Monday, March 19, 2012


An unbodied tracelessness
twain being and
speech, where silent
language rests

Mystic slackers
spit words, obscuring
her presence with ink, apparent

madness, freely
disintegrating the random
image of Love, rising

without flags, only
the wind and their bearers—
with creative action
emptied of everything

Where a poem seeks a mind absenting itself from Its writing

Becoming that dark vacant matter revealing Its resurrection in words
that somehow embrace everything needed via some magic reversal—

While an insurrection opens your hole for the plug you crave

Forgetting comfort
that trap they set for you alone

Forsaking their pathos, lose
their logical advice,
try your patience
the way a thorn tries the rosebud
producing Its fragrance, animating

Creative prophets who live unattended
where the fires burn out

Yet this candle, elsewhere
flickers, lighting refuge—

The way a fine powder might
scatter over an old plate, knowing

What both worlds offer, seaming
a final, mute point of touch
when names feel

Erased by the worms of language

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