My muse is dried up lately--a drought in a drought (I know I'm not the only one whose pen is mystically lubricated by rain)--but here are two poor things I wrote on whims, just fragments of pushy moments in my head or what I noticed.
(untitled)
The aubergine moon I want to peck out of the dusk
And feed to you baby bird
And that dusty orb falling from my lips down your throat
Would crumble dry
bitter grinding stones between your teeth
or melt
explosive dust of ocean in your mouth
I Believe that when God created the Universe
He gave Himself
Fiat Lux
And what was Lux
but the Eternal Light that was and is
Truth converted into existence
Through the Greatest Act
of equal and opposite reaction
Suddenly lack of Lux
is darkness
takes form
and the sacrifice is duality
and death defeats duality
death defeats death
and the answer is
it’s fine now
and
it is now
supernova your Soul
leave nothing for yourself
give
yourself
and yourself is given
Truth somewhere behind before and inside it all
Subatomically disguised as what creates us
is What creates us
From dust to dust
Fiat Lux
Speak and be spoken
into life,
and give thanks.
The Porter
You sit uncomfortably in yourself,
wishing for less sink in the cushions,
or longer legs,
checking your Rolex with intentional glint
and mention your diary
in practiced casual.
We all know that you shudder in the evening
and feel terribly mortal.
We try to care
and rush off to wherever, leaving you
and your rigor mortis fingers
wrapped like leather
around so many handles.
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