There was home.
Clay closed around
There was a time.
When we were burning,
working under the
astronomy of the leaves.
There was a tool
and we planned like kings
some horizon for our blood.
There was house.
A storm made of war
like a word made of hell.
There was a continent.
A march across a broad
month in groups of large
There was a trauma.
Mucous like iron
in the continuous
light of the extinct.
There was a mountain.
An absolute struggle
where almost cosmos.
There was a square.
Where mystery was
a brilliant white arc.
There was a home.
When purpose and space
were known a hundred
There was a home.
When water was the only
line of music under
of the cloud.
the wave is sensuous motion
a cusp of existence inwardly
joy by another name
in perishable lands of laughter
my child, you are born
and fiction begins
blood recedes as pound of music
descending cutting the cello in two
life drips as the dawn flower meant to pray
the cry is yours, crossing the sphere
of music tenderly
as a desire
squirting out shells
and monolithic diagrams
my breath is silver lining
in the outer whorl of moonlight
goddess growing in brain
sloughing the filament of skull
my face in hunt of tobacco
screaming, drawing out
like echoes of painful throbbing
motion for the race for the desperation
for the sharp pendulum
hovering over my neck
my traitor heart where is the end
to all this blood
carrying deadly time
in its rage
run by a strength
gathering in every bouquet of fire
that my lungs take in
in the crushed earth of my heart
with the noisy smoke of the blood
running stronger still
digesting the night as the sweetest charcoal
drunk with fire, hot demise
swimming in the lurid steam of desire
making love under the encroaching moon of suffering
the hand sloughing the disease of touch
the temptation to feel,
the strength that has gathered
spewing boulders as wild bullets of despair
impossible to even begin telling
about the layers and the failed anchors,
is a miracle of the body
an outcome of the rocks and veins
a mistake of the mind;
nothing can be revoked
I must define this face
this race, the naive momentum
my thoughts the piano’s encroachment
the solitaire’s monastery is my wheel
a soft raised convicting finger my stubborn engine
the long march into centuries and legends
a lost Carolingian desperation;
the Great You that almost Latinized me
in my march, my boundary
I travel with leather and spices
and the abridged and insufficient scrolls
that keep names and wars as causes
this drag of history
a story of everything for no one in particular
lines that remember sleepy pope eyes
puddles of blood and new routes to fame;
I must define this outcome
declare it a migrating art
a necessary war
an early appearance or a rapid descent
the ambiguous year of transformations
a division in which hands fall
deep to the middle of the earth
at the center of time
an indiscriminate movement
in nobody’s control.
This is the quest
ink and blood
searching for the sacred language
a series of words
in the openness of Being.