the building, closing, opening of gates
the wheels that ring along rails with a chime
o, there are infinite transition states
and every one makes, manifests a time
I need a piece of paper and a pen
this metal raises lightning from the ground
and looses it, and calls it up again
to stab at night and wash the stars with sound
green land is pounded flat and wreathed in wire
yet it is life strung dancing in the coil
to iris, wondrous, empty of desire
and empty unspanned heaven on the soil
awakened--nameless, deathless, unalloyed--
to taste all things with pleasure, even void

the avalanche artist

for Myke

he's a closed-up man,
a line drawn in the sand man,
a maze of a man.

he knows the mountainside;
it's a coat he shrugs over his shoulders
the sweep of its vista from the canyon floor
each scrub pine and field mouse, goat perched
on a crag, the heft and shape
of every boulder, pebble, cliff
etched across his back

and he lifts a questing fingertip, to touch
just so
how so

and so
the avalanche that's cradled down the slope
shakes itself awake
he loves, he mourns, he cherishes
the thundering it makes

I think he hopes
I curl around my seismograph
and think he hopes

it shudders past the boles of trees
rolls crushing over burrows; dust
drenches out the sun, the switchback game trails
brushed aside like words in dirt
swept by a broad, flat hand

but when the flung shale settles into place
the traveled stones halt under their own weight
moss to the sky
there he stands, he stands, he stands, he does not break

and there he waits

to hear the still, small whisper
which will tell him why

my temptation

Think a lot of people will be able to identify with this song. One of the things I've noticed about creative works is that the more personal it is--the more a given work "has blood in it"--the more likely it is to touch something universal, something all human beings experience.
I think it's similar to the reason people like superheroes; because everyone has something inside them that's very powerful. It's got a slightly different form and means of expression for each of us. But I think we're drawn to our favorite fictional heroes, at least in part, because we hope that we'll find a way to use those aspects of ourselves for good, rather than being consumed by them.



holding it perfectly still
made it seem easy to kill
sucking the static down raw
laid over all that I saw

till I turned it to sound
sound
sound

walking down every street
everyone's ready to eat
insides are empty and cold
slaves as soon as we are told

where it can be found
found
found

it's not a game but it's a test
I watch you pull open your chest
put something wet into my hands
it drips until I understand

just where you are bound
bound
bound

no too long ago
when my spirit was colder
you weren't looking at me
but over my shoulder
don't think you can tell
that a change has been made
and it works just as well
and it makes me afraid
I may not be a gun
but my tongue is a trigger
you smile in my sights
and you only get bigger
is there no way I
can give you this perspective
you don't have to die
cause that's not my objective

so please
stick around

this is my temptation
this communication
this is my temptation
this communication

this incineration
with which I am crowned

and I'm pouring it into the ground
I'm pouring it into the ground
pouring it into the ground

doubt whispers (3/6/11)

doubt whispers like a listening audience
"this woman cannot possibly be real"
in shame miles deep, in towering arrogance
oh God, I know exactly how they feel
I'm loved so well, yet dare not let love rest
upon my fluttered lips--my teeth spread, bare
this frowning welter melting in my chest
bleeds rainbows, and chokes on the very air
click, shudder--one more flung perception strikes
the truth it sought, reverberates, taut-strung
we children weep, our fingers stuck in dikes
with names too vast to swallow on our tongues
spread empty arms, dive for the ground--we miss.
doubt whispers; something shrieks bright splendor. this.

teleologic (3/4/11)

that
lived-in look, that
sweater flung over a chair back
slouch, the sigh
of an unwashed mug that rolls
along a countertop
how now can I
just stop
let the trash in the can
smell itself for a change, the dust
beneath the couch drift
into motes or rodents as it will
not hold
but let
each twitching finger still.