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If in your moment of clarity you saw
and in seeing changed anything,
let it be the prophecy left
unfulfilled to prove
its bearer a
charlatan.

Blood

On an altar the filthy rite,
the ugly passage takes place:
a burdened life taken and
sloughed into the grooves,
into the gutters:
you are absolved.

Body

Count the thrumming notes still
hair-trigger. One two three,
the otherwise trenchant odor,
the otherwise repellent contour,
the otherwise threadbare gesture,
the sinuous backward glance and
proceeding brine.

Mind

Into shapes like a tree, then.
The patterns teased out of it.
Like a book written backwards.
Plot twists, turns, much did you do,
little did you know; the modern
protagonist fails to satisfy.
Into verse like setting concrete, then.

Faith

Something to cast aside,
it finds inconvenient moments
and abuses them ruthlessly.
How the spirit moved aside
in the gurgling burgeoning
churning prurient animus.
Above all, selling yourself to
yourself and finding yourself
disliking the price.

Time

Years are not years when
you’re building it.
Years are years when
your fabulous muscles
resign.

Water

There is a river bank that knows your name.
Delta, ocean, cloud, rain: the entire world
will soon resound with you.

Fire

What matter most
is how you walk
through the fire,
you cantankerous
old man with your
brawling, stupid
poems.
Maybe you could
sit down and write
a worthwhile
poem.
Maybe, if anything
but incalculable
boredom drove
you to write
them.

Water

There is a lake straining to burst its borders.
Bound to the earth, its damned restraints
a creative workaround away from bursting.
Everything is words and meaningless next
to the water pounding in your ears and
screaming to be let go.

End

Do you? I think, oddly, not.
There is enough crowding in
to that burning room already.
I do. But then,
I always did.

Old song. Don’t ask. I don’t know.

Throw him in the oven. If he lives then we will love him.
And at least he’ll be sure he’s alive.
If he dies we will dissect him, from the sternum to the rectum
so we can finally understand what’s inside.

It’s a good plan. It’s a good, use the good plan. Use the good plan.

Toss him in the oil, and we’ll watch to see him boil.
if he doesn’t, we’ll let up a cheer.
If he does you get the batter, roll him up and mind the splatter,
while I crack open a couple of beers.

It’s a good plan. It’s a good, use the good plan. Use the good plan.

Old song.

In reverence and awe,
in ignorance and bliss,
you fall on your face
in front of a mirror
and call it god.

Can you recall a time
with your kinetics slack,
the agonizing cry,
the fire in your chest,
a heart attack.

Old song.

May the angel of death watch over you
on your trek to the dark side of the moon.
All of your friends have already left
with the angel of death.

You’re clenching your fingers.
The fabulous muscles,
they’re still working.

The thrumming of clockwork,
the gears in their places,
they’re still turning.

Old song. Also must have been listening to Somewhere North Of Here.

There are too many days and too many long nights
between here and now and the rest of my life.
All of these songs are meant to fill the silence,
but they just remind me of your voice.

I am used to these streets that stretch between us
like telephone cords wrapped around my neck.
And the radio wire inside my heart sing signals
that you’re too damn far away.

Is there a remedy for distance, a therapy
for climbing a mountain that never seems to end?

Old song.

I can’t remember your skin.
You’re always half an hour away.
I’d sell all this stuff
if it would be enough
to convince you to stay.

Old song. Again, awful. I was having a bad night or something.

Your art is to imitate architects,
to see who can build the strongest.
As if in the penthouse of your regret
you can hold your breath the longesdt.

As if to say now that it’s said and done,
you can tie all the pages together,
hide it where no-one will ever see,
and blame it on the weather.

Old song. Awful. Ghastly. GAH. What was I thinking?

Under the floorboards, the beating hear
of all you’ve forgotten to murder.
You’ve locked all the doors, but the skeletons
are beating their fists all the harder.

If that brilliant smile if your disguise,
you’d best avoid mirrors and water.
Walking through the fire has melted it
to framework and patches of plaster.

Who told you that you were beautiful?
Who said that weakness was pitifull.
That room with no air,
you’ll be so secure there,
awaiting your burial.

Old song.

When I finally die I hope you cry for a while
and visit me when you can get away.
And when I finally meet my maker’s son
I hope he smiles and says, well done,
well done, well done.

When I finally die I hope you let my body burn
and scatter me all over the front yard.
And when the kingdom comes they gather
every atom back to say, well done,
well done, well done.

And we have a boy I hope you give him all my books,
the ones we didn’t sell to fill the fridge.
And when he reads them he will see
the Jesus of the words. Reading, well done,
well done, well done.