His
concentration
blasted a
universe into being.
Immediate war he
declared among
instant extinctions
to dry the galaxies
of their
bitterly
different
philosophies.

Invisible to history,
unknown to
poets and popes,
his universe is
inferred by the
soaring, sour squalls
of your griping,
sublingual mind.

It huddles near his ceiling,
follows him from his hole,
then scrambles at his
ankles like a
hungry stray.

We saw a mighty grave at Calvary.
Tall, the proud angel looking east,
the structure looked close to collapse.
The bottom had fallen away,
   the hillside itself eroded,
   the inner foundation
   of the tomb 
   revealed as a
   buckling thicket of
   bricks.

A hundred years old and
dangerously close to ruin
I saw this tomb as a
model of vanity and lies.

The complexity we imagine ourselves to be is
busy within the language of lies.
Reaching back through the generations
of a single human being’s life I think
language itself is a carnival of fibs,
a circus of entertainments and vagaries
too thick and selfish to remember.

I see myself
once here and then there
as others see me.
As a person who
does things,
spends his time
this way or that,
not mysterious as I imagine but
puzzling and trapped by
slothful poisons.
Yes, yes,
those things and more as I
question quantity of life
versus quality,
the greed for more years
at the backward-reaching expense
of their meaning.

I have been looking at
human beings in a way
that is new to me.
All human beings,
not anyone I know but
arbitrary specimens of human
passing through
my museum of the present,
my showroom of future memory.

We are strange concatenations of matter
parading ourselves, exposed,
it is impossible to hide the
obviousness of what we are, yet
uncertainty lingers like the
disdain of a stranger.

Talk about current events.
Talk about streetlights.
Talk about famine.
YHWH.
Burdock root.
Trout fishing.
Nothing to talk about.
If any proof was needed
I find all I can write about is writing.
Writing about writing?
Wasteful!
Talk about talking?
Drink about drinking?
Shit about shitting?
What can I say?
Code excites me.
It perks my mind.
I don't mean computer "code"
(That is not code at all).
I mean this.
This.
This code,
this cipher, this
attempt to
translate the zeitgeist
from its rottenness,
to pull its perfect
poisons from
beneath the
scum
that separates
what you see from
what you get.
I call it "scum" today.
Next week:
phlegm.
Next month:
Spiritual miasma.
Next year:
Aura's rev
(versus aura's exhaust).
The thin sewage of restraint,
a restless melancholy
beneath which sincerity sits,
that is my combat.
I could sweat it out in a sauna,
or by swimming in the ocean.
Feet and hands pressed
flat to the earth
I could pass it from my system
and into the primordial
backwash of our
wasted energy.
It would return,
that scum,
the accumulation,
yours wrapped in mine and
mine soaked in
cold memory.

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