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Posts Tagged ‘Creation’

Birds sing, brooks babble, and trees sway
while the ax chops.
Hunks of tree flesh dance in a slight wind
and stick to the dewy bark
of a thing called man.

Sticky sweet blood runs.

Somewhere a blinking monitor
remembers the key strokes
regarding Marxists capitol
and Foucaultian power.
These heavens bear down on the man.
A sun too bright, a salvation too far removed.

A double helix composed of turned pages.

The forest howls at the loss of a friend,
a child, a mother, a brother, a life extinguished.
Here in the pulsing womb of creation
all falls silent when the slight wind dies.
The clockwork devil, unlike fire and trembling earth,
pauses to adore work and creation
before eloping with the corpse.

Imagine, now the future.

The thing called man and wife adoring
their things called son and daughter,
who like hurricanes blow aimlessly around
the cabin the thing called man built for them.
Unlike fire and trembling earth,
they pause to adore work and creation.
Not unlike bird, or brook, or tree
but for the ax hanging over the fire place.

 

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Camelots and Chameleons

Hiding is
not the same as not wanting to be seen.
When close
to the hunt
the dilated pupil sees over exposed
photographs whizzing
with unnatural movement.
Long fingers of paint
run like spirits
around the crying cusp
of a wine glass.
Changing colors, far from cowardice,
is the Italics of nature.
An accent, not removal, from the space.
Your eyes treat me like invisibility
rather than transparency
as they read the surrounding throng
of pulsing flesh of the city.
But do not confuse that for absence –
No.
Confuse me for stained glass
so that you will never know
that everything you know
is me colored.

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Outlasting Life

Make-up was her second face
for years. She lightly applied
blush for rosy cheeks. Perhaps
embarrassment or coyness.
A spent life being overturned
scrounging for seconds like change.
Another foundation, another skin tone
supplement to confer humanity.
His dead body survives for another night’s
celebration because of her art.
She kisses his cold lips and counts the remaining
seconds until work is over.

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He adds
layer upon layer
binding white paste
stretched over newspaper
headlines on health care blurring
with education reform on her stomach
on her face, that timeless and endless ocean.

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Why I Laughed

Inside her
I see endless
space
frightening enough
to make me
laugh. A miracle
on fire.
And in her face
is a path,
an abyss between
lips that
cross my wires
stopping me
from delivering messages.
Thin red lace
hugging her hips
and the quivering
confessions of
my agoraphobic
finger tips
as if playing
a guitar for the first
time. Variations
in the key of woman.
A flame in a vacuum
everything is inside,
drawn to her
like creation’s bang
rewinding
around the ball
of nothing
that consumes
a new born reality.

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She keeps from going to pieces
by visiting the world
and seeing the stars
from the top of my car
above moon roofs but
below the reflecting surface
of lakes
and when she goes
she takes me with her.

We see where we are going
in the puzzle in the sky
and written in cracks of trees –
the wrinkles on an old man
with pieces squeaking
when they grind against themselves
while tending his garden
but through a thin smile
he remembers the war
that shattered our world.

No, she won’t go to pieces
even though she is made
of them. Not this girl of
wire and cogs,
string coiled around
a computer chip
and memory.

She visits the world,
he visits the world,
and when they do they bring me
to watch it fall apart
into new wholes
with new homes
and new names.
He pats her on the back
as if to pass her
the inherited mess
he wouldn’t let fall to pieces,
the mess he and his wife
tended,
that they let fall to pieces,
to hold each other.

So when I go, I’ll bring her.

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Mosh Pit

Man is an impressionist movement
with clear signs
of their creator
on the tracks of there skin
every scar, stretch, and stroke
from hate and love
of self, of others;
from them.

Some for a reason
others by accident,
an untrained creator
a late night
falling asleep with
a cigarette in your mouth.
At a distance they look
right, but they’re blurry
when you are close enough
to touch. And the artist’s
eye is busy asking:
does that make it
less real
or more?

In a mass of other clearly
marked people
every man disappears,
concealed
in a sea of similar
strokes, giant fingers
gropping and shaking
the whole.
Some call it barbaric
or even pagan
but from such distances I wouldn’t
see any of them,
if I didn’t see all of them.

