ir a principal |
Ir a lateral
I'm no electrician
But I split wires
Like I'd do hairs -
First I rip off the cover
Then I pinch each wire
With my fingered nails
And pull
Apart
One by one
The fibres that hold them together,
That electric magnetism;
Then I grab each with a pincer
And choke the end
So that the current remaining inside dies;
Then I tear each from the collected mass,
Breaking apart the harmonium.
I repeat.
Finally, I observe the parts
All assembled for me
By my trusty hand.
Then I remember -
I was building a circuit.
I want to bring water from the source in my cupped palms to those who are stranded on the shore, gasping for a mouthful of that all-restoring substance. I don't care if some of it drips out through the thenar gap or the spaces between my fingers, there will still be enough to quench the thirst of those who are dying, impaled in place by the spear of their senseless habits, or those who are still looking for the stream, not knowing that it runs just beside them. I want them to drink so that I can share the solution of life with them and finally wash our problems away like dirt off our skin. I want us to be clean, not dirtied by the dust we make when we fight amongst ourselves on the land. I want the children that line up to take a swim in the stream to all just dive into the flow and be taken away to wherever the current heads. I can imagine swimming elsewhere, encountering drought sooner or later, hitting the dam I would build in front of myself so I would have some obstacle to overcome. I would not perish there while I can still drink and bathe in that which life deems most precious, its miracle panacea. I want to cure the ailments of those who cannot find breath in the oxygen that surrounds their weakened bodies. I want to follow the course where it leads, pulling those marooned ashore into the river where they may drown and become part of it. I want to give the gift that was given me, that I would receive it myself by seeing the seedlings grow into saplings, and the parts become whole.
The light has faded, the peace has burned,
The room is cold and I can't reach out
To grab the hand slipping out of my sight,
Too bright, too far to see into the night,
Too long to bear the pain
Of standing alone in the rain.
While life is pouring out its veins
It's still my beating heart that strains
For love, to come be my savior,
For love stares blind into my fear
Like it wasn't even there, my fate to cripple,
Like somebody quietly knows it's all so simple.
I have half a mind to see responsibility
And the other part to want the seas to part,
It's outside where windows look alive
But spirit drowns and after it I dive
To give it breath, divinity I can revive
With the hope that I somehow will survive.
Keep a comfortable distance
Away from prosperity before
It can make potholes of the
Windows of opportunity
Through which the house
God lives in finds the light
Of day.
Sail to the sun.
Backwards from the apocalypse
Searching the advent for a
Rubber band, to hold the
Letters together when
The speech is read out
In the basement of rapture
Backwards from the new eclipse
Captures the sizzle
The fire
The pew broken
Shattered by the wrist
That shackled membrane
That tepid cork
Burst.
Keep a wine bottle in the cooler for the better days
That have run out
With the children outside.
Settle back in.
The world is wet and the seat is damp
And the wood is growing
Beneath the carpet.
Upstairs there's a man
Singing about his imagination
Soaring into valleys
That break through mountains
Hit pelicans in the eye
And startle prams
Through a hole in the concrete.
Catch this
Cold feet
In the bathtub
Masturbating
A vulture calling out
In ecstasy
Ready to feed upon
Death's leftovers.
There is a written rule, on gossamer,
that movement ceases when I scream
and refuse to listen to the peace, silent,
trying to protrude through the dream.
Where is faith - while I hold myself
by the throat, unwilling to deconstruct
the torture chamber I built, misguided,
seeking to live as I have been instruct.
Care is mistaken for harm, I know this
yet refuse to unchain myself - be not
my anguished self, a lie, but give the past
away, exposed, so it can be forgot.
Is there care where I have buried my soul,
or have I no faith that I am already whole?
The best gift is the present.
Unfinished writing on a half
written page of a half-
filled book of words
that would mean something
if sentences would
complete,
paragraphs would
end,
chapters would
close,
verses would
flow
down
further
down a falling wave,
suspended continuity,
forgotten serenity,
down
further to
a whitewash of text
that doesn't really make any sense
but it keeps gurgled suspense
that extends
outwards
towards
