dead-now

-- All the mirror holds is empty flesh. Eyes, instead, --and actions--prove. If the heart is dead, nothing moves. Ancients' tongues wag to and fro: new-claimed relics we never heed. (Live by dogma here or dogma there) Sweet seems all this superficial clout until one or more shoot down the man who first spoke the first sick joke we all followed. Raise up newfound armies made of smoke. Write on air our truest hearts' desires for the whole future race, then bash some skulls. It's time the mirror broke and showed the wall we thought we'd never find. --

-- The sun burns North. Spirits wax restless each day the crew's camped in quarters counting vapor breaths at the watch. And nothing. Captain at the bow, hands locked behind and ice on his brow. Orders stand. But the sun burns North. And the sails shiver. --

-- Words are all we have and thus they are gods. So says the Revelator: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.” From the very beginning we were given words and the One Word, God, whatever word that may be for anyone. Whatever it is, and whatever it was, was enough. The opening of the creation of the earth, according to John, begins with a word.

-- goal post structure sacred not sacred --

-- Humanity, you fake! You breaker of promises, you preacher of mind's eye turned to Green Eye, what are you planning? I have heard your songs and watched your plays. I have seen you pat your back when some foreign cluster accepts acceptance (you are thousands of years too late). Humanity, are you scared? Are your traditions real? Genuine? I don't buy what you sell. Not after Socrates. Not after Jesus. Not after Gandhi or King. Not after Lennon. But I do want your answers. Not your face-value dependency crutches; I want the bone-marrow truth. Humanity, you've killed decency. I have seen your daughters dressed in skank. I have seen your raven

-- The room is warm, curtains drawn; quiet. No smell of food on the air. A cloth pattern on the arm of a rocking chair: cross stitch unfinished enough not to recognize the design, with a thread tail and needle fitting snugly in the very center, careful not to undo the up, down up, down, up threading now sitting just so. And on an idle table, a note: "All this buttoning and unbuttoning." --

-- I find the grass in constant growing pain.  Sometimes it is green or brown and suffocated under leaves or snow or ill-placed human conveniences.  It is sometimes gashed open to make way for feet and sometimes the feet don't wait.  It is never noticed or appreciated until it grows too long and humans inflict traumatic degradation by mowing.  And it never retaliates.  Ever. But if I plucked a tuft of grass, I could show you universes.  Universes inside universes so compact that we only see what we think we can and claim it 'just so.'  I could then place that tuft of gras

-- The snow was heavy under midnight's guise. The white ground reflected city lights into the clouds: it was as bright as the half light that bled over the mountains and flowed into the valleys just hours before (the sun died peacefully). The air was silent: a powder keg soundtrack sitting on a camel's back. There were dead flags on poles or lying in ashes. Smoke seeped through the earth on every horizon like the breath of a dragon slumbering after a fierce campaign. No one was left to inhale the dust and ash. Their bodies were dormant and they dreamed their faith. And a Dandelion stood stout in a field of grey and so

-- The sky is my ocean and a cloud is my raft; I grow weary of the oar's fantasy scrapes at the air And the relapse of images that seem in infinite loop And the birds as they mock my craft with their perfect rhythm And how the trees look like grass from up here. The people have lost sight of me, but they are in my sight and I see where they're going And I gaze in front of me, above me, beside me, below me And suddenly the smile of the moon is as large as my own And I forget the oar's crooked trail spread out in wakes behind me And the sky and the raft and the birds and the trees are me And the people are me and I am the peo

-- It started with a monk. Morse-code scrapes waltzed a picture: a thousand words and more, screaming "Outlaw these laws." And the listeners scratched at their eyes as the silent sounds raped the people of their favorite sins. The cardinals were matched and fear dribbled from their chins. --