Tuesday, December 31, 2019

20191231.0430

All too often
A discordant note sounded
When I thought I would be the one with baton in hand
Leading from the front
And I would cringe
And my body still tenses at the thought
Of hearing the sound again
An ill-pitched interval ringing out
Played to another purpose
Perhaps
But sounding no better for any reason
And the excuse making more of a muddle
Of a chord that should sound strong and true
But I have laid the baton aside
Stepped down from the low podium I once ascended
In the hope of holding a higher one
Let others deal with the noise now

Monday, December 30, 2019

20191230.0430

High in the back of a cave
Above the churning action that
Pushes air and moves water
There is a rumbling and a rustling
And the way for it to surge forward
Out of the mouth of the cave
Is all too narrow

Sunday, December 29, 2019

20191229.0430

Sunset and sunrise
Moonlight on the covered fields
Fire under them
Starshine lingers in each glance
High noon under a fair sky

Saturday, December 28, 2019

20191228.0430

I perhaps grow soft
In my old age
As my eyebrows begin to bush and
Grow pale above my face as it falls
Into wrinkles
Rising from a snow-stained beard
But if I do
I find I am happier for the cushion
The padding easing the shocks of life
That rattled me when I thought myself
A harder man

What I have not yet broken inside
Might still survive

Friday, December 27, 2019

20191227.0430

I am a grain of sand
Ground away from the small stone that
Ice's swellings have broken away from
The larger rock of which it was part
And which itself was rolled or carted thence
Whence it was quarried
Part of no continent
Save that the actions of wind and wave might cast me upon one
But they can take me away as easily
Even if I seem to have lodged again
In the crotches of oak or cedar or mesquite
Rising from the rolling limestone hills

Thursday, December 26, 2019

20191226.0430

There is always danger in returning again to the work
That I should have long since left behind as done
With me. Every time I find my way back to it once again
Try to sneak in through some gutter or postern
I find myself subsumed in some small task the work demands
But that is not the total of the work. Perhaps that's why
I never did succeed in it, that the one small part
Of what ought to be a much greater whole
Swallows me up until I find myself shat out again
And flushed somewhere far away

Wednesday, December 25, 2019

20191225.0430

Consider this the usual holiday message. For those of you who celebrate such traditions, may you have joy of it! For those who do not, may you be well and happy!
Regular ravings resume tomorrow...

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

20191224.0430

Too long I listened to the changing choir
That waxed and waned as plaintive pitch grew higher
Because I to a tower’s spot aspired
And let that hope persist for far too long.
Now my ears are ringing with the song
That comes discordant, driven by the throng
Of those who claimed, and falsely, that they yearn
To gather up new knowledge, and to learn
How they might from the Stupid God return.
All that they sought was how to make a buck;
For what I had to offer, not a fuck
Gave they, save rarely. I had little luck
In seeking a profession based on chance.
My card is empty; no more thus I dance.

Monday, December 23, 2019

20191223.0430

Butter may do badly to be scraped over too much bread
And there is no way to gather it up again
Not without dragging crumbs along
Unless maybe a gentle heat applied for long
But even that will lose some of the spread
Better simply to eat the slice

Sunday, December 22, 2019

20191222.0430

The flame returns
Sweeping across the charcoal field
Subsuming the still-glinting embers
In its own burgeoning light
And warming all around

Saturday, December 21, 2019

20191221.0430

The sky is burning from below
And char spreads above in the fire's path
Marking where the day has been expended
And turning eyes to where hope still lingers
Even as faint embers begin to show against the deepening black

Friday, December 20, 2019

20191220.0430

Straining to spill ink on the subject
The amanuensis assisting
Work of the word-path winding to that end
The inspiration falters; the ink will not flow
The pen put aside
Sheets shuffled back
Another attempt at another time
Maybe it will do more

Thursday, December 19, 2019

20191219.0430

But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, indeed, but they are fakes
Who think not that the Stupid God forsakes
Ere noon who bow to it with coming dawn.
It uses them, discards them, and moves on
To other victims, willing, yes, and non.
It feasts upon them, takes them for its own,
May lift them up a moment ere they're thrown
Aside--the meat stripped, naked bone
Already cracked and marrow long scraped out.
It is the work of Stupid God that doubt
Of its intentions still persists despite
Repeated actions in plain, open sight.

