Scribbles

Poem 1: Four Studies on a Rainy Night

Four Studies on a Rainy Night

I. The Gate Opens
How long has He waited with Gemstone eyes,
And Silver fingers cast towards the skies,
A veil of rainwater hair falling over a mask of carven ice,
Which he casts aside with a flicker of sterling white
Incissors made in Bridget’s Forge to consume
Kingdoms, Diadems, and Hearts

His is a child’s face radiant beneath the rain,
The Beloved of the Lover on the other side of the pool,
He hears her call through the shrouded
Fog of passing bodies hurrying in the rain
A flaming ringlet of woven hearts,
Repose in electric lamplight
on a drenched September night,
How long has He waited – Great Sacrifice

--
II. The Lady Danika
White raiment draped over the arm of a carven chair,
Of ebony on which the Golden-Eyed mistress
Of fortune sat, commander of men’s wishes
Her brazen wristlets catching the fire and sending it back,
Into her eyes, the source of the tiny room’s Heat,
And she smiled so wickedly, knowing that she
Was both the healer and the tigress,
The claws and the gentle caress

Knowing that she played a game of ruinous chess,
With men’s evening hours when the mind is stolen,
Into her Realm, or leaves, with unheard footsteps,
To creep into her garden and sit beside her,
Beside the River Kebir, knowing that she is
The mother and the daughter of human thought
--
III. And it was War All Over Again...
The pool beside which the swarthy man sat,
Was a series of circles carven in the rain,
In which he tried to wash his face away,
A colorless trickle ran down his jagged soldier’s nose,
And he was surprised, you see, because he had always thought
That rain had color or light
trapped and refracted within its labyrinthine veins
Like the souls of men trapped in an azure sphere encircled
By an atmosphere of silent clouds and riotous faces,
Across the pool squatted an ape,
It’s latex face all the more angelic for its innocence
Baptized in a spray of wild rain it might have been
A Saint, But for the grime-smeared skull it clenched,
In its spindly hands, toying as it were with the swarthy man
Until the club fell from behind – the ape never saw it coming,
In the carven mirror of the rain
--
IV. The Driad in the Bushes
The drawing room was dimly lit that night,
And the jagged militant rain woman
Wondered where the crowds had gone,
Leaving her bags on the cluttered oak table,
She moved to the window and asked advice
Of the rain in the hopes of ascertaining
Her schedule for the night to clean sweep serve
And ensure that cookies were laid out with tea
To hear the ebb and flow of conversation belched
In a cloud of reekingly polite tea and cookie breath
And then to return to her basement flat,
Drenched in the conversation of the rain
As she hurried home eager to avoid,
The encroaching touch of electric lamplight
Soft eyes stare from the drenched green,
Black jewels carved from the rain

---

Poem 2: Time, Noted from a Distant Star

Received, the manifestation of time,
The tender fruit of boundless possibility,
In a moment’s shell,
Had it been another, the fruit would not
Have taste had it been another
Could this have been anything else but itself?
It would have been another were it not itself

Piano keys forming rings of black and white,
Don’t tell me its ivory and ebony or anything
You see its simply duality and opposition
In tones we can hear we’d rather not hear but there
It can be nothing but itself

So why object at all? Why call this
Black and the other White? They are only
What they were made to be and still –

We are still clinging to trembling hands
Rain on our cheeks and the thunder’s call
Summons us to KNOW and we whisper in rapt voices
“We see it and we understand.”

This sentience this boundless self,
Like ripples on dark water expands
Stirred aroused in the beloved caress of an unseen hand
“We see it and we –”

A walk down the white linoleum corridor
[How white it is!]
Will show what we meant to do and be
Because we never turned down this passage
And walked out beneath the tree

[And they will look at us and say –
How long since we set them free!]

The drip of chlorine saccharine water in the sink
The slosh of piss rain outside,
Come to the fountains and drink,
Come to the –


[And they will look at us and say –
It’s been years that they’ve been free!]

