glassdimly

i am awake in dawn
thoughtlessly alive
in a stream of life

past a collection of islands
against a grey sea
in a system of seas
infinite swirling grey
revolving about an black abyss
that is needing

i am moving
in increments
of eight
by sixty
by sixty

I am moving
still smaller
past atoms
quarks
leptons
bosons
and fermions
the spaces between things
are not rules, no.

God was a tiny speck
I saw him
narrow
through the iron bars

Thrashing
in white
I threw myself
straightjacketed
against them all

I love my just so God
white like me.

i am taking apart

a world of legos
color by color
ink is dripping
like blood
from latexed hands

putting together
my feet slip
and I lay sleeping
where I have fallen

i wake
in bloody morning
to dip my pen

i make a list
of poems
messy
as the dawn

whiteness

is a dream
i woke to
soul screaming
with bad rock
in an adolescent doldrum

suburban night
was quiet
i ghosted
in obtrusive black
a glowing cigarette
against an empty playground

the night
is a dark love
of mystics and devils

the moon
a perilous mistress
hard against cement

would you ride her to God
small man?
as yet
untested
by the mediocrity of morning
a thousand sands of day
wearing the heart
to a lumpy putty

a rage
would crash against the sea
at least a few times

and tear a king
from a white paper heart
burning

and pressing on
towards the shining letters
white in the headlights

a billboard in the distance
brilliant with moonlight

and another billboard
tall above nebraska's
golden waves

not even out yet

I do not exist
he said
nor does the agency
I represent.

Harken unto
my absence
and the deafening noise
of silence
defiantly
unmaking.

Memory is a world

the sawing bow:
a violin strung with humans,
quiver with melody
and ache forth tears.

I am a world
I carry with me
dying a life
somewhere else
I am a memory.

a poem
frozen lipped and dead
the world is this woman
gorgeous, a keening wail
the wind kisses her hair
she is memory
and I the wind.

and walking back
to walk the slumbering walk
in this world someone killed
but vexes continually

the world is a gorgeous woman
frozen-lipped and dead
and the wind kisses her hair
like memory

Recently another book accosted me and gripped me for several days before I was released, barefoot revolutionary priests dancing at the elusive edges of my vision. The book was entitled Liberation Theology: the Essential Facts about the Revolutionary Movement in Latin America and Beyond by Phillip Berryman.

The Society of the Spectacle is one of the key theoretical works representing a body of work by a group of revolutionary artists called the Situationists.

The Situationists are most famous for their role in precipitating the nation-wide French strike (which may have ended in a bloodless revolution had it not been for police intervention).