Wednesday, December 18, 2019

20191218.0430

Recovery is a curious thing
Not so much a covering again
As a baring to sight and light
And the resulting disinfection that strong sunshine offers
The airing out that opening to the wind and sky permits
Blowing away long-collected stinks that gather
Where things have been allowed to fester and turn putrid
It is not a fogging over again
Or the laying on of another shroud
But a removal of them
That a person no longer stumble about
Seeing danger late if at all
Not knowing whither it is they are bound

Tuesday, December 17, 2019

20191217.0430

How often do we hear them sing
Who claim to be Sophia’s devotees or Minerva’s
Or
Because they often think with smaller heads
And think that smaller heads make more wisdom
And that one eye sees better ways to thrust deep in
Of Wednesday’s eponym
That they are engaged in such devotions
And mighty in them
Mastering minutiae of little moment
And making it large in circumscribed lives
Their chorus stacking augmented fourths and minor seconds
Stumbling in half-steps taken all together
Pleasant to the Stupid God’s ears more than to any other
While they hear only themselves and seek to drown by volume
Other voices that might offer resolution

Monday, December 16, 2019

20191216.0430

Encased in ivory walls that stretch up high,
That hide most sight of land, and much of sky,
They think them safe from those who would decry
The efforts of the mind--but they are fools
Who reck not that they make the very tools
That turn against them often, or the fuels
That feed the flames of hate they won’t oppose
For fear of being seen as trampling toes
Or worse--as seems the Stupid God well knows.
Many linger long to enter there;
They know not the danger or don’t care,
Thinking each it will be they the system spares,
When they see hundreds of their fellows fail,
Their papers paving a winding, fading trail.

Sunday, December 15, 2019

20191215.0430

He'll not be apt to see it for a while yet
My brother keeps strange hours
Yet even with that in mind kept
I marshal up my powers
To send a simple message
That I've often sent before:
Have a happy birthday, brother,
And here's to many more!

Saturday, December 14, 2019

20191214.0430

A shadow of the self I sought to be,
I lingered just outside the lambent halls and lounges
Walled in warm ivory. The world seemed distant;
I perceived myself privileged to participate,
A minor mind-worker, in making new knowing.
Bound to the basement of that aging bastion
That falters and fails now, falls into ruin,
Artillery's aiming point, altar-bound offering
To be sent as sacrifice to seekers of gold,
I held on and hoped on that the halls would open,
Free me to fellowship I fervently sought.
I deeded a decade and more to that doing,
Unseen and unheard more often than not
Unless opprobrium found me; not honored, my name,
But regarded badly, a bane and a curse.
My business is ended. The books may still beckon,
And I, happy, heed them, but no longer here
In uprighted ivory that age makes more brittle;
No ghost now, I go off to other glory.

Friday, December 13, 2019

20191213.0430

Gentle swellings new to their fruition
Bending and bowing and baring to a stolen glance
Pristine paleness surrounding a shallow valley
Perhaps a bit more
A sterner swelling stands in rapt attention
Awaiting entry at a gate it hopes is waiting
Never to be admitted
Never even to knock

Thursday, December 12, 2019

20191212.0430

A line of fire tracing down
Marking a path from purification down
Where shanks' mare rides and further on
Punishing too much idleness
No less than too much action
And nothing can smother the flame
Burning though it consumes no fuel
And no air feeds it

Wednesday, December 11, 2019

20191211.0430

Peeling back the layers that surround the curves
Bowing themselves in fitting tightly to them
I weep at what I find there, though I press on,
Longing to put my mouth to what my hands uncover