A taste somewhat like salt and vinegar,
Saturates scorches discolors the tongue,
Bread meant for primitves had made us fat,
Feed us with your salt and vinegar

We had finished raking up the dry
Dead cracked necrotic leaves
From the stainless adorable city streets

And then they grew again, for the healing of the nations.

DAMN.

More work for us, lads! You there, get yer shovel, and you, the rake! Hell, we’ve got a another autumn to clean up!
More work for us, lads!

[And they will look at us and say –
Nothing.]

This cathedral marks the place where St. Bernice
Once stood whispered winked at her
Betrayers who dragged the statue away
“Hell, lads, we’re short on clay!”

We had just realized that we had
Too many cathedrals and not enough
Open space for spiritual reflection
Higher thought contemplation when we saw –

“Hurry, lads, we’re short on clay!
Hurry I say!”

The crack widens we pale
We in brown overalls that used
To be white press our backs press our sweat press our palms
To the linoleum wall

“Hurry, I say!
You there, Hurry I –”

“Ain’t nothin we can do, boss! It’s all over.”

“And why in blazes is that? Hurry I say!”

“He’s there, damnit, he’s there in the wall! Can’t you see? He’s there in the wall! He’s there in clay!”

“HURRY I SAY. HURRY I… oh….”

“…Not HIM again.”

This browned visage hewn in a copper plate,
Promises peace serenity calm tranquility
Annihilation oblivion
So we flee

Then thoughts crack like ice
And we begin again,
Received, the manifestation of time

---
The Conquerer

All memory of who I was,
has become like a flower beneath snow,
a shadow stands beside me,
of someone I do not know,
It corners me in my sleep,
With grave eyes confronts me gently,
In the clouds I hear a thundering heart,
how it beats so intently

This other and myself,
stray to lands I have never seen,
like locusts devouring God’s Earth,
taking all within our means,
For who will stand up or against,
when time and circumstance conspire,
to smother border fence,
and raise up from abstraction,
a peoples’ empire

This vision of the past,
is like an ocean beneath ice,
the seashells are singing to me,
this siren’s song of vice,
It feigns to have strength,
as it speaks of peace to be,
I see my reflection in pale eyes,
Its words cannot fool me,
I sacrifice myself to oncoming sleep,
for when I awake the shadow will be gone

If you throw in your two cents,
You’ll get a penny for your thoughts,
Who on Earth will make the profit,
when we all must take the loss?
For reasonable minds can not contend,
when animal instinct makes a trend,
with sleight of hand,
more fickle than fate,
to make a conquerer of gentle trait,
to take away all noble sentiment,
to break down the walls of trust,
The devestation of the senses,
Nursed on the breast of mankind’s lust,
Without claims of virtue to defend
Possessed of neither charity nor love,
Left amongst the brambles for oneself to fend,
Gripping a shadow in the climax of power
To show a human heart beneath animal eyes,
Or beneath rank weeds reveal a flower

Behind the mirror walks the shadow,
Of another man who died last year,
I hold him in love against my breast,
Yet watch his hands with dire fear,
I cling to him as he strays across the moonlit lawn,
For when I awake he will be gone

I seek to bring his presence back,
Yet my mind can not recall.
Whether he was merely a part of me,
Caught in the plaster of a bedroom wall,
Like a breeze in the back of my mind I hear,
Spoken from lips of both malice and cheer,
‘I will always remember you,
Child of my own,
now go conquer the world,
unto places unknown,
Turn not your eyes back,
Nor let your heart be sad,
Think of all you will one day have,
and not what you once had.’
--
Why Does Buddha Glare?

Why do you glare, Buddha?
Is it because the world is cruel?
Is it because of a Capitalist ghoul?
Why do you stare at the status qou wall?
Is it because it is about to fall?
Is it because Humpty Dumpty,
sits on top of it all?
or because your home,
has been zoned for a shopping mall?

“The world may never know.
The world may never care.
And that is why I glare.”

Why do you cry, Buddha?
Is it because you were hit by a truck?
Is it because karma,
has brought you bad luck?
Is it because you were shot by a tank?
or because enlightenment
can’t be withdrawn from a bank?

