From top bunk,
"Why does he do that?"
" killed wife and kids
" Driving drunk."
The inside alarm,
A Taunting dawn,
" it is getting cold."
In dreams of long ago--
Hunted and destroyed
By flashlight on night patrol,
And self pity,
Is the only talk,
Of a horrid cough,
And only exhaustion
Turns it off.
And when my eyes
For the ceo,
Scrubbing hi and low,
Those tall white men,
Where does the money go?
it's cold outside"
Reaching for the light,
How a man,
Died last night,
"The pic of death"
common dying sight,
Finger to finger as
in Vatican height*
I will not go,
I will reach for
true dawn I know,
I'll awake to caws
Of crow I sleep below,
I'll awake by recluse,
With venom truth,
Tickling across my face,
To close for view,
I'll awake to frost,
In the Forrest dark,
As it swallows up,
My heated evil cough,
Finger to gloom
As I am consumed.
How can I be the closest to the Earth, and still unknown,
How can I be the closest to the Sun, closest to the scorch,
and still have the most icy landlords in my poles,
why can you only see me during twilight, embracing a lover or the philosopher's stone.
How come from my surface, light does not work--light does not hurt, I do not blink as I think, even as the sunset pours lava forth, and that sunset is that lie of time, as you disappear in darkness, I almost disappear in light, then the stars scream across the sky, in a geminid shower rewind, in my unblinking muse, in the solar hues, the great inferno retreats, and the slower speed of Earth I view, And I see the astrologer, with his useless scope, trying to track my path, futile as the priests trying to invent my gold.
They cannot understand my core, with machines that are perfect because I am perfectly mercurial on the surface,
with the intense cold of my poles, and the intense burning solar gold of my repose, I view blinding light, then infinite starry night, and cold dark logic they are encased in--my deep dark basins, and the rolling truimph of my surface's relief, is from breathless standing ovation beneath. And they applaud in precious sand, a solar gift robbed in my barren lands , now is my region of my silver repose, no ovation no gold, just the stoic silver shadow from the starlight strobe, the shadows slant from every surface at the angle of an open volume being studied, until my dark volumes close due to starlight directly above me, then my clock strikes the hour, when my surface is reinvested with power, the oncoming of a sunset getting louder and louder, and in my face, cold lifeless blood, and on my stare, intense solar flare, watching graves start to to die, with the sunset looming, to sustain life by joining the great inferno's confusion, and becoming shadows from stars in my silver musing,
I am the twilight messenger--from my hazy theater of gaseous metal--where the applause can't bear to sit, , to the hall of my cold dark temple with long dead stars keeping it faintly lit, that you can only read in with my message of eclipse, my message is mercurial, it is theater caused by applause, the temple's pale light of long dead stars, in my eclipse, see what's hidden in movement, when my cold dark temple shines from its entombment, learn the inner ways of my temples outer gaze, and you will be few like me--the mystical Gnostic--
that can marvel at oncoming inferno that is soul painfully caustic.
My boyhood home consists of two horizons,
My boyhood home had shining white aluminum siding,
From the attic, I could view the loneliness above the trees,
From the front door, I could view the soil depressed below the street.
Code does not allow anymore,
To see whats buried underneath,
Or to see what the heavens have in store.
Into the side of a hill this house was built--of course,
down stone steps, and up rickety attic pine,
just like stone grave and wood casket combine,
I open the door--dark horizon, dark earth-- so sublime,
as if an infinite amount of crows are feasting on my view,
catching glimpses in the feast of bone white roots,
then to attic stairs I climb, the crow is in flight,
the lone crow, is assailed by infinite white,
and on that lone crow I watch the sky dine,
until the crows feast on the constellation Gemini,
then I think of her, I think of reversing time,
I descend, hoping both views do not coincide,
as if bone white roots can form again,
into a Sunday dress my sister has wore before,
that I only knew from albums that attics store.
