Hair thin, eyes dim, skin
slack-
constant reminders of time’s insistent
metate
Night, day, night, day, and thus
are the bodies of loved ones
thrown from howling birth into a furnace of death.
Our constant fever, white-hot;
Much the same when as young
life and those whose
feelings are the potency of
self are given
to a foreign Christ tiger
who was once trained by
mystics and A New Father
and soon dragged asunder by a
frightened caste
(Though
authority would remain theirs for a few years, only).
Thus the intervening years
have served
for all intents
as placemats at authority's
table
for their ever more powerful
progenitors.
Meanwhile, seeming alone here
on this planet, we grow older by the day breathing what air we are allowed.
Our throats are made raw by
coughing
and brows moistened by that fever,
that oven, and time’s grinder-
we see very little manna from
heaven, nor much rain from on high in these days
with God so distant.
(Oh,
dear St. Francis, this thirst is slaked only by shallow graves in the womb of
our earth!)
Hunger for peace grows every couple
of generations
with disgust of rage and battle
as marketing maxims and shredding
machines
drive green generations into
self-promotional frenzies;
we need much more than
groveling prayers and such cathartic supplication-
From whence do these plagues
arrive and
To where will we all go?
All things have gone, and so
will they go, until
we all dream dreams more full.
So just that is done in a way as
genuine as any heavenly ideal
because that is the secret,
and that is the answer.
It is conveyed and practiced complete
with all questions answered and
corpses buried,
feet and hands separated to
keep them from haunting the living
or perhaps returning for much
more
(please
know- all secrets told me, I keep close).
And having overflown the steely
dews of early mornings,
and having seen the sun rise
shedding no real light
to naught but a few pallid, home-grown
tomatoes
and high bench grass for ghostly
elk,
we hereby freshen with
inspiration and communal, deep breaths,
questing deep into night and all
other, often far distant lights.
Through a long voyage past some
risen Lord
and his disciples,
having brightened the garments
of those deprived of
these long emotions
and in compassion for those
alone with what is their own,
we cross.
And, so, beneath rivers,
Beyond hills,
Watchful deserts,
Forgotten mountains-
It is more than just mutual cosmos.
With this soul passing from
Damocles’ sword,
habitacíon
del silencio, estimado riberas , orillas de cobre, cobrado-
Aqui dentro,
en el mar de lo nuestro y lo que sera,
Even the air we breathe will
rise
To give account of its use and
benefit
with perfect proof of faith,
dreams and dread.
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