Untitled

i.
I must bear the mechanized clarity of emotional vandalism,
to wait in line behind people who have promise.
I am a quip of the slughorn & I consider this land dangerous.
I am responsible; an easy mark,
my spirit willing to fly while they whisper "how dare she".

Now I have a handful of the killer.

ii.
The apprehension of the more educated
- man claims to be equal to the truth -
drives focus on the principles of civilization:
an epic story of how society determined our breaths this season.

A requiem's all wrong, for the gravity is weak.

They are mistakes that in some last moments, you believe.
Even in the caged sheet of flame - I saw them.
And you would fear a thousand times the darkness that pulls in May;
rangy bones toss their dark manes and hurry back into the barn.

iii.
Man is the circumstance that makes a circle of songs
where we can shroud ourselves in this terrible thing.
We must accept our blind death among this stagnation;
must be burned in the heart of the sun to make a most definite spring.
An auspicious start to a repeated frame.

If your deeds are a vice, then so is your sense of perspective.
I put this shadow on the prowl.

LTD

Today I read a banal poem
that reveled in the so called "fact"
that each cell in our corporal form
is replaced every seven years.
And from this truth

the author finds

a sense of comfort in the thought

of one day having body whole
that their former love will never have touched.

Shaking my head, I sighed to myself

and thought -
It’s truly a shame
that neurons remain a cache of non mitotic cells that represent a generally nonrenewable cell source

and that science belittles this attempt at irony.

So I know, that as the days pass

and years build up,
your finger shadows will always touch.

GABA dark words collide around my sulci

and dribble through my ventricles.

A song that methylates my DNA;
a picture that opens a voltage gate;
a cell that fired and wired together
that cannot renew,
that begs to let go.

Franklin.

He worships an anthill, sprawling deep underground,
something about the scientific soundness of man,
the first wonder woman:
wanting and by itself.
She says she doesn't want to be more romantic, won't be the sea.

But there they stood;
ranged along the cliff sides, met to be worthy.
To measure yourself at all, as far and as much as the next person to you,
makes me afraid to see, and by the contrary,
I adore you.

I think that this is sabotage
(we are always responsible for silence).

Sometimes I think we are two crazed animals
fighting the roars of our over-proud parents -
you hear the high pitched chants of little children
blending with the air.
And I will always start for the view from it's origin, the fire.
Don't hurry back into the machine -
I have photographs of other lives than the sun.

And maybe all the fires that fence in the stars
bloom over the wise man - the man made of mud;
it must be a demon's luxury.
Slow down, iron men, alive in the background,
a great laugh rises in your Edward Abbey.
It's ancient and forever, as he runs the body count to the source and nods,
"I'm going to let you have fancy plans."

Steel boats on peaks from far out, his current favorite thing to watch;
this is not really holding out breaths, not really drowning
this trivial world of dreams.
I don't know how to learn his dauntless lamplight,
at pyramids with something so heavy,
a thin green candle that's supposed to make me smile.
Well, yes, we are willing to work very wildly,
like little children,
blending with the darkness 'till it fades.

So, wise man; crazy kitten smile,
your owlish obstinacy staring back.
Study the art of science!
Build a fire that makes the ice sing: a faithless kind of flume!
Learn how to sacrifice for a visible nature,
unaware that this is a game,
and that she still bears the brunt of all this exploration.

Learned on the radio:  limicolae.  From the Latin for  limus meaning mud & colere meaning to dwell

We are all limicoline. 

Charlie is convinced the falling rain is the tail of an elusive squirrel.  He has kept watch for hours over this corner.

"I’m almost never serious, and I’m always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I’m like a collection of paradoxes."

-Ferdinand von Schrubentauffrt   

Tunnels.

The warm honey that you spin.

Like laying in a field from a Cather book
with the light on your back and your nose
buried in the wet, green death of the iron earth.
Tie roots 'round your wrists and convince me of comfort.
The crescendo of cicadas
almost hides your lies.
Does it sound like laughter? 

Tread softly:
you didn't bury it deep enough.

It prickles behind my ear,
runs along my shallow spine:
the ghost thresh of the golden grain;
the soft trail of a frantic ant.
The slow trickle of silent blood.

The warm honey that you spin,

I almost missed the sting.