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We stand, I sigh
we knowers on the edge
the pupil-less eyes
of the over class
peering through our share
of knowledge.

To remember our history
is to watch it happen again
powerless to the sky
brilliant blue abyss
and to tell it we don’t care
we kiss, I sigh.

I sigh, we stand
our digital palms
extend over the land,
the throng of fir trees
we pretend are people
wave like the creator’s seas.

We lay down, I reply
we kissers, our feet over the edge
not knowing why from why not
our parapet forms the wedge
between heaven and earth
shoe laces dancing with the wind.

To imagine the future is to bind our potential
so just let it happen.
Let us be powerless to landscape
the ground we once lived on.
But now look into our eyes
that is were we are found.

I fall, we fly
we flyers above sea, land, air
knowing passes under us
and to show it we don’t care
we kiss, we knowers
in the unknown world.

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Watching Woman

She made short pauses in speech,
of the short this was the shortest
because she was in great haste to stop.

Her eyes widened to catch words from the air
felt fragmentations were in reach –
that is what called her to stop, and wait.

Shrapnel remaining from some big bang
tiny seconds ticked and removed from clocks
separation around her, and therein a history.

This moment, still defined as an instant
had refocused those sky light eyes
into beacons at sea, or trees in a garden.

More like trees in a garden actually,
tall twins reaching above the rest and whose
fruit would fall like blessings and curses on the land.

While one eye saw life and goodness all around
the other cupped its tender wisdom and through it
saw the naked truth – barren reality devoid of fragmented seconds.

The shortest silence was a complicated one.
Perhaps why she filled it so fast, with last second pleasantries.
But she and I both knew of time’s brief embrace with her.

Clarity aggressively inserted itself into her perceptions
revealing the destructive nature of creation – the circle
around her pupil – the circle around her eye.

But such circles were horrifying, and assaulted her sense of romance
it was the dance of endless endings. Her shoulders dipped from the weight
– her eyes squinted against the harsh light of beacons too bright.

Her hands tensed and gathered the white fabric of her clothes.
The climax of the instant was at hand and within the folds of delicate silk
a tremendous strain – a tempering – a steel heart.

She blinked and straightened her clothes thinking I hadn’t noticed a thing.
She pushed away a strand of hair from those glorious but tortured eyes.
“You looked lost for a second.” I said.
“I was just thinking of you.” She replied.

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Black and white cons. Tattered jeans. The t-shirt with a band’s name. A hoodie. A cloudless yet thundering sky above. A soulless yet sacred pavement below. Amidst an elegantly constructed rubble there is an art. Sharp angular buildings carve a new sky – one determined by arithmetical precision of point A to point B – a skyline where once there was an arc and a horizon. Eyes catch a self walking beside them in the mirrored side of a headless building.

The shifting doppelganger pulls his hoodie ever over his face. It hides a pumping pocket music box the artificial heart tucked neatly into secret space. Its droning muse redefines things around by altering moods and emotions. It at least distracts one’s self from grunting street folk, yelling children, angry men, and domestic assault. Hurried people bump the ghost in street clothes as they splash by in lingering puddles – the aftermath of a deluge worthy of Noah’s arc.

Pascal outlined how distraction only served to make us forget about death. The music pumped on. Death is not nearly as scary as purposeless living some would say. To fear death would be to fear what you do not know otherwise called a phobia. So distractions might as it turns offer salvation from the natural elements that otherwise bind us in a prison of flesh. Life, after all its pretensions are stripped, would be an error without music.

A hand reached out to grab a hold of its corresponding doppelganger only to find smooth glass. Its firm skin coldly resisted touch. How sound could easily cut the infinitely regress into fragments. Destruction, it turns out, is linked to creativity. Destruction’s angel of justice, Entropy, only exists as an accident of presupposed organization. An organization that means nothing without an organizer. The difference between life and death, science teaches, is a few misplaced neurons, a couple of atoms, and timing. What brought life to that unrelated mess of parts is still unknown – but it wasn’t music.

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