“Society may never ask,
Society may never try,
and that is why I cry.”

What do you say, Buddha?
When all of this comes to pass?
When all of our ambitions,
are as fragile as glass?

“Raindrops on the windshield,
condense,
conjoin,
and form a lake
When sand becomes a rock,
think of the impact it will make,
Not right,
Not left,
But unified whole,
totality,
water filling a hole,
two arms,
one chest,
individuals learning,
a greater role.”

---
Pockets

I carry my life with me,
I take it along in my pockets,
where the bill collectors can’t reach,
so when I jump that fence,
there’ll be nothing left behind for them,

I put the past in my pockets,
and carry it into the future,
Over that barbed-wire barrier,
dividing my people from society,
I take with me Jesus,
and Buddha,
and the Constitution,
I put them down on the other side,
So the landowner will be afraid

The Bible fits in the ripped pockets,
of the dirty-average people,
not in the satin,
or in the velveteen,
of a clean business suit,
Our pockets weren’t designed,
to hold money,
or shiny gold,
We carry our life with us,
we take it along in our pockets
--

Wolf

What you rear in the shade of trees,
and teach to hunt by night,
will not learn to hold its peace,
for it has only learnt to fight

The anger you sought to instill,
the instincts you found so sublime,
sprouted there beneath his fur,
Black flowers nurtured by passing time

All of the enemies of the pack,
that you created for him to kill,
were only shadows of yourself,
separated from you by denial’s will

Now the fangs break loose,
and cavernous jaws fall down,
upon the flesh that taught him,
Fury’s snarling sound

Has your wolf cub turned to rend you,
with all of the hatred you left in his mind?
the fur that was soft becomes brittle,
when wolf learns to hunt wolfkind
--
Evermore

How often do the stars answer us by name,
That we should expect to pass this way again?
Can yesterday’s sorrows become today’s newborn joy,
Or shall we plead for the bank of time to lend?

That a man may have another chance,
To cleave to the hand he once did scorn,
A repeated fractal of desperate romance,
Or juggled balls of a divine clown’s jest?
To bring the most wretched of company,
Before presence of greatness to be blessed,
Only to find the king’s knees bent to the floor,
As his lips kiss the hands of his sickly foe,
And he calls her by the names of Evermore

She was an October leaf caught in the wind,
A chesspiece upon a board of ivory snow,
Her neck was caressed by an icicle’s touch,
An abyss of wickedness through which mariners dare not row,
She would be turned loose in the bitter rivers of Evermore,
Her eyes so blinded by the mercurial light of her guiding star,
That she did not see the fingers that stroked her tear down her sails and break her oar,
How often will the waves shatter themselves in despair, Against the guillotine edge of the white seashore?
If a wave once started does not turn back,
why seek so many to return to Evermore?
--

Dominion
The sweet excersize of dominion,
that an Eagle on the wind must feel.
the reigns of the stallions of power,
that cause wounded hands to heal
A gentle snap here,
a sharp smile there,
lead while you follow,
the laissez-fair,
from your high leather throne,
from your mighty office chair,
just pick up your golden phone,
and you’d think God would be there,
Your walls are gilded with crosses,
your desk smothered in liturgy,
just like the best of political bosses,
you live in the world of “I” not “we,”
when the banks ran low,
and the oil wells dried,
you said “you know,
be proud you tried.”
so your fancy office fountain,
or water cooler as they say,
just makes the people thirsty,
but who needs water anyway?
--


--
Will you be there?

Scattered men on the field lie bare,
As sunset casts their shadows long,
The taste of smoke rides on the air,
As others perish for our wrong,

A city turns to ash on the horizon,
In mockery of the sun’s glare,
As hands of wind reach forth in gasps,
Looking to comb a deadman’s hair,

When the boots of righteousness level the Earth,
Oh, Restorer of Life, will you be there?

Monoliths of human endeavor,
Claw at the skies to tear,
Little more than caves on stilts,
Built by the clowns of the fair,

Wood hardens to concrete,
Upon a word issued from a chair,
The soil becomes stone beneath our feet,
A clever market replaces a foolish bear,

When the hands of progress build the Earth,
Oh, Restorer of Life, will you be there?

