions too, sometimes  
stuffing envelopes with desperate saliva 
and the need to be kissed 
by Death eventually ...

I spy or am spied more than not likely by 
the veiled lady, a tombstone light composed 
the choice, She is Lady Death 
eater of Life, sower of womb infinities 
She is walking the pines tonight with me, She sees by scent 
She's sent by seas, She's eons in the rain 
She hears pleas, with flint, tinder and lives  
She's knives in the stones 
She's leaves, clays and trees 
She weaves tales told truthfully 
where certainty isn't 
She's always there 
where we are wear, 
some place between 
time, soul, change and 
the immutability 
of a poem ...

our spirit has no 
expiration date 
you see, 
going silent, even 
for an instance 
can you not feel 
are you not 
all the way alive 
and can not 
that piece 
of you 
be parsed 
and rooted 
again and again ...

to black 
in the approach 
of dew 
fear not 
when She be 
kissing you ...



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    1. You picked that up, the smudging, duality of wisdom ... :)