First Monday in Boreal Time

Time sings in the forest
places have their songs
linear melodies break down
a cadence solders
but the melody might as well be
water
or sky
what it sounds like where they meet
I come to crossroads
crossing streams
horizon rushing on toward
aurora
boreal time signatures
are like wings on falcons
time dives and reaches
cloud-sewn peaks
nothing and then
hours, disappearing days,
arriving nights;
those moonsun temples
you cannot stay in one song
long.
Everything has a song
and we are the cherubim,
and we lament so that
evil sounds beautiful
by its beauty it is conquered.
From dark bogs
static spirits flash in peripherals
eyes detect the spirit but
concrete minds shut out
a million shades of one note
leave the angels suspended
the spirits half cocked.

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Manchurian Pageantry

 

Where the stoicism met mercurial wings,

And tragic circumference of eventuality,

The battered redeemer was calling into pits.

halo of red light

Candles of tallow

Hung on walls of many hopeful iris,

Like great maps of humanity’s color

Illuminated of the boar.

Below the glow the recluse

As alone in this

World, as is the world alone

Among innumerable stars and

Scorched eternal things,

Of which finite subjects populate

The far-flung shores,

Cells that die,

Bones that break.

So swaddle about you your coat of many

Colors, and

empty your ashtray of

Mortal bread.

Recognize the stillness at the center

Of every beast, man, or lady lurks

Manchurian pageantry, so be on your toes

And say nothing quickly.