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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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