fury

Ha ha
buckle and scream
this won't be what you wanted
you aren't what you thought you'd be.
There is a guttural noise
a slobber weep with no words
moments all in dark void
despair that defies living.

But
what can it do
to such as us?

We the relentless
who stack minute upon tensile minute
refusing to surrender, to cease.
What will it do to us?
For we shall never stop;
we shall find the light beyond it
marching on into what's Next.
We will kill you, say our demons--
ok--take your shot, do what you must,
with blood in our toothy grins.
Death only makes us eternal.

Shout a curse into the void
let it never forget to fear us.







november 2022

purpose

There was a plan for you
impacting millions: over time, you see;
a series of small impressions
meaningful as a Monet.


You did it all, but cannot know
any of the priceless results:
not in your lifetime.
The canvas is millennia.


So, what now?
What can the brush paint
after its last use? Perhaps
nothing, by definition--


Cans of discarded brushes
set on the old windowsill
framing a summertime cosmos
must please the artist, I suppose.









November 2022

The Unformed Lands

We travel the unformed lands

lending meaning to things unmade

raising stones that will be ruins;

only in our time do they carry weight.

I lift ageless dirt in hands that wither

enrich the empty ground with feeling

and in a moment that means nothing

imagine the value of everything--

the morning walk of a man a world away

the funeral rites of a soul I never met

the strike of tools against unknown Earth

the beating of a stranger's heart in love.

We travel the unformed lands

to create the world by witness.

See the air with the light it does not contain

for darkness is everywhere we are not.

November 2022