Thunderously I
blundered a riddle
on the rise and
fed my voice to the
eyes of a coyote in
bloom and doom
dancing upon the
dusty lap of dusk's
long-legged crawl
to arms, until my
words returned like
lizards running
through the rain,
through the sagging
grass, through the
vow of the Silents,
deep, sonorous,
bruising in blue
rings, grown in
manure where truth
sings and peace
dances wet and clean.

I tend my beasts
tending to hear only
the howling of
history, but if man
is a meditation, it
will forever remain
a mystery why some
winds lie still in
the lowest valley no
matter the moon or
moan of ancient
lusts as mountains
thrust towards the
clear blue skies of
release and the seas
sigh to carry a sound
so painfully brief.

What calls loudest
caused the shrouds
and shadows, proud
and primitive, pale
in the dark of
eclipsing mist,
one holy word after
another, smothered
by the next but
wanting to break
free, to escape
the sentence, each
word a poet
exposing a prayer,
a kiss, an
abandonment of this
desperate heart and
Hell's great hunger.

Tension grows
impatiently waiting
to stalk the head
of its flowering
in a wake of cold
sweat swimming
towards the fall,
but like the waxing
moon melted and
frozen in its
reflections and the
tides dreaming,
drawing foaming
smiles in the sand,
I remain sinking
into myself, into
the open hands of my
grandfather's clock.

But wait, the wise
and wordless one is
waking, beneath the
slithering of my
subconscious,
stirring beneath the
worms and words of
dark, damp holes,
no body so holy in
the dirt, but this,
this silent rush of
lava lain on the
heart, having molded
the arteries and
given my blood its
heat and art, devours
the island of man,
rock by rock by head
by head, bleeding
the eternal quiet
of slit-eyed gods.

Mindless purity pulls
on vibrating strings
and unravels the
fibrous thing of a
noose of a brain in
motion waves pushing
forth only a breath,
none of the rest,
stupid and pure,
lured by a moment
in the bare sea,
naked in the dark,
on the dark, dusty
road, spelling
nothings with
sparklers in the abyss
of its smoky whisps
curling and unfurling
the path within.

Oh, the beauty of a
hawk who brings the
rains to start again,
and whether or not
the feathers will rot
and shine death's
black and blue hues,
I step back and I do
nothing for the
hustle of whores,
the thoughts
clamoring for empires
in neon fires first
frozen in the sacred
empty texts of
illusion's interior,
confusion's crackle.

Celebrating the fool,
open heart and ears
allowing the sound
that sings wind-
blown thieves to
steal everything but
the feel, I brought
back just one false
phrase, only the joke
of all days and the
tinge of all nights,
the question of
queerest introspection
in slow stations of
revelatory vile revile,
posed as thus: am I
this? am... I... this?