Dear God

where is the science?  It
should be a denial of
your existence and  yet
and yet during our hailstone
bullet rain when lead
led us we only remembered
that we erected so much in
your name and in those
constructs hid a desire or
two.  Do you remember
the way sunset seeped from
us as though we were dead?
I built to have it destruct
in your elemental name.

That's Life

Much mud to navigate.
Splattered onto words.

Emote (emotion mined
from events) and
adhered to....

What did I know?
Sunshine and rain
and a slideshow of
people’s alter-music.

Separated from who
I am yet adhering to
the montage.

Like moonlight dripping
from the eaves of dawn.
Dawning.  A secret revealed.

Mathematics is a sentence
progressing.  Predictable.
Tears are not so restrained
by a predicated outcome.

There is no preface
just lines drawn commingling
events not associated with
a navigable destination.

What kind of building block is mud?

No, Words

seeking intent as though
history is a failed event
and every conceivable
action is a newspaper
article — the obituary
page — the business
news — scores from
the coliseum — bodies
collapsed and deflated
by intransigence —
each and every event
recorded as though
when we kissed behind
the wedding party
it was newsworthy —
even if I’ve lost track
of how many years
it’s been before
the first

Note

Giving and taking is
an art form.  Don’t
expect order, or
the fluid flow associated
with politics (illusion)
and the blinders of love.
Know that giving is
a piece of your heart
in amber, always on
display and taking,
watching that wave
which carried away
the world’s best
sand castle.

American Idol

Music.  It fills you and
spills into the crevices
of who you are.  A note
a rhythm.  Fingers
drumming the desk.
The held expectation
of sun dragging down
night.  A cab ride on
Antigua.  We discussed
the differences in
dialects with the driver.
It’s all English.
He machine-gunned
phrases and asked me
what they meant.  In
a foreign tongue.  DNA
English.  Meaning
dichotomy.  Yet all
music.  All sound.

When Others Make War

We are caught in it, a fly
in sunshine, a fly descending,
a fly finding the extended arm
and blood and the body
like amber.  Time has ceased
in one black hole, continues
erratic elsewhere.  And we
are at the center of an explosion.

When we make war, we are
the spider, web spun with precise
intent, the enemy of creation,
focused on only one event
and a justice buried in time,
the explosion, removed from
what time accomplishes —
pallbearer,  celebrant, with
shovel in hand, forever burying.