Ouroboros


-jetsam-flotsam-
a rush of currents,
tides and eddies;
rivers run in and
out of themselves,

through tributary streams,
across the cracked land;
dump themselves without
reservation into oceans,
that are one body of water-
with no beginning and no end;

all that has been said before,
will be said again, and then again;
-this too has already been said-

as each thought,
from the first wet
clutch at new breath,
to the last dull rattle

of air; every aimless meandering
in between, pours out from-
drains back into, slips dizzy
in a superfluous whirlpool
of subtle energy which has
never begun, and will find
no end…
_________________________________________

The Order


I dreamt my father died,
And left me an inheritance of debt:

Brown souls pressed flat,
Wet in a million endless
Ruts, dug deep in a narrow,
Muddy, country road.
Their cries rang out, resounding,
In a peal of thunder,
Shucked rain from gray clouds.

I dreamt my mother died,
And left me an inheritance of debt:

Silent forms, in a dim-lit room,
Shapeless in the fell light.
Revolving intersections of time,
Moving to an awkward measure,
Around a statue of ignominy.
Each hollow voice kept close,
To console, and comfort, during
The cruel cold night.
Each wavering filament of experience,
Moved only to taste annihilation.

I dreamt the world was mine,
An inheritance of debt:

The battery stood, reinforced,
The heavy cavalry was counted,
The virgin sons lined the walls
Of muddy trenches, and prayed.
The general’s austere voice,
Cracked through the megaphone,
And rang the thirsty morning air:

“These mountains are our fathers,
And our Brothers, sleep in the face
Of the hillside, kissing the moist
Earth, with decomposing tongues!
So the leaves of the redwood,
Will fall, to the omnivorous ground,
To nourish the bearer’s root.”

Somewhere, in the distance,
A patient vulture circled,
Blinding cargo in bay-
And the striped pigs,
Adorned the windows
Of the butcher shops,
In the soon to be demolished,
Town square.
________________________________________

Vincent’s Decent
(The Trouble With Entropy)

“As for you, you will rot in the earth
And it is doubtful if even your manure will be rich enough

To keep grass
Over your grave.”
-Ezra Pound

There is an image,
A tangible manifestation of thought;
Silent, and still, yet, so evasive,
I cannot clutch to elucidate,
Like a bone beneath the skin-
The dead bird under glass:
(red pulsing redundancies
brought to an abrupt halt at last).

There is something dead here;
And something else, dying.
Not cold yet, motionless except,
A labored heave, breath
After, painful breath.
This grips the feeble mind
With the cool hands of death and time,
As fingers grope the fevered flesh,
The dying dread to resign.

There is an image, a fear,
So still, and quiet; devours
Everything we wrongly label “mine”.
Consumes to conquer each and every kind;
Resonates a wake of concepts,
Resolve could only fail to define.

Perceive the tear
Of hopeless eyes,
The fear of every form of life;
Death wastes but little time.
There is nothing new in this,
And I wish I didn’t mind.

drub-drub
drub-drub
Carries on the fatalistic drum:

Though I’m weary,
Though I’m worn;
drub-drub
Though I’m late,
Though I’m torn,
Naked and unadorned;
drub-drub
Though I can’t escape,
This inhuman palace,
Molded human monstrosity,
Until the curtain falls,
To close the time I waste;
drub-drub
I’m still persistent,
But learning to patiently wait.

Here is no form, but a shadow,
No shadow, but an in between;
A meager dream, there is no light,
But our own illuminations, pouring through
Every dim lit life, in constant immolation.