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legions of footwords
tracing dis – con-cussion
gra-tin, fre-man, ger-ish (
assembled in marching swerves
a curve does not make a point
(energeia battery guard)
slicing genera of sedimentary texts
to let the in-constituents tumble out
the course – dis-still warps with logic,
its own best enemy
when simmered with the spice of time
What i needed
was to find a bear cave
a place of unidentity
deep, desperately deep
where the womb of earth
could invaginate my weakness.
there to think aloud,
to ride the cloud of thought
to the unconcealment
of being -ing
germane to action
only in potential.
silent salubrious stillness
of secret renegades
walking every other
frame in softsand
brushing white pines
instead of people
Where did the loon find its hollow call?
An echo from the hills, from the caves within.
The heron answers with silent wings,
skimming sands of time-space,
hunting silver salmon rising with the tide to greet the day,
their glinting scales carrying memories of moonbeams.
All awakens in its own time,
All fades in its own death.
The universe is the ultimate recycler,
So when will my words come back, and in what language?
If I could choose, it would be the hallowed call of the loon,
the echo of the hills,
the cerulean reflection of an endless sky.
the hollows of pinecone
arranged in whorls of geometric specificity
lure me to their labyrinthian desire
I am trapped and confused
wandering criss crossed avenues
of no dimension, no answers, no destiny.
Graduated growths culture tomorrow’s life
Can I parse their language of renewal?
Will you share your seeds of wonderment?
Round, round, rolling, tossing cone:
All those secret hiding places catch the wind,
The air-wind that dries your fingertips
To release tomorrow’s news.
I need these roads of no dimension
These bridges from symbol to meaning
Oh, cone, pull me with your fate to fathom
Universal cycles ‘neath the stars.
Oh ye wooden carcass
awaiting strings and tension,
Enjoy your decades of touchless rest
Clothed in dragon and lion ornament
But unvarnished against the dust.
I always meant to make you whole
And learn to play across your chest.
Instead you’ve sheltered behind
the piano’s sounding board,
Absorbing time and tempo
Waiting, waiting to debut
With an old soul,
And we would exchange glances,
to mark the close of our secret.
No complaints. No whines.
Nothing out of tune.
But as full of possibility as full can muster.
As ready for pegs and wires as a soldier sits ready
In the bunker.
Ready to burst with a volley of pent-up song.
I meant to make you whole.
Keep the whispers you have heard warm
Within your breast for me.