Beyond my consciousness,
in stark relief
A place beyond reason,
all spirits unleash
Beyond my awareness,
I inherit the wind
Each breath I blow inward,
new endings begin
Religion, a concept,
that God can’t abide
Dogma a pretense,
where idolaters hide
In my dreams there’s a voice,
that comes unannounced
Its structure on fire,
new words unpronounced
Time but a weapon,
to use on the weak
Its measuring stick,
to never complete
One question—one answer,
for all that transpires
In primacy wrapped,
no logic hard wired
The years I’d spent looking,
those moments I’d waste
When deep from inside,
with subliminal grace
The great Crazy Horse calls,
chanting words once unknown
“Your vision has freed you,
—its voice now your own”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
Recourse
The old man bends his
knees-
to the graveyard of
speech.
His barren stretched arms
raise up.
Orates the last
of his unpronounced
plea,
for a piece of sky,
for a grip of dust.
Unresolved.
Like that of a master
and his beast
unwilling
to pull the bondage
of labour and grin.
The latter's breath
of unspelled words
reveals a stealth
of cracked soil,
a labyrinth of deep
and shallow wounds-
of the earth. Touch-
me-not grows
and blooms and suckles
from these breasts of hardened
inaudible numbness.
The quiet morning dew,
splinters over the barrow
a thousand bits, a handful of stain.
Gone is the deafening
first flight
of light, salvages, salvages-
a gentle sigh, the slightest
of touch,
from an old and cunning
man, to the silhoutte of
scorched earth; an impasse
between the obvious
and the pale.
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