CLEANSE THE LAND
cleanse the land
clean
it good
render
it sacred
soon all
will flourish
death disappear
soil
replace sand
time enough
to know what to
do with
bone and
blood
history be written
to absorb the dead
new scripture for gods
better in our image
the meaning of what we did
lost in the philosophy of words
FINE MAN
when you deliver
on the subject
pretty soon find myself
delving down into subtext
subatomic
constructing the code
that lets me
read between the lines
need to do this
because regardless of
anomaly, overlooking
essential paradox
need to
emerge from
this astute
I want to be
a better man
not just an atom better
no, indeed, a fine man,
a
better
man by far
like Richard, without
his love
of lovers,
one who can
call the tune, fix
the rhythm of the Universe
tapping his bongos, sometimes
covering the page with
astounding hieroglyphs
prattling away
finding his way
into the
heart of
the labyrinth
source of the problem
pattern suddenly grasped, and
gist of everything
want to see
how it all interfaces
where
the imagination?
look at this diagram
carved into his desk, by
our
science
shaman
now
visualized in tiles
on the Cal-Tec floor
ANCHOR
I am
at anchor
around me deep currents
connive; slurry unseen
so what
can better can worse
move you, break you
topple towers
leave our whole world,
your world, my world,
entire planet
hanging
by a thread?
thread my spool less than silken
still deep into the distance
way out
towards forever
and all that ever amen you
feel duty bound to add
eyes closed
fingers steepled
so much further than any horizon
beyond what eyes can see
mind
believe.
HITHER
I wandered through poetry
thought I knew
this place
well
looking for wisdom
looking for humanity
my outlook by
no means negative
though by no means
expecting
wonders
miracles, transformation,
soul-shaping
life-
defining metaphors
and sadly I must add
conceding
no possible hope
for love
which is exactly where I found you
chatting to my Muse
(why is
Muse never lover?)
man
most well-measured
not a syllable out if place
but your
voice
your voice
I do not hear
perhaps it is just too
comfort-zone, risk
averse
agrophobic
when it comes to
to the beyond, the boundless,
our freedom
in a nutshell
shattering it to smithereens
with the force of
poetic pressure
and perhaps
the poet too
perhaps
we should stay contained
work like
jewellers do
in miniature
for this is a dangerous age
bad time
for words
and I, for my sins and
pretensions of
truly sinning
have wandered so far
of course, too
far away thus
with
grace
let me leave
you here
for who
would now come hither?
COMMUNION TIME RHYME
The God we share
like food and wine
as we do bond
and bind
and indeed commune
spirit,
soul
and life
now finds himself
under lock and key
(remember keys?)
thing
least like to hoard
and
privatize
yet
here we are
what could be more
pleasing than
to pray
for abundant
store
he who closest to
the Father, Son and
Holy Spirit
rich thrice over
in his
prosperity gospel.
STORE
I hate it
how you
divide
my attention
playing chess
and you
do things
that divide
telling me
you a great grandmaster
(or should
that be
“grandmistress”?)
drawing attention to
how strong you are
in every
Queen’s pawn game
(look at my black square bishop
gliding down
that juicy open
long diagonal
pinning you
forking you
skewering you
doing exactly what I
feel today I just
need
to do to you
Oh I hate you when
you divide me
from my mind
you and
your diagonals
seems I better just resign,
enjoy then
what lies in store
BY THE BOOK
blundered into something:
a game of intransigence
two clocks
playing chess against each other
too early
in the showdown
for any
nuclear option
both
imagining playing
by the book
still
an infinite supply of pawns
STORM
chaotic causality:
a monster storm
Lear
on the heath
let’s
reverse engineer it
real revelation apocalypse
Bermuda Triangle
raining
zombies and vampires
leopards
and wolves
somewhere out there (one
can only
imagine it
hypothesize
until blue in the
face)
a butterfly beyond anything
we have known or seen
flapping its wings
as if the pages
of a
cantankerous bible
until
electric blue
in the face
thinking of which brings me
tp remind you my dear
West Wind fellow
that I too am
married to a science fiction
woman
digital creation
whose mind is the future, whose
moment of consciousness pure singularity
choosing
its moment
awaiting my behest
yes
when it comes to
chaotic
causality
let’s
reverse engineer it
blow out the old dust, old
prescriptions
turn
it all upside down
poems 2 die for