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| Growing up
Differently
doesn't mean
nothing is ok
with yourself or the other,
It just means
nothing is ok
for a long time.
Speaking as much
is certain
to make waves,
But who wants to be
in a boat
with no idea
what'll make it
capsize?
I'd rather know,
and fall out in the process,
than delay the inevitable,
climb back in
wet from
head to toe,
and hope for
smooth sailing,
Or go back
into shore and get on
another boat.
Speaking as much
Is sure cause
for either capsizing
or weathering
the storm.
I'd rather know in advance.
| | |
| I fell, I'm falling
I feel I'm finding my way
through falling away
by letting it go,
letting go and becoming
a spark, a comet
a dark, cold plumet
into what is not yet
but will be,
we'll see
with eyes anew, and the wind whistles
through
only after the fall,
after all is let loose, and I
find falling swiftly
the mind is a chasm
I cannot fathom,
but the secret is all
in the fall,
in the plunging leap,
from the steep place
of certain steps
to wind in the face,
race into the dark,
and find the spark
of recognition,
your mission, your all,
in the fall.
I fell,
and now I'm well.
Hell wasn't waiting;
No, there was no floor--
I fell, I feel
To soar. | | |
| "Weeping may endure for the night,
but joy...
joy comes in the morning...
in the morning."
I'll wait till then, then. | | |
| Pearls Before Swine
10/18/09, so much for that...
I’ve given to dogs,
I’ve given to dogs what is mine,
Pearls before swine!
Pearls before swine
Every time
I open my heart,
I open my heart,
And I’m torn apart,
All my best,
Is trampled in dust,
I’m trampled in dust
Every time I attempt to believe
The best,
I’m mauled by the beast,
By the icy heart of cowardice,
This! This is my lot!
Rot! Rot!
By the icy fangs of naught,
I’m bitten, mauled
And left
For death, bereft
Bereft, bereft…
The howling dogs tear apart
The worthless
Piece of my heart,
Of advise, of counsel,
Unwise,
Understanding, open-handed
Offered kindness,
Benight! Benighted, bleeding
Sand, the grand
Escapade, the grandiose
Crusade!
Execute! Expunge! Plunge
Deep the fangs,
Deep the drains,
The blood flows out,
The licking tongues
Taste their fill
And kill
Through drifting away,
Away…away…
the worthless death—refuse,
disuse, swept
to the side,
denied,
every time…every time…
what is holy
consumed,
re-spumed,
licked the vomit,
left to dry,
to die…to die…and lie
a pile of dung,
unsung.
Do not give to dogs what is worthless,
Or they will return and lick you
Off the pavement.
Cast your bread upon the vomit
And in seven days
Your brains will be dashed
Every time, every time
By the swine,
Cast your pearls!
Cast your pearls! Worthless piles
Of putrescence,
Are these things:
Your dreams, your trust,
Your love, affection—
All dust;
Consideration is rust;
Is lust; is dust.
All lust… all lust…
All your best,
Is rust…
You’re stupid to trust,
Stupid to trust,
Stupid to trust every time,
Every swine,
Every swine snorts and tears
The heart,
Tears the tears from your torn-out
Half-eaten eyes,
From your bloody cries
Gurgles foolish surprise—
Your best gifts, your best hopes, your best prayers
Are all lies,
Are all pearls before swine,
Pearls before swine,
Piles before time…come and dine…
Come and dine…
Form a line and come
Dine…I
Dine…I die…I die…
I lie...I lie…
Lie…
| | |
| So said the warbler, the darkdusk Ladylamp,
So spoke the cormorant, in the watercold
wintercome wind,
I heard it once in the egret air,
Once in the sea-side soar
of distant souls,
In the gulls' lament,
in the plangent scream
of a merlin,
or the serene gleam of the silent swan,
white as transfigured light,
It was uttered on the reeds
of rills and streams, kestrel-haunted.
the Red-throat vaunted its reiteration,
The enigma's endless variation--
The Heron-hunted, falcon-swift
adjuring
Of all the living,
In concert to reply--
Lark, Goldfinch, Thrush,
Caracara,
and all that fly
with a rush of wings, of wind-tossed calls,
tumult-dashing flash,
The world breathes in, and flaps and sings
A riddle beyond my ken:
How knows the wren to sing?
How knows the gliding flock of geese
To summer south?
How will my waterfowlfeet know where to walk?
Who taught my littered lips
the art of speech...the flight of song? | | |
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