A deal is made with jackals,
To ensure that life is fair,
The past is locked in shackals,
So we can forget the nightmare

Only a smile from a stranger,
Or a swift hug between a pair,
May ressurect that enemy,
Known as Passion most rare

When eyes meet eyes in love on Earth,
Oh, Restorer of Life, you will be there
--

Poem 3: The Pilgrim's Digress 1, "Anon They Speak"
(In which holy desire is awoken in the heart of the Pilgrim, and he sets forth into the hallowed places)

Anon they speak from these stones,
In the voice of the one clothed in white,
these streams of water poured from their lips,
flow back into the Holy Place,

Enter, enter the Tabernacle
Go beyond the veil,
Find your way into Holiness,
Unite yourself to Him There

Softly let your steps go Until they cease to resound,
Breathe in the silence and breatheless go,
Exhale yourself and all you know,
let all that you were cease here at the door,
For Within you will hear only Him and no more
This is what You were made for

---

Poem 4: The Pilgrim's Digress 2, "In Watchful Reverie"
(In which the Pilgrim spends his years)

In these stone walls,
The fire of your words,
Has consumed my breast,
And left my soul panting after you,
Like flames of a candle,
Reaching towards the Sun,

So come now and seal me,
In Watchful Reverie,
Until You come again,
And bind this legacy,
Upon my hands and brow,
And with wisdom's silver blade,
carve your name into my heart

At this place where all roads meet,
Cross my path and call me aside,
Onto the cobblestones that lead
across the Stars and East of the Sun,
and wind like threads around the moon,
Until needlepoint pierces sable fabric,
And draws me out into a truer world,

Oh bright new birth beyond this land,
Where lie the summer fields of bliss,
Beneath herald skies of unabashed passion,
Where Sprouts the seed planted in this time,
And from the soil of toil and labor,
Shall awake anew the flowers of our rectitude,
Reaching ever towards the Sun,
Above those fields forevermore

Oh Elysian fields beneath divine skies,
In your green pastures let me lie,
For your green hills have been prepared,
That after the sweat has dried from my brow,
I should cast off this stained cloak of care,
And at the invitation of Heaven,
l shall rest my head There

---

Poem 5: The Pilgrim's Digress 3, "Awake"
(In which the adversary speaks to the Pilgrim)

Stay Awake,
Stay with Me Tonight,
Grasp a Palmful of City Lights,
In This Temple of Delights

Carnival of Nights,
Stay Awake with Me,
Open-eyed sights,
Refraction of Seraphic Lights,

Broken Light,
Fall into my Arms,
Stay with Me,
I will give you sight

Wingless sparrow,
Return into the Night,
Cling so tight,
To The Seven Starred Height

Flaming Light,
So Full in Your Hands,
Restore my Sight,
To see You Tonight,
In This Temple of Delights

---

Poem 6: The Pilgrim's Digress 4, "This Shadow"
(In which the Pilgrim, weary from the tempter’s venom, avails himself of the grace of God)

Make me real again,
Call to this shadow on the wall,
My hands are tied,
So knock for me,
and Open up the Door,
Draw me out of the millions,
Who bought the same face,
At the local convenience store

Speak soft words again,
To this image of the fall,
Seeing the third dimension,
But unable to answer its call

Incarnate Form of Love Divine,
Cast aside this trembling husk,
Let the shadows blaze with heavenly fire,
And the stars be kindled in dark corners
of the Earth,

Let me burn in their midst!
Reduce my world to ash again,
And let vision fall in scorched torrents

Speak life into the desert of ashes,
and I will rise again from its midst,
Red, Black, and White,
Made precious in Your Sight,
No more the timid shadow,
But haloed revenant,
Bedecked in jewels and triumphant,
Farewell the image of passions wild,
Hail the Phoenix,
Crowned and Conquering Child

---

Poem 7: The Pilgrim's Digress 5, "The Journey"


