history of the abode

there_was_a_time

There was home.

Clay closed around
terrestrial things.

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
silver stars.

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
years ago.

There was a home.

When water was the only
line of music under
the silence

of the cloud.

Contemporary Poetry

Machines

 

 

And to know and see and reassert that we ARE machines, we are machines made out of flesh, proteins, water, enzymes and coded molecules; that we understand the word “machine” but cannot grasp the consequences of this mysterious arrangement:

             Living, breathing, suffering machines…

Cloud of Haze

 

 

If the world has no love
No sweetness nor sorrow
If the days would rain
Like featureless water
Bountiful and boundless
What purpose shall we serve
In this cloud of haze –
In breathing without air
Dreaming without dreams
We find ourselves choiceless
In this flame unlit
With nothing here
                       Nothing indeed