We live, not moment to moment,
but in a single eternal moment,
soft and unyielding, like splinters
of destiny,
songs in the heart of the universe,
unheard, unhummed,
but by the small almost still
vibration of unseeable things,
now real, now gone,
now magnified to deathless
breathlessness, beyond, finally,
all knowing.
One day, we’ll fly there on
wings of dying, spread ourselves
across the native sky
like phantom snow.
It’s always the same
when I write, always
litanies,
lists,
comma after comma,
the occasional
semicolon;
there’s even a period now and then.
Never a swan.
We spend our lives
trying to mute the noise
unaware that it’s
the very music of the cosmos
we’re so desperate to hear
Adam
Had ’em
~ Ogden Nash
Also Eve,
I believe
A breath of reason, quiet
As a slumbering guard,
Easy as falling, effortless
As unknowing.
Then whimsy shifts the burden
And our wings become despair,
The high notion of pointlessness
When all visible light fails
And only the path remains,
Unlit and wholly
Vulgar as a bishop,
Only more like a cat in heat.
The ancient wisdoms fail to impress
Upon us the hasty times
In which we live,
With left baggage
From countless dead hours,
From times when it took
Only a second thought
To kill an idea,
When enslaved and enslavers alike
Believed the same corrupt verses,
When change was a thing
Of generations.
So ring cold the wind,
Bring down the ancient will to
Dance, among the chosen,
And sing, among the frozen.
The old cycles continue,
Now stronger, now weaker,
But always sure-footed, inevitable
Unto the unforeseeable.
The same skills — to kill,
To hunt, to take away without
Hesitation — still function
But how long?
Geology is gaining on us.
Our charts are uncertain,
Blank just where we need them,
Gaping lacunae for us to leap into.
exiles child 