In the night I walked alone,

Down an Avenue of Dreams,

Into a Sky like fire of Jewels,

Burning in the Desert Sand,

In the darkness I saw light,

Falling like the snows of winter,

Drops of stars replaced the rain,

And the sun cleansed all my paths,


In the church I met I priest,

Seated at the marriage feast,

I asked him for a piece of bread,

He said he’d pray for me instead

If the prayers of saints avail much,

I don’t need the prayers of such


The saints walk along this road,

Looking for their home,

Don’t cry for me veiled sister,

Don’t waste your precious tears,

Your priceless rain,

For this our exile

Don’t pray for us poor sinners,

Now or at that Hour,

But pray for your holy ones,

In their crooked ivory tower

In the city I saw God,

And the world was in His mind,

And His thoughts began to change,

The way the World looked in my eyes,

With my eyes opened to see,

I saw the gods could not see me,

But there above their sacred Shrine,

Stood the God of All Design

And I thought I saw myself,

A shadow cast upon the Wall,

Of immemorial times

---

Poem 8: The Pilgrim's Digress 6, "Corum Deo"
(In which The Pilgrim comes to an End and a Beginning)

Is there yet time to speak of many things,

Of swords, and grails, and fallen kings?



“Look below us,

Through this sea of glass,

Look below us,

As the World crumbles like glass,

Look above us,

As the veil falls at last”



Is there yet time to stay,

In the reveries of this parting day?



For all the world has been removed,

And in its ashes lies its prince,

A tattered ruin of former years,

Over him stooped and grey-cloaked,

Stand the witnesses

The Temple Builders,

The Martyrs,

Whose blood he has shed,

And in whose blood he has drowned

Yet, may I stay awake with him tonight,

As all the world falls away beneath us?



“Who will stay?

Who will stay?

Who will stay upon this desolate stone?”



You are no More.

In blazing strength,

The Light has dispelled all shadows,

And You, a mere image, are no More.

Come, what is left of you,

For You are now Me.

Come, into the Presence of Searing Light,

Come, come, come a thousand times more

For all your years you have been coming,

Speeding like a train towards your destined end



And now you are at the Beginning Again.



Look into my eyes and see your reflection there,

This next eternity is yours,

To reflect and stare



Here beyond all knowledge,

You need only understand,

That I knew your name before the world began



Is this not the place towards which you ran?

Is this not the place where you began?



Who was the pilgrim,

Caught in a spider’s web,

Of thoughts,

And wisdom,

And

Knowledge

Caught like a fly,

In Holy Desire

But dangled by a string,

Above hellfire



Was he real?

Was he me?

Was he you?

Was he,

Eternity?



You who would

Be,

need only understand,

I called your name before the world began.



“The world, the world, a thousand worlds,

Fallen in one day

Yet in the space of a breath,

A world is molded from clay,

Though the light at present the shadow lengthens,

By noon all shades it will dispel,

All pretenses, all

Emotion”



Merrily, Merrily, Life is but a Dream



II.

This still silence has no end,

For it never began,

But the point at which you intersect

This never-ending line can be traced

To that quiet night three years ago,

On the road to Abia Hill

Amongst the huddled masses,

Tight-packed in their coats and nearly drowning in their boots

As they trudged through the sludge,

Hair clinging to their damp brows,

Oh! Those tight-packed throngs proceeding up Abia Hill,

Hoping for they knew-not-what,

Knowing not that they hoped

To melt away on the summit of the Hill



Oh colorless crumple of humanity,

Did you know that you had been called?

Every step up the Hill had been measured and foreseen,

Or you would not have set foot here at all



The burlesque clouds

In buxom motions

Thick as ink enveloped the Earth’s stone-crown,

If not for the dim blue light in their breast,

If not for the Light in the Garden,

You would not have set foot here at all



Great clots of humanity,

Thick gouts of black-coated men,

Heavy breath on the dank forest trail,

Swallowed you like the clouds,



A child’s voice sings:

“Sun, sun, come out sun….”

Dispel these corpulent clouds!

