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.
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
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.
The autumn sun sweeps
clean the street, forlorn no more.
Even the litter-born history,
so recently past, cannot withstand it.
We think we’re the true organisms,
that to us belong the spoils
of living, and yet,
such marionettes of weather,
our strings showing
in spite of all our efforts,
the sky like water,
our hearts like wind.
He declines to be interviewed.
A glimpse, only,
a side-long breath, let out
too late, swallowed in haste,
not to appear too gullible,
too eager.
He craves the immediate,
catches the last hint of eternity
blazing past, unholy, oblivious,
his heart as blank
as his head.
Above the dingo wind,
a scaffold of melodies,
of harmonious disconsequence.
And here I am, left only with
questions, suggestions, repetitions,
cast a-breeze with no concealment.
The oceans within, the foaming main,
who can sail these dark seas?
exiles child 