Thursday, April 12, 2007

In This Life

Nothing will be lost.
Nothing will actually die.
There is a road
with no beginning and no end.
My words are under a tree.

In me.
In quarks.
In six dimensions.
In flame-shaped dreams.
In caves.
Because I am writing
without being able to swim,
without looking through time.
I feel like a herniated disc.
My words grew out of partial spaces.
My words are of small importance.
It is the result of resistance.
My language is from various sources.
It will dissolve under perfect conditions.
It will slide off your mind.
In cheap little ecstasies.
In wrong thoughts.
In blessed depravity.
In Om.
In bones of the past.
My words will leak me.
On real estate.
On computers.
On sunset blues.
On the back porch.
Because they are wild spirits.
Because they are from a high tower.
Because they mock the strong.
Because I am smiling.
Because I am blessed by ravens.
I am a frog in a pond.
I have escaped entrapment.
I have blossomed at the bottom.
It is underground.
It is the season’s first strawberry.
It is a sparrow bathing in a muddy puddle.
I have what I need.
I have it by the mountains.
I have it in remote starts.

I have it in jokes.
It is in the garden.
It is in my fists.
They can keep their God.
They smell like gunsmoke and plastic.
They know what power is.
They are in the backyard.
Because it doesn’t matter.
Because a full moon is rising.
Nothing is cemented to the floor.
Nothing is full of magic.
These words come from clouds.
They are wings to breathe.
Between heaven and nightmares.
Between sleet and snow.
Between obsession and prayer
That can save a guru or shaman.
Now I glow from the inside.
Now I fly.
How does the bone of the soul work.
How does the sun enter the mind.
In the trash of the culture.
In the potted plant.
In the uncontrollable urge.
My words are the panoramic view.
Because the boundaries are imaginary.
Because they are drop outs.
Because they are from across the border.
Because they are a sharp knife.
Because they are a one-way street.
Because they will hold their own ground.
Because they speed through the veins.
Because they aimlessly wander.
They charge like a Brahma bull.
They reveal to me in the darkness.
In a workingman’s day.
In new speech music.
Where the fireflies blink away.
The key.
The skeleton.
The voice.
The prophecy.
They can freeze all data.
Like water on land.
Like big rolls of dynamite.
Luminous and desirable.
As the Psalms.
As the summershine.
My few moments.
My cartwheel catastrophes.
My brilliant nowhere.
My backyard history.
Thus I care the best I can.
Thus these words of dust.
Thus my window opening.