Even as one rising from the East,

You thrust aside those stagnant clouds,

Forcing your way with seething resolve,

To pass beyond the blinding shroud,

Had you not seen the dim blue light,

You might have stayed forever there,

In a watchful but meaningless reverie,

Of asinine upward stares

Had the clouds not been lifted,

You might never have set foot here at all



Do you remember now: early evening in the garden?

There had been a light beyond the tree’s branches,

like the sun shining in a pool of blue water,

but more raw and unabashed in its radiance

Down through the trees the blue light fell upon you,

And you stood upon the Summit and said:

“Neither is this the source of the Light. Neither is this That.”

And you settled down in the summit Garden,

your back to the polished bark of the

Tree

And resigned yourself again this time

To watchless reverie





Then stirred the branches as moved by the wind,

And you felt something living behind you,

Not just the growing stillness of the tree,

But a sentience,

Aware and

Watching you,



A child’s voice whispers:

“This place is Alive.”

This stillness is filled with motion,

This place knows you are here,

Has known you from time immemorial,

And as you lean against the aged tree,

You realize that it has been expecting you

for some time now



A stir of the wind,

And a branch drops before your feet,

A quiver in your bones tells you that it was

Not cast wantonly by nature,



It was thrown with intent,

By a Living Thing,

That has been watching you,



A child’s voice stirs your heart:

“Pick it up and read it,

Pick it up and know it.”



The branch in your hand,

Smooth and polished by Divine artisan,

Contains within itself the Tree,

Though merely a part detached,

Yet does it retain the Whole,

It is at once the Tree,

And a piece of the Tree,

As you are at once ---



The stirring again,

The stirring in your bones,

A life outside of you reaches down from the tree,

To touch the life within you

Alighting in the branches,

A small bluebird of azure light,

Veiled in mist as dry leaves snap beneath its feet,



A child’s voice teaches you,

That what you have sought to ascend to

Has

Itself

Descended

First to the branches of the tree,

And then lower still,

Until it falls within the palms of your hands

Still wrapped in mist and infinitely unapproachable



How you shuddered at that Shekinah glory,

and fell back to the earth,

Into the dust from whence you came,

A single spark your complete undoing,

Even as the Totality called your name



III.



The stars exhale,

We are their breath,

Condensing on the glass of space



The planet turns,

We are its pulse,

One living thing upon its face



The mountain climbs,

We are its strength,

of Living Souls Surrounding us



The river flows,

We are its course,

Back to the sea



Back to the source.



The stars inhale,

We are their breath,

Pulled back to start



Back to the source.



IV.

There are,

Wheels within wheels,

And within the wheels,

Written in an antique hand,

The story of your life,

Put your finger on a moment,

Mark it as the starting point,

And end your journey there



If all things have in this space come to pass,

Wrap your hands around this moment,

Let it

Last

Let it be,

Your Last,

Your First

Start now

From this point

And travel

Towards this point



“Who is this grey pilgrim,

Huddled beneath the reddened rock,

And clutching a handful of dust?”



He is dust.

He is dust.

From dust to dust to dust to

Eternity.



Is he a man,

Or is he Man?

The great totality,

As it lived in its parts.



He is a man.

He is a man.

From one man to another to another to

Eternity.



V.

The Second Time We Met,

Was on that morning three years ago,

When you came up to the Temple,

Blind-folded and beggarly,

Seeking for someone to open your

Eye



They withstood you there at the door,

The withered grey-men who refused

To give place to your hopes

Their colorless faces surrounded you,

Great lumps of formless mud,

In appearance like the faces of men,

But not,

Their clay hands hardened around your ankles,

Holding you back from the Door,

In self-righteous ecstasy their gurgling voices

Bubbled up in your ears:

“We are Made in the Image,

In the Image of Man,

Who was Made in the Image of God

Come amongst us here in the Mud

Dwell in peace in castles of sand,

Come amongst us whence you began.”



