Comfort, comfort
My people
I have killed your fathers
I have sullied your daughters
Only because I love
My people
Comfort, comfort
The nations
To you who are thirsty
To you who hunger now
The meek shall inherit
My patience
Comfort, comfort
My son
You who are lost inside
You who believe just to survive
I will raise the dead when
I’m done
offering comfort.
What There Is
There is a young lady learning
There is a woman pining
There is a man reaching
There is a fetus squirming
There is an old man dying
To remember
There is a desert waiting
There is an economy crashing
There is a barrio hurting
There is an ocean sinking
There is a flower blooming
In December
There is a woman pining
There is a man reaching
There is a fetus squirming
There is an old man dying
To remember
There is a desert waiting
There is an economy crashing
There is a barrio hurting
There is an ocean sinking
There is a flower blooming
In December
on trees
ancient One,
you are who you are.
every year you unabashedly shed your clothes
so you may stand naked in the cold.
where I found you.
hidden to the clothed eye.
hidden to the oblivious onslaught
of observations of your classification.
they do not know you.
they are not who they are.
they are glasses and clipboards.
they call you Quercus.
like a mortician, they label you.
they do not know your name.
they could not pronounce it if they did.
their tongues are tied to the dividends
of invisible hands of the sleepless masses.
they remain ignorant of the history of your knots
of what rift caused your kindling to shed itself from you.
the path that your roots followed,
itself marked out before them,
is not on their maps.
they do not know your name.
your bark has absorbed fleeting love.
violent initials which scarred you
for a minute or a decade or two.
they do not remember the joy of two
on the tire swing
embracing each other for fear.
to them, you would make a marvelous desk.
on which to write a poem on trees.
you are who you are.
every year you unabashedly shed your clothes
so you may stand naked in the cold.
where I found you.
hidden to the clothed eye.
hidden to the oblivious onslaught
of observations of your classification.
they do not know you.
they are not who they are.
they are glasses and clipboards.
they call you Quercus.
like a mortician, they label you.
they do not know your name.
they could not pronounce it if they did.
their tongues are tied to the dividends
of invisible hands of the sleepless masses.
they remain ignorant of the history of your knots
of what rift caused your kindling to shed itself from you.
the path that your roots followed,
itself marked out before them,
is not on their maps.
they do not know your name.
your bark has absorbed fleeting love.
violent initials which scarred you
for a minute or a decade or two.
they do not remember the joy of two
on the tire swing
embracing each other for fear.
to them, you would make a marvelous desk.
on which to write a poem on trees.
On the Occasion of Albatross
a bird with a belly full of plastic;
such a small price to pay
for the refreshing taste of battery acid.
but we do have domain over
lesser life forms, don't we?
and global warming and going green were
made up by the devil.
by the devil.
we must never fall prey to the gospel of green,
though we're perfectly complacent
to follow another gospel of green.
make no mistake,
make no mistake.
there is a price on everything;
economic evolution,
survival of the richest.
yeah, that'll preach.
it's such a shame
that you can't afford
a place to sleep (come all we weary)
and food to eat (we'll break bread)
or medicine.
...but hey, I don't want to wait in line
so here is a dollar
go buy a bottle,
such a small price to pay
for a bird with a belly full of plastic.
paradox
i saw a pair uh docs
walking up the street
they dreamed their thoughts
and thought their dreams
they were still
under the sun
they were restless
under the moon
as they thought about the dreams
they dreamed about their thoughts
every morning
over a cup of chamomile tea
they set the forest on fire
they destroyed it
by not noticing it.
the ancient trees. moving stillness.
incorporated a new ring every day.
regaining their balance
after being tripped.
shouting whispering testimony
to no any one who will listen.
i wake standing,
rubbing my eyes, drinking
coffee and smoking
while synapses fire in grey matter
telling me i am more than
synapses firing in grey matter.
walking up the street
they dreamed their thoughts
and thought their dreams
they were still
under the sun
they were restless
under the moon
as they thought about the dreams
they dreamed about their thoughts
every morning
over a cup of chamomile tea
they set the forest on fire
they destroyed it
by not noticing it.
the ancient trees. moving stillness.
incorporated a new ring every day.
regaining their balance
after being tripped.
shouting whispering testimony
to no any one who will listen.
i wake standing,
rubbing my eyes, drinking
coffee and smoking
while synapses fire in grey matter
telling me i am more than
synapses firing in grey matter.
Ignatius
1.
parenthetical numbers lying asleep
next to your name
they cannot contain
you or your memory
any more than the uncials
at the inception of your
get-well cards
can encompass you.
2.
Theophorus,
you are as you were.
the taste of the sea on the wind
is alive still in you
your hand still remembers
the feel of a pen.
3.
I wonder if you attained
what you strove for
or if you are striving
still to attain
or if, like pie at thanksgiving,
you must wait
until all are done
or if it is attainable
at all.
4.
The medicine of immortality
which you consumed as
it consumed you
must have worked
because I sit here
talking to you
as you eat a peach.
and smile.
parenthetical numbers lying asleep
next to your name
they cannot contain
you or your memory
any more than the uncials
at the inception of your
get-well cards
can encompass you.
2.
Theophorus,
you are as you were.
the taste of the sea on the wind
is alive still in you
your hand still remembers
the feel of a pen.
3.
I wonder if you attained
what you strove for
or if you are striving
still to attain
or if, like pie at thanksgiving,
you must wait
until all are done
or if it is attainable
at all.
4.
The medicine of immortality
which you consumed as
it consumed you
must have worked
because I sit here
talking to you
as you eat a peach.
and smile.
Measure
Words are good for nothing
unless they too can be spoken
with hands. Hands are good
when they touch with
mindfulness and concern,
responsibility. A loaf of bread
with too much water is
likely to not rise as much as
one hoped it would. So too
words unmeasured are flat
and depreciating, mere empty
phrasings to pass some time
on the way to dispassionate
gain. And if I do not seek to
reach out after this consideration,
again another has said nothing
with as many words.
