Anacre0n

Amphitheater of discourse So far off the trail now Stone benches overgrown and pillars Fallen and akimbo-split To reflect that the forum Is now the haven of bats and Mice, and snakes, and a bear. A waterfall now crowns the Gazebo, riven by tree trunks And roots with caverns underneath. There is the real meeting room. No chairs, but a long granite table, Moss streaked. You can see stars In the puddles beneath.

he said thus the ocean The emotions of the masses Swelled turbulent And lightning crackled Between and shapes in The mist. Nothing was substantial. Rather, everything was torrential, Total, miasma, all, the maw We fell for ages to stand upright for Three minutes. And the loves And cares we brought with us Flourished and burgeoned and Yet did not save us, because the Waves and the crashing boulders Were our truer destination. A slab of frozen fire, in the ocean’s Heart. Stone to pierce like knives, And to focus like diamond.

Thought word deed Another day’s reports of violent acts In the land as though it were a weather Update. Something that just happened. Not something that someone did To another person. A transitive act. But Middle voice. That which simply occurs. The music of what is. This is what we are, Vermiculate rictus. This is what the Land bleeds, crying from the ground. The loaf is barren, the curd dry. Rock vanishes under the onslaught Of an eon’s water, riven to depths To be crushed and seared.

Decomposing words Sound check The power strip The palms light up when the Neon comes on Shiny cars in garish Collision visions The gamblers prey, The priest reckons, The Elephant remembers A time when this tar pit Was a pond and the sky Was cerulean, always.

the waste of what was Collapsed masonry fractured Tiles, up-heaved boulevards Decay stench heavy in the nostrils, Deep rust and tar, the kind they Slick telephone poles with. The claws in the clause That made the renewal a dud Oil and rain Hickory slurry slush The kind you wait for to get some Then there’s the crush.; Seven lightning bolts clustered Around the tabernacle to get the River flowing again from the deep Aquifers. And the chains start to move, Slowly.

life itself has a way of converting atheists. Somewhere along the way, the implicit nihilism, the meontic impulse, Fails to deliver meaning existentially or phenomenologically. Atheism Has a chasm, an abyss within it. And the atheist will brag about it of course. Will say that they are topping the religious person by refusing to take An easy way out, the crutch of faith. What part of the cross is an easy way out? The abyss of meaningless is only so deep The profundity of divine meaning far deeper, and more glorious. And grand thickets of nothing Grossly overclocked eschatologies Clickbait sensationalism Phenomenologies of the bottle-tanned The tragic hermeneutical struggle of three blind hamsters Wrestling in a whirlwind of pine chips.

The deleted Archaism Hubrism Mephistic orgasm The contemplative Spaghetti on the stove, An Audi in the garage. How this volume of poetry is actually a Masters’ Thesis on the Atonement. Guitars don’t strum themselves. The wind gusts brokenly over Diagonal triages. If we try really hard, maybe we can Make the sun go out by ourselves? The spheres conspire to eclipse the sun. Harp pluckers anonymous IN the pines the autopilot gasps mutely.

The suborning of metaphysics Meatball sobriety Torn ligaments Lovelorn blackthorns Imitation is the wariest norm of battery The frog pushes the crown Off the table with his tongue. The crowd mesmerises itself With calm horizons of negative Alms. Exalt the obnoxious, trebly scowled. Each emperor is prisoner of his own Delights; each Empress an integrity Of meontic despite.

Word gets out The sax speaks Bass preaching dents The firmament with quicksilver wiles The tide of night moves inexorably To free the fish of the day’s tidal Pools. Fragments of moons drink the Nectar off the lips of the coming Storm. The port waits expectantly, The big ships have moved out to Sea to hearken to the primordial Beat of titan and tecton, Promethean discotheque.

Forest sprouts from once regolith The rocks crumble in the embrace Of myriad seasons’ winds She and I walk these hills for A year then decide where to Build a cabin – somewhere No one has ever built before. But when we are digging post holes, We find arrow heads. And beneath that, chicken bones.