through the ashen dissolution
wander, wander, spin and toil
in the shadow of Celestia’s
we wonder at the craft
of shade’s eternal touch
molding of the breathless
ageless and the fallen
twilight needling the roots
into the next night’s cycle.
Twilight hush amidst the room;
a voice, rising through the shadow throng
commits the universe to notes
and I, swooning through the grace of logic, rise
drifted on the captivated stars
onto the mystic sea, glittering in
transcendental mysticism fires
that will not be bound by flesh:
a word, they say, a notion
but in that heaving sky
the rush of majesty;
souls which lie
Vaunted tunnels lie within our night
the vaulted havens of our mortal sight
through and through
tried and true
fast tracks into
the biblical transcendence.
By flood or fire,
we drown beside the pyre
some half-hearted (but well-meaning) suit struck
with the force of a 49er’s luck–
mining, mining, always grinding
for that sweet and supple pining
that we had to carve up words to make it burn–
a terrifying notion for all to learn
you drive too fast, you dig too deep;
little Timmy’s gonna find a well he just can’t leap.
Of all the things that earth yet whelps
a spirit stands by wonder of the mass
humanity cycles through the grass;
it springs by blazing lights
onto pavement struck by nights
running roughshod over skin and sin
a dancing has-been formed of thought’s chagrin.
Beneath the wan light, a man does dream of neon exits
too dull to see the dancer’s fed him by the bit,
because oblivion is just another state of mind
a symptom of the daily grind.
Across the bar, blue eyes murmur: the bitter helps.
“A man does not die of love or his liver or even of old age; he dies of being a man.”
“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.”
Lately I am stricken
as the plots to dear and mortal earth do thicken—
kneel, kneel lest it all too readily quicken—
for like the desert winds of old Sahara,
it burns to know the subtle motions Terra
should pass me by to other eras.
Rage, rage the old man writes
yet dead is light at the sour sight
of youth so bitter cast, paralyzed by fright;
where is devotion to seek out age
where privilege become but flesh and cage,
and still the younger cry: engage, engage.
born of flesh
borne by earth
choked divinity caught at the thresh
lay numb beside the kindled hearth—
fall down, fall down,
let vaulted rain yet drown—
the wriggling flames
of dancing dreams
cannot survive the niggling games
blacktop shadows wove within the seams—
lie down, lie down,
buried by the wetted crown.
The old man glimpses ore
in earthen womb, the stricken glint
illuminates thought of youth’s gold score
which held him up as on a splint
until time bore that nothing more
than dreams existed in the dint
of nothing, wielded like a whore.