Eusebeia Philos
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spent the day
away staring through yesterday's window, eyes closed in waking moment of a guilty dream I form a defense to walk away a free man |
tomorrow - a presumption held lightly while we make a mad dash through today Lepus chases Orion in pre-dawn sky over the horizon, I follow in my car on the way to work |
gravestones line up
in endless rows so much time on my hands to order my life neither day nor night between two worlds the descent the rise deciding in the pause |
Through HerI could see through her,
not lightly, into a dimension of beckoning trees and slanted moons, where blues and stars were full to taste. FreedomForward
she swings smiling kicks her legs back in reverse once more she dives then up arcs into a cloud empty seat returns spins wild chains clatter Surgery Sings//They Took My Knee
I did not expect
Van Morrison to greet me in the surgery. Lying flat on my back in the haze of incense, no damn patchouli, I thought I’d have to genuflect on marble in humble homage. Tupelo Honey plays among blue-masked surgeons - they might have been green. A music countdown begins to remove me from the scene, looking at the dancing doctor lip syncing in his disguise, cradling a power saw. Van sings, I depart the seven middle oceans of the deep blue sea. The room where they cut you is cold, preserve the flesh at all decent costs. Cold and proper, a cold steel saw cuts bone from bone, upper and lower legs, separating what was joined in the womb, worn daily in life. Sensible degrees are dropped in a swap of man-made, God-given, a shotgun marriage, titanium and plastic cemented to bone, polished dead metal inserted through a zipper of flesh and staples. I meant to ask if they played Van through every cut, cry of my leg while I slept under general anaesthesia, the dream of nothing. But pain speaks before any more songs can be sung from a mouth in anguish. Wedding Dancing ☊Aches and pains
disappear at the open bar in open fascination of the pulsing, writhing mass of dancing bodies in techno-trap- whadizthizmuzic. A few quick dance lessons from Jack Daniels and the music pulses in matched synapses, gives me that old fashioned primal beat. Salome, you dears, don't ask for my head when you nab me for a dance, you three, barely thirty-something daughter's friends, in your combo of youth and virtuosity. Escorts at both elbows with one leading the way, to their dance floor domain we go, those three and my gray goatee to jump gyrate bump to the rhythmic method of da-da-dancing, definitely not the father-daughter dance. Harvest
Last harvest,
the fields cleared, cut short to the soil and rocks, it's when I first felt your blade in my roots. |
Your WordYour word is only a sound you make,
a physical thing it seems an involuntary response to some distant stimulus chord vibrations that are pleasing some center of your throat in your cat-ness purring for it has no connection to what is here, right now, in front of us, was it even an interaction, your reaction to what I said, cognizant of my sound but not my thoughts? Random follow-ups put you in some distant place, transported or perhaps you were never here Let It Go I walk over the sound of hate,
lives small in the weed thistle, crunching in the melting snow, along with bones breaking in the dry forest tree, sap crystallized under the bark. Won't the ivy climb anyway, hand placed above the other, over and over? I can't look up anymore without losing my place, hearing the moans below me. Duty
Duty grinds
like gravity weighty unseen but for bowed backs and strained faces Flying Leaves
Driving on the familiar road
in the early morning distance between death-like sleep and caffeinated hyper-sight, a form moved across my eyes ahead of me, above the lanes. The sky swirled high with weaving leaves, growing outward and pulling back in like a chest rising and falling in search for air. The spell lingered for a few more deep breaths, then broke in a rush as the leaves spilled out of the sky and became hundreds of joyous sparrows on way to winter's home. A Note Past Due
Send this note,
spinning the clock hands backwards through a wormhole, with no regrets attached, it's paper and ink, crumple it, wad it, pitch it, (if you want) not a weight around his neck, to myself, you were made of the right stuff without knowing it to chase the sky signs blue-stamped in your essential desires, free to choose an alternate impossible assignment rather than the one the oracle predicted for you in the past family narrative that says you do what your daddy did do-wah-diddy-diddy-dum-diddy- do what you dream before you wake up to the mediocrity of being practical. Sampson
By the treachery of Delilah,
her mythic man of outrageous deeds on the fields of war and the beds of pleasure was caught up by enemies of his tribe and relatives of his victims, made bound, cured of his animal instincts, and the eyes that found Delilah right and pleasing were gouged out, lust for lust, blood vengeance for those who had fallen by Samson's angry hands, which now blindly felt in the darkness for the pillars that would give the mighty man a last epic victory, a rally for his tribe, a satisfying death - falling by the violence of his own hands, rubble for his grave. |