Sunday #10

 The Missing Minutes


I first felt the world shudder
walking through the doors
that exited to the playground
at my elementary school.

Had I been a believer, I would have
seen the face of God in that sudden,
quivering brightness that slipped
through my eyes and churned the blood
beneath my face.  But it was only light.

Awakening on the asphalt, I saw the green
spring day returning as my blood slowed
its hurried pace, returned to my veins,
and swam calmly away from my eyes.

The pulsing in my ears slowed, faded,
and the sounds of the playground clicked
into place--
    the tense pang of the kickball
    flying towards the only tree
    protruding from the asphalt,

    the thuds of children launching
    from the high flying swings
    into the sun baked sand,

    the yelling on the distant soccer
    field rising over the net-less
    goals as the teams disputed a call,

    the whistles of monitors catching
    adventurous youth exploring, too soon,
    their bodies near the chain fence.

There I was alone to contemplate
my mystery
upon the asphalt in the shade.

Sunday #9

Noise


Modern feet in synthetic soles still march
lockstep to ancient beats born millennia ago
when human hands first fit animal skin over
    wood and bone.

Dead god rituals resonating through time,
stored still in heartbeats, hooves upon
the ground, and recreated through clicking
    steam and metal.

But static was the first son, and chaos,
his first breath--
    The arrhythmic pulse
    that lives beyond the scope of
    man's crafted dance,
    beyond the grip of entropy
    that promises an end
    to all active sound.

He insinuates himself in radio waves
spread across the scope of galaxies
and transmits cryptic messages to his
    prophets of noise.

Their sorrowful, hunched shoulders
hide faces twisted in ecstasy,
perverting the methods of lesser melody,
    chords and meter.

For an instant, ears glimpse the end of time,
when noise bubbles through silent
space and static is the last son.
    Noise and nothingness.

Sunday #8

the small rain down can


The molecule expands once
gripped by frozen fingers--

small cracks spread, erupt,
erode the human works

and dust returns to dust,
skyscrapers rest within

the earth from which they
rose.


The molecule nourishes through
flowing green veins,

until the sturdy cells
grow turgid and burst,

the complex life cracked
and unmade by its own blood

and rots at last to grow another
rose.


The molecule swims a billion
abreast and rocks,

sways with its brethren
at the behest of shuddering earth,

leaps boundaries and rushes
through streets and homes,

leaves only memories of when the sea
rose.

Sunday #7

Lamprocapnos spectabilis

The slender green vine sprouting

tiny hearts, arranged like sweet

spring notes upon a wild score--

The vernal rain with misty fingers

plays the cascading pink and white

chords

      with all the grace of a devoted

      amateur, giving life with clumsy

      passion to a beloved composition.

But the mist must cede to hotter days,

and bleeding hearts shall wither,

fade from pink to brown and drip

From their roost. Summer has no time

for such sentimental songs--

      But those melodies remain

      entwined in giddy memories,

      and misty fingers shall find

Their way to those slender vines,

the prodigal spring shall pluck again

at the delicate bleeding hearts.

Edits

Edits for the last two, hopefully they're better now--



soon


tiny droplets, water falling from
the unseen black roof of the sky,
the small words of prophets.  hermits
in the desert, peeking out
from their arid caves, with prayers for rain.
promises manifest before the storm,
until gates, now open, spill
out radiance

that illuminates the hazy, never-dark
city night--
    lightning shrill, silent
    laughter and jagged,
    vertical smiles
on the shoulders
of echoing thunder rumbling
the repeated mantra
    held holy by those
    lost night saints
    clutching metal in the plains--
ears planted firm for electricity,
but thunder only whispers,
"Soon."




tree of smoke



the fire is burning on the horizon,
hidden beneath the green sea
of new-bloom tree tops,

a silent giant exhaling black
soot, spiraling through the air
and growing, a black ash.

suffocating boughs bring
fitful daytime sleep, smokey
dreams through the shade--

I smashed every television
with a dislodged sink basin,
the crude club, unwieldy,

heavy, a porcelain burden--
each screen, unfazed,
flickered on,

my work, ineffectual,
until, breaking through
sheets of steady glass,

I tore out transistors,
dismantled each cathode
ray tube until palms

bloomed red and veins
opened like spring storm
clouds, quenching the fire,

the rain of dreamscapes
choking out the flowering
tree of smoke.