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

Psalm

I flee from you

but don't remember why.

I look for you in the moon,

city pumping in my veins;

I stretch my eyes across water

in fear and longing and grief.

I am a shadow watching lights dance,

envious and lonely, formless and void,

the spirit of creation hovering above me.

I would withdraw further if I could,

if any hole were deeper than unmaking.

But still I plead, like the Fathers

do not pass me by

or give up the chase.

October 2022

Purgatory

Then we went different ways--
had to, after the battery died.

Empty-minded, I waited for a guy

partially open windows letting in

unnoticed sounds: engines starting,

roving snippets of voices drifting past;

gutter noises. I'd hear a sentence but nothing

after that: I imagined the response.

The people came and went from 

outside dusk into bright shops:

residential old folks; one very fat person;

yellow-eyed kids looking suspicious,

bumming around, off to make trouble, I hoped.

Exaggerating college girls, anxiously vain,

followed-but-not by a college guy

of whom I think they knew: "Is it Daniel?"

recited with exaggerated cynicism, I guess

eager to prove she's not a child anymore.

After dark a receptionist finally left,

paused in the door to gather her things;

only minutes later, another one, locking up.

Seemed late for dentist receptionists.

Saw nobody at the desk for the dojo, for example.

I noticed though, I could see them having class

bouncing in uniforms: jump in unison, Shout! Kick!

Looking back, I saw the balding man in a beige shirt

embarking on his third shuffling journey past

dart a secret look back at that receptionist;

I saw his lurid gaze, and she did too;

very quickly they both turned away.

Onwards, time: eventually the guy will arrive,

restart the battery, and then I will drive home.

Cautiously optimistic, I examine myself: full of

expectations. But maybe not. Maybe

when he comes, I'll drive elsewhere, or maybe

it's busted, and he will shrug and say he has to 

tow me away, or maybe I'll wait and wait and

he will never come, in which case I will sit here

killing time, forever, watching sidewalk dramas

in an endless unknown, all hope slowly

dwindling into this new and dark reality, this

silent grey purgatory before.

Oct 2022