The tree of life
Is in my backyard.
An ancient beech tree;
Silver smooth trunk,
And jagged emerald leaves,
Lit up at dusk
With fireflies in its boughs.
Buddha, with a banjo,
Perhaps,
Reclined beneath it,
Enlightened by the
Buzzing cicadas.
Adam and Eve
Ate of its thorny nuts,
And made themselves
Overalls.
Jesus drew a crowd
Of squirrels and deer,
And taught in its shade.
Woden hung himself
Upon it,
Sweating in the
Humid haze.
The faithful rest on its
Knarled roots,
Sipping on corn whiskey
And praising God's grace.
Indeed:
Humble though
My Yggdrasil,
My Sidrat al-Muntaha,
My Bodhi tree,
My Etz Chaim,
The tree of life
Is in my backyard.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
On and On
on and on.
the birds fly past us
never stopping to ponder
the two greying bodies
standing knee deep
in the lake
fishing poles reticent
half eaten apples on the
docks
on and on.
the clouds roll by
but still not a word spoken
only a few more silver streaks
reflected back to us
on the water
on and on.
why do they go past?
why
on and on
without a word?
if they stopped,
what would they say?
speak, mortals:
for silver spent and grey spun
in silence
is wading
knee deep
into death?
or would they say
peace, mortals:
and be still,
for life is
on and on.
the birds fly past us
never stopping to ponder
the two greying bodies
standing knee deep
in the lake
fishing poles reticent
half eaten apples on the
docks
on and on.
the clouds roll by
but still not a word spoken
only a few more silver streaks
reflected back to us
on the water
on and on.
why do they go past?
why
on and on
without a word?
if they stopped,
what would they say?
speak, mortals:
for silver spent and grey spun
in silence
is wading
knee deep
into death?
or would they say
peace, mortals:
and be still,
for life is
on and on.
Pain
pain is red
hot burning
pulsing throbbing
flashing wave
stabbing tempest
veins exploding
nightmare orgasm
of wounded red
pain is grey
cold stiff
chalky gravel crunches
dry aching dust
brittle tired
nagging the worn out
pallid corners
of scarred grey
hot burning
pulsing throbbing
flashing wave
stabbing tempest
veins exploding
nightmare orgasm
of wounded red
pain is grey
cold stiff
chalky gravel crunches
dry aching dust
brittle tired
nagging the worn out
pallid corners
of scarred grey
Drug Therapy
There are not enough drugs in the world
to make me forget you.
They may make my blood buzz,
and my bones splinter;
They may drown my brain
into soggy muck,
and churn my guts
through a noodle maker.
But all the drugs in the world
cannot make me forget you.
You are in me.
Even in the
buzzingsplinteringdrowningchurning
mess,
you refuse to be flushed out.
to make me forget you.
They may make my blood buzz,
and my bones splinter;
They may drown my brain
into soggy muck,
and churn my guts
through a noodle maker.
But all the drugs in the world
cannot make me forget you.
You are in me.
Even in the
buzzingsplinteringdrowningchurning
mess,
you refuse to be flushed out.
Bloodproof
blood is proof
that pain is beautiful;
sorrow a pleasing
aesthetic,
violence a most
elegant color.
every act of life, written in blood;
and death, a fine finale,
worthy of its scarlet pen.
that pain is beautiful;
sorrow a pleasing
aesthetic,
violence a most
elegant color.
every act of life, written in blood;
and death, a fine finale,
worthy of its scarlet pen.
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