Can you hear the gushing sweet water? water we may not span. I watch you and weep only to add more volume. Those are my tears you know. I miss you. Why cant you see me as I see you? touch me as I think I am touching you. Hear my cry oh Almighty God, hasten the minutes. You wont, I already know, You don’t understand minutes as I cant understand eternity. There you are again, Alive in an…
Yet every time it is spoken other voices recognize and rise up to kill it. Shut it down, shut it up, lock it up, cut the tongue The corner susurrus, the store front ruminations, the stoop sermons, the bedroom supplications, the workplace divide and conquer, the hospital segregation/poor drugs/rich drugs the roadside confrontations/random et al the thoughts and prayers, Al Sharpton is tired/Jesse spent. yes indeed! the Negro is a spoken language not received; The Negro speaks like this, I…
Music is that other thing. And God saw that it was good/ and caused it To make all kinds of feelings and bring new words/ to spit from your mouth/ that nowadays spit from your fingers. Your keyboard has all the unwritten answers and knows all your business because you may delete delete, but it remembers every stroke you strike. Once you strike a letter and conjure a word and make some sentences and once you think about them and…
In the desert there is no time, no measure of such an idea. in the desert what do you do for sanity/ talk to God in language of the soul/ the wind/errant sand particles in your eyes, your nose, your hair/ You meditate and expect the stars for you to wander by, you see the moon you say, aha! its night. Night or day, it’s all that you know. not minutes, not hours, not weeks in the desert there is…
Poetry, not the rush of untamed Prose is the language of Creation. Unbound, punctuated with nature’s photographs, to still your heart sensitive only to the soft rush of sounds that pass as words that only you can decipher, in your silence, a gray morning when God Himself passes as a vapor across the sands where Angels’ feet imprinted time past. can anyone know your heart? Its only the wind that whispers and you collect the words as music/chords/notes/vibrations/desires/color…
She comes to me, Always she comes to me like a moth to a flame She comes to me. My eyelids flutter open She sits close to me and I can hear her breaths from behind me She sighs and crosses her legs and rests her papers on her lap She leans close to me and she speaks She speaks of things she is observing, observed She is finding language of the past and present, language, She furrows her…
Did I wreck your heart My love? Did my words wreck your heart? Did you die and die with The sweetest pleasure, Sigh, And Die Again Did you my love Sail on clouds Quite out of my reach To tempt more words From my mouth Calling you to return immediately My arms They shiver to hold you And did you my love Sail back to earth Embrace me One last time How bright Elysium appears That you are there My…
The verb To Love. It is liquid fire, it is a moving tide, it is the sweet headiness of Ambrosia taken on an empty stomach, it is the sound of ice particles chiming on crystal, it is a weeping Cello, a keening widow at a grave-side, arctic snow shadowed by the Northern lights, early morning showers, mango blossoms, bees, salt, headaches, a terrible moment such as this, it is dangerous, it is living and breathing without need of a single word,…