For Andrew

Astounded by the sound of the old man yawning—

terrible, terrible, terrible, like being force-fed ash

or is it humility?

Humility is the lifelong rash that plagues us,

consumes us until our heart stops.

The harder we scratch, the worse it gets.

It simultaneously strengthens us and destroys us.

How many layers does this ego have to shed

before I can call myself a humble servant of God?

How many roses must be plucked from my soul

before the lover is satisfied?

I am but a young man, a fool.

Aching for agency, I crush those who might guide me.

But like a bug, the old man is strong, and my foot,

feeble.

Easily, he collects himself, and moves on.

What can I do but follow?

My blow was so soft, and he        so wise,

he doesn’t even consider me an enemy.

Just a misguided would-be protégé.

The sun overhears the jealous moon muttering invectives about her,

but the sun doesn’t get angry.

Its job is to shed its light upon the world by day

and upon the moon at night, 

so that fools like me can see, and live.

What would it be like if the sun, out of anger for the moon’s jealousy,

were to stop shining its light upon the moon? 

How empty the sky would feel at night!

And how empty I, a lunatic through and through, 

would feel! 

Let the moon scoff. The sun will continue to forgive. 

It is not in the nature of the old man to hold grudges. 

His greatest pride is that 

he has so little pride at all. 

That is true wisdom. 

Fool that I am, I have often cursed the sun 

as I was awakened by its light 

in the afternoons when I wished I could go on sleeping. 

What would it mean if my curses wounded the pride of the sun?

  Would it refuse to shine from that point on? 

The whole world would die on account of my lethargy and bitterness. 

That is not the way of the sun 

and that is not the way of the old man. 

Both shine because so much relies on their shining. 

To reach old age would be a blessing. Like a star, 

the old man shines all the brighter 

because he is closer to death. 

Fool that I am, I will use him as a guide as I wander 

aimlessly 

through the night of my life, this terrible youth, 

this foolishness. 

And I will be sure to sing the old man’s praises 

as long as I have a song on my lips. 

Old man, thank you for the gift of your light, your patience

and your eternal forgiveness.

Song of Boundless Time

Talking of the night has become a sin.

Myriad legends roam within.

The night is weary of my song.
I have spoken of it for so long

That its silence springs its will like a lion

Upon my heart and devours it.

So, I coalesce into myself.

After all, I know of nothing else.

Death now seeks me from every corner,

But I do not fear the blow of his scythe.

The wheatgrass of my soul has grown long

And golden. Then let him strike.

The crickets are alluring and the wind

Wants a home. I give the wind my words

And it keeps going, compelled to roam.

Heavy now are the words that come.

So I lay them down. 

I sing now of the world and how it left me.

Great are the depths from which these shadows

Romance their way into my eyes.

The moon awaits, bright, in the sky.
God wills me to die.

Wake the eye. Speak easy of the eye.

Sing easy—the night is broken into hours.

Sing easy—lest by the song you are devoured.

Time, boundless time, shapeless time, virgin world

Of time’s beginning, what have you to offer?

This inexpressible urgent prayer I give to time

To master with its perfect pendulum, its endless

Paean of creation. Wave upon wave of time

Carrying the offal of existence upon the shores

Of chaos and putrefaction. Immutable time,

That owns the frontier of tomorrow and tomorrow

And all the yesteryears.

The crickets are alluring and the wind

Wants a home. I give it this home, the song

Of tomorrow, a song of suffering unbeknownst
To God, and He shall never know, for the song

Belongs to time, and time

Suffers nothing of the Lord.

Exiled prince of the shadow, come

Converse with me! A wageless war

Is being waged upon the sea of time.

A vanguard symphony is being played

Beneath the poplar trees in the key of time,

And will be played for eternity!

The wind comes and moves through the trees

Seeking sustenance, a song of eternity.

I give my song to the wind, which forevermore

Sings its epiphany of time, boundless time,

Echo-less time, shapeless time, virgin world

Of time’s beginning, what have you to offer?

Home, the boundless frontier of life,

And the eternal resting place of my song’s sepulcher.

God

You whisper madness

Into her ear

And she becomes

Light comprehending darkness

Always brighter for the madness

always dictating the universe

With her laughter. She kneels at the altar

And prays to a god that aligns her spirit

That proliferates her love Who is he

The clever one to say her prayers

Are foolish? Clever/foolish

Two sides of the same coin

In the middle is God

So the wise man would say       Even the foolish one

Even the clever one.

Sunset

Evening is upon me.

The sunlit sky

is milky

and 

multicolored

bespangled 

like

an Indian princess

descending a flight of stairs.

She has kissed the world

and leaves

blushing

into the west.

The world

is left

in a pall of shadow

and we feel 

the sadness of her leaving

the stars remaining

as reminders

of her return.

Circuit

She lay 

naked

on the cold stone floor

her perfect body

eloquent

as a sea of honey

and when the electricity

of her flesh

reached my own

such a surge as would black out the sun

flowed through me

and sweet connectivity

saved us both

from burning

as we both lay naked

on the cold stone floor

one electrical current

running in a circuit

between us.