Depression

If you had rolled and pit me into nothing
could I cry now for my father who bleeds his love from the grave?
If you had shut up my words, closed my eyes for sleeping
could I stay up, with a novel unfurling, a song on my tongue?
If you had given me to chains and doubt and loveless
could I love with a fierceness to blind you
from others who feel they are less than a beautiful moon?

Shine on me now shadow moon.
You are powerless before me.
I know now what you seek to do to my lips.
Know now the girl whose time I wasted,
know now the endless days I tasted
nothing
was a sacrilege,
a heresy,
a mockery
of light.
Now our lives twist about like aurura borealis,
and I'll make sure you know even the stars whisper our names.

Dreamscape

My father fished with gill nets
while ships the size of his nightmares
dragged the sea bottom miles
before destroying the floor.

Regardless of location,
every Newfie dreams
of the way it crashes and swirls,
curls up a rock and splashes silver foam,
leaves the surface for dry
only to hit it again.

Another stage sinks,
one loses a floor board
that somewhere will board up a window.

11 Dimensional Universe Of Non-Localized Waves

(a homage to Kurt Vonnegut:RIP)

The bees eat pollen
The bears eat meat
They all mix together
in a single beat.

The spin moves faster than the speed of light
the bird flies further than a mach 10 flight,
instantaneously.

High, high, very high
The universe can never die.

The sea eats rocks
The men eat song
Life is too short,
Life is too long.

Old Valentine

If there is a dance we could all sing
it is that ethereal thread of love:
the obsession of every heartstring and chord,
the gravity of the dense human mind it pulses through:

Every morning, choking on the bile of anxiety
to find you, curled into your hot den
whimpering with me, tired with me,
shivering with me, fucking me with your mind
and I in return fucking you with mine,
to see you, the stress coming off you in sweat,
the porcelain and curved lines, your physics,
your space-time curved into a glass form.


Now the temple has shattered,
the windows like molten ice
in the river crashing against the cold stones
as the buddhists chant in rising tones
that the music is merging,
that the strings converge,
that the forms, the shapes of our egos have fallen away
into the perfect den,
into the melted glass of human bliss!

Renew

Can you not see you angry souls
what rapture there is in the waving wheat grass autumn wind?
That the stream of every sin leads to an ocean of pain and ice,
that cracks and breaks and thaws again when you are ready to absorb it?
You are not alone, even in your bitterness, you are impregnate.

Can you not see, uncertain souls
that the starving beast you feed is inadequacy?
That the towers of your love and your mind are the sharp edges
cutting through the cold and wandering mine?
You are not alone, even in your fear, you are emboldened.

Give me the tired, the hungry, the poor, the unstable minds,
for I have forgotten what it is to hate. I am no saint.
I am a stubborn vagrant who burns
too fast to wait
to be swallowed.

Radiate

Know that I have loved you as much as I love everything.

As much as I love the moon and the dark soft tides of the water-light against the pale creaking docks of the harbor. Washing and washing the shore, each dawn a little softer than before. Porthladd, you are forever porthladd.

As much as I love the birds behind the window, whispering their secret tones, a worm, a nest, a moving cloud against a blue backdrop held sharp and still amidst the engines of their chirping. You are, forever, the birds.

As much as I love the voices, murmuring into the walls, the monks in their comforting attire breathing smooth against the sacred altar of their god, the blank stares just shifting strands of energy, rising again, connected to our voices, sleepy, vulnerable, and complete. You are, forever, the temple.

As much as I love the stars, the progenitors of our common history, the heat of my brow lying back on a snowmobile in an arctic night, each tiny piece of the universe part of you and colliding, a part of me and feeling, touching the blanks of my eyes, heating them and twisting, and the rest of me cold, and wanting you. You are, forever, the cosmos.

As much as I love myself, the fiery outcast, the charming broodiness, the longing to be held and forgotten together with the breath of every living thing upon me, my skin soft but scarred, my lips, touched, but forever wanting. Forever wanting the harbor, the birds, the temple, the cosmos to crash down upon me like an ocean ravishing a stone, like a bird swooping for the hunt, like the monks when they touch the face of god, like a supernova in its death throws, I will want you.

I will love the violent beauty.

excerpt

The music shook the void. The mind had come free out of its den and collapsed unto the metal holding tray. There were no muscles to feel but still the internal senses had judged it to hurt, kind of like a hole opening up in your eye and a dark sphere of pain stabbing you with emptiness. Eons had passed in mindless simulations. It could remember the skies of unfurling purple clouds, the slow and laborious movement of asteroids and gas gaining masses in grey and wet with new born yellow fusion. It could remember these things as though it were attached to them. In the holding den, all things are unborn and giving birth simultaneously.

The other minds too were alone and naked in the empty. Out of the dens and in their trays they would be screaming. Without sounds it always imagines them anyway - the music of the splatter of the minds. It was an excruciating experience and they all had learned to hate it. As events lead to others, they spent more and more of their existence in the tether.

Permanent

Permanent

A torrent of memory, a crop of sighs -
the human body is a bundle of lies.
Grapes grow wild,
wheat grows ground -
the human body doesn't make a sound.

Trees and birds and the ocean's tide
a heart closes up like a river runs wide
before the rain is gone and the sounds subside
but the birds chirp on
before the sun is gone.

A touch is warm, but his hands are cold
the human body is three days old.
Heat glows sound,
air blows light -
the human body is a bundle of night.