In order to have a complete nature
Full of all experiences
God needed to sin
To count it among His powers
So he made you and me
To commit our adulteries
Mature creations doing what God wished
Yet not what He ordered
Because All comes from God
God birthed Himself to forgive Himself
Which is all theological longhand
For this:
I have already forgiven myself
After the fashion of The
Being Who Needed to Know
Just like you, another piece of God, have done
the train moans like a ghost
and if it’s hauling coal
or cars of people
it’s pushing carbon
there and back
a ghost groans like a train
but do not ask of sonics
or metaphysica, for i am
a humble journalist only telling
what i heard
is it so, so mad
to wire a robot thus?
that it would metronome
a truer beat than people
in the way angels worship more cleanly
the consciousness of the giraffe
is what “looks” at me through black lashes
and not the entire giraffe at once
when i say unto you
the giraffe popped its neck looking moonward
there are more things in head and heaven
than there are in reality
that list in god’s brain always-and-eternally
incomplete of all things-at-once
(it is not so unusual upon waking)
I’ll divine meaning from your insides
And watch which way the birds fly
I’ll put your face under my pillow
And learn about you while I sleep
I’ll wait for lightning to strike a willow
And ask the ashes which tomb to sweep
And when I get my answers
I’ll let you know immediately
in my
mind is a maze.
and in that maze is a
minotaur. and in his mind is
a maze.
and in
that maze is a bad minotaur.
and inside his mind is
the color white.
just white.
Out curls
Serpentine smoke
Into a Byzantine midnight
.
I can’t read these heiroglyphs
I carved for myself on the walls
Of my memory
My fingers pass along the grooves in the stone
But unread and unknown,
I keep a secret from myself
.
My memory holds a door with no handle,
A box with no locks,
A moldy book with wilting pages
And an hourglass with one grain of sand inside
For telling the present moment
.
Since my memory can’t photograph
It paints with watercolor
On a canvas of sand. I can make out
Serpentine smoke curling into a Byzantine lung
.
I can’t read these Arabic numerals.
These envelopes have dried my sandy tongue.
I can’t focus
At this oxygen bar, too many Cheshire cats smiling
At this hookah lounge
At the bottom of the dark, green wine bottle
Of my memory
.
My memory curls out
Like serpentine smoke
Into a Byzantine midnight
A sestina:
Green grass is lengthening round
The Camelot Apartments. Make a left
At the corner store; oh and don’t forget
The Rolling Rocks; don’t forget that green grass;
There’s gonna be good people at the house
Show: Make three left turns till Elm Circle
⨀
We each sat in the circle.
An orange ball glowed hot. Pedro rolled round
Resin in his fingers at the guys’ house.
The chicks complained about the taste and left.
An orange ball burnt out. “Left for real grass.”
And we should, too, or girls: We can forget
⨀
The apartment pool forgets
Nothing, and I swim alone in circles.
A Marlboro 27, some grass
Clippings, a beetle, and my thoughts float round
(If I ever touch down) there’s green glass left
On the pool floor: Tread water till the house.
⨀
Orange moon at Bonfire House
Melodies drift like we ought to forget
Them. Earth…
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Private Window Wincing in cracked china Clamouring for detail Sweet; crushed velvet purple memories
via Poem of the Day- Private Window — PTL PAINTINGS @ PATURNERLEE.COM
shorn light
unencumbered
crystal vision render
under windful willow branches
can’t you
catch the
cancer and bottle it like a
national park, can’t you
see numbers, see
why knots
my body moves these dreams
up from the quantum
to the atomic
so that dream sticks to dream
and rolls like soft, white snow thought
into the cold water i munch
with you at daybreak
on the mountain
autumn
icaruses
littering the groundscape
yucca crowns adorned with feathers
drying
⨀ 