Tuesday, December 10, 2019

20191210.0430

It is a hydra
Growing heads to replace and succeed
Every one I lop off
And the marrow rises to meet the new need
And though I stroke mightily again and again
The task is never done
And I cannot take the time away to light a fire
To find a brand to sear the stalks
Lest the many mouths and teeth take me
Rip me apart into the bloody chunks
They seek to have consumed
It is all I can do to keep in stasis
But more heads press upon me
More eyes stare at me to find a weakness in my defense
And they will soon uncover such a thing
Unless another
Mightier than I
Can defeat their own foe
And come to my aid
But I know not whom I would call
That could hear me over the din

Monday, December 9, 2019

20191209.0430

Ranting, he claimed
Some other was playing us all
Like a fucking flute
And I have to wonder
Why a flute is seen as easy
Is it because it is so often in the hands of women
And women
Of course
Cannot do the difficult things
Because putting up with men is so easy
Of course
But while it may be the case that
To make a certain shaft sing when blown
Is no hard thing
Or not hard long
It is not an easy thing to wind a flute
To carry it as it must be borne to be played well
With arm upraised and flute held straight
For the hours
And hours
And hours
That even the barest beginning of playing well demands
Note that the instrumentalists
Though they complain of flutists far from seldom
Never tell the jokes of them they do of drummers
And the drum is a better thing we're played like
Being beaten about the head
Or banged, often and loudly

Sunday, December 8, 2019

20191208.0430

Strange tears of joy fall from a single eye
Where one stands alone and looks out from the thatch
Wherein the pouch emerges, as well
Strands clinging to it but not hiding it from view
Any more than the single sentinel who sometimes bows
And sometimes stands to stiff attention
Bidden or otherwise
What lips will kiss such a standing one
Lead it away from sorrow to a happiness that gushes forth
A drilling well
Take those tears away when they come again?

Saturday, December 7, 2019

20191207.0430

Boreas may be ever ready to blow
And you may be desperate indeed to be blown
But you should still be wary:
The North Wind bites.

Friday, December 6, 2019

20191206.0430

Let me be your Notus
Coming up from below
To bring you warmth and moisture
Through what my mouth does
No cold Boreas or callow Zephyr
Nor yet dull Eurus of whom few songs are sung
For though I gladly greet you at the dawn
It is after the sun has set that I would see you gladdest
Caress every bit of you bared to me
Or press against you strongly

Thursday, December 5, 2019

20191205.0430

The door will not open for me
Not more than a crack through which I can
See and
Hear and
Smell enough to intrigue
But I cannot fill my belly from it
Or my heart with aught but sorrow
My knuckles bleed still from
Knocking so long at it;
I will leave off to let them heal while
I go where I am welcomed.

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

20191204.0430 "Putting Out"

Pumping away with one shaft or another gripped firmly in a strong right hand
That has known many such in its time
Spraying traceries that others might take in
And maybe bringing in a bit of cash for it
Or opening wide and taking in what is on offer
Letting it get deep inside before it empties
And slips away, much diminished, from its former stature
Leaking out before it can find its intended use
Leaving panting and sweating and many crumpled sheets behind

Tuesday, December 3, 2019

20191203.0430 "Le Petit Morte d'Arthur"

A boy was bidden, before those gathered 'round,
To pull on the pommel and push it in again,
Slide into the sheath what had stood within it,
Take in teenaged hands a typical thing
A Viminal vagina might find valorous.

Monday, December 2, 2019

20191202.0430

The weather outside is cool
But my eyes stare into the desert winds
And I feel their febrile heat within me
It is usually dry here
But not to the point of being a desert
Yet
And I would be no nomad could I avoid it

Sunday, December 1, 2019

20191201.0430

Come and melt with me
Ice flowing into water
Let me bathe within
Washing my face in the stream
Rising from deep-rooted spring