Restrained in their thickening arms,

You could not release yourself,

From the lump arms of the clay-men,

You could not open the Door,

Nor remove the blindfold,

Nor enter the Temple



And then the Doors Opened

Of their own royal accord,

And the light which streamed forth,

Hardened the mud and caused it to

Crack



In all splendor came forth,

The representative of that hallowed place,

Ancient of many days,

Yet young as the new day that shone in her eyes,

Neither bearded sage,

Nor aged prophet,

But still a

Small

Child

Her playful eyes risen in ardor

To greet the Sun



Caked and cracking like the mud,

Fell away the scales of your pride,

And there on the steps of the Temple,

You knelt before the Child,

Yourself but a child in the ways of her wisdom

“Teach me!”

You cried

“Teach me to Be

a man

and not mud.”

And Without a word her hands,

Unstained,

Fell upon the crown of your head,

And as she blessed you,

You too became

Unstained,

As she blessed you with words

Both ancient and new:



“The waters may fell the castle,

But they only move the sand,

To where it was before the world began



There are

Mountains

Represented in every grain of sand

And Children Divine,

Represented in every man



Leave behind good and evil,

And come to understand,

We walk together before the world began.”


---

The Question

Scattered chaotic shattered glass mirrors
Windows open to souls, minds, no longer singular
In their intent, watching them drift by bullet time life
Slow motion capture of a thousand faces
No longer one, no longer certain

And you stand beneath the street lamp, empty four am boulevard,
Just waiting for the tinted window to drop, just waiting to stare down the barrel of a gun,
Standing there with your hands wadded up like discarded notes in ripped pockets, just waiting for them to drop
Just waiting for the crack, the sound, that will stir the discarded newspapers at your feet
Do you dare to look the question in the eye?
The question that fixes you with its gaze,
More narrow that the glare she gives you over the last embers of her midnight cigarette,
One more to keep her awake, keep her from falling over the gin-slicked edge of this cheerful conversation,
All laughter and bubbles over a stained wooden table, all smirks and sighs as you fold into each other,
The night belching its wino breath in your face, beneath a flickering lightbulb that hisses and sputters like a deranged old Pythia, confront it in defiance, tell it to fuck off and leave you in darkness so you can finish the deed, last gasp of today turned yesterday as the clock strikes twelve, plunging you headlong into a tomorrow you never anticipated…
Do you dare to look the question in the eye? The lightbulb sways, traces arcs in the air, as you fall headlong on the table, writhing, swearing, sighing, biting, in a love that feels more like venomous hate; bodies torn apart, minds no better; little wire pupil in providence’s flickering eye, snapping shut so it doesn’t have to look at you anymore. You tell it to fuck off, you’re done with it….
Three in the morning, white sand on a sullen shore, the water licking your still ear, cursing you, loving you
The tower winds upwards, each step an hour on a stone clockface
And you hear the brass bells, so distant to drowned ear,
Windows open over a white city,
Where they rang so long ago, in triumphal procession,
White flowers strewn in the street, white horse’s mane in a young child’s hands,
Rang in triumphal procession, as they watched you go…
Through lilies and orchards, and a winding stair, down, down, to the shore below
Rang to send you off,
Do you remember? Do you dare to look it in the eye again?
Ringing to call you back, stirring the chill air like a mother’s sobbing voice,
Calling out to the sea – “My son, my son, to what distant shore have you fled?”
The scraps of light that shatter the frosted windowpanes, The morning breath that stirs the papers at your feet, revolting against night’s secrecy, video camera at forbidden Grove, when everyone’s nude and wild, caught ya, didn’t they? End of a cosmic conspiracy, gin-inspired MK Ultra plot foiled, by some goddamn wingnut who had to bring a flashlight. Ascendance of the fizzled out lightbulb, proving its supremacy against all your designs; and all of nature has forced its hand, tearing the sun of up by damp roots from the soils of fleeing night where you had ditched the fucking thing, ripping it from the ground and flinging it into your hands, like a child prematurely born, as you hug the glacial, unpermissive body of the lanppost, your thoughts remaining and refusing their turn to be uprooted. And cover your face with a ripped hat and reach for another cigarette, unwilling to face down the question – unwilling to look it in the eye.