But the two horizons, have coincided,
I feel the dark universe feeding on shining white aluminum siding,
there is no hiding,
I do not know how she went,
My steps sound so hollow on stone as I ascend,
and as I look back on that shining white armor,
I think her shining white knight harmed her,
but no darkness can feast her from my memory,
Its funny, sometimes there is a obscuring mist over the trees,
Only from my attic view it reveals a cloud city of mystery,
I like to think she is there,
Its funny, when that mist is in the air,
I run down the stairs, for the other horizon,
Bone white debris is not hiding,
Possible secret mushroom roots,
But they are glowing and flowing in spectacular white lighting--
The first communion that the cloudlike city is hiding.
And I think about reversing time--
When the horizons coincide.
Such hollow steps on stone as I leave,
Such a mist over trees,
Such a mist under street,
The dark universe feeds on me.
From the attic height, looking down gets to me, with her picture on my knee.
And also when that soil is too dark, too sublime,
And death prevails on the mind,
Those two horizons must not coincide.
Only I will wear white armor,
And live on in her honor,
Let the universe feast on me,
My hollow steps at night when I leave.
who is it now who loves me
who changes tune for every feast
of every new curve learned
who echoes deeply as I howl
responds to shimmies and the luster
sliding all along the rim
I like to think it's all of from him
but peering over edges I can see
who shines a light in darkness
It Is Me
A Dimension Of Suicide
I find it mysteriously sad,
watching my footprints in grass
Begin to fade,
With the upward bending of each returning blade.
My path is gone,
Aside from what I am standing on,
But what if.... where I see tufts in lawn,
My mirrored footprints pushing up and lasting long,
Into my world he pushes in,
A happy man with a stronger print.
As I wake with a worldly dream still inside my head,
I try to store it in the window beside my bed.
Reaching to touch a star and feeling the cold of glass instead,
I realize so close a world
since waking--has long been dead.
A silverscreen of car headlight beams,
gliding my walls conveys a supernatural theme,
Faster and faster,
'till the motion stills a scene,
In another world,
A man it seems?
Or a silky spectral suit
of asphyxiating white--
back to the color
of skeletons from dirt exhumed.
With an unbecoming
oblivion colored tie,
So flawlessly destroying
Edges onto spectral light.
And this suit would animate,
Gasping, trying to adjust,
The imperceptable knot,
Destroying, his tailored cumulus.
This tie stung with such a prelude,
it would only be akin,
to only one other view.
the wasp coming down the spider's tunnel,
and knowing your home is now your tomb,
waiting for the eggs to hatch,
and then consumed.
And in my portal was the wasp,
and with eight foreign eyes,
in my own home,
buried and eaten alive no matter how hard I fought.
Just looking into where I will be ending,
In destroying digestion,
I was already dissolving,
In darkness ensphered
looking out its lining
into a more abysmal atmosphere.
And touched a star on a cold window drawn,
To quickly make this dream be gone,
I ran barefoot outside,
To stand till dawn--
For holding down blades of cold wet lawn.--Keith Collard
My little Catholics,
so you will always remember,
the clock ticks "never" and "ever,"
in the dark waiting hall,
beyond the hearth's flaring ember,
in that dark lonely hall,
both ways of 'father's echoing lever,
"ever" to be in hell, "never" to be heaven,
the only forgetting,
in that lonely stone hall,
is "never to be in heaven,"
then the ember re -installs,
back down to that hot setting,
the only other time to tell,
"never to be in heaven"
"toc" ...forever in hell"
and my little studious Catholics,
as the hearth reflects up and down stone wall,
your art, inventions, money, woman you recall,
"tic" never to be in heaven,
and that is not all,
are you not forgetting,
the other time, that the end of time will tell,
"never to be in heaven"
vacillates back to "ever in hell"
and in between the ember re installing,
your God defying life you are recalling,
that fire beyond the hearth, like no other on earth,
it is birth of death, and death at birth,
never to be in heaven,
is maddening enough,
to make you drink hot coals to quench your thirst,
then the chime less and timeless time will tell,
discarded from God,
into the coals-- feet first,
never to be in heaven, ever to be hell.
So my little studious Catholics,
SIT UP--EYES FORWARD,
Think of the Catechism
and NOT THE RINGING OF THE CLASSROOM BELL.
Been homeless for awhile now,
april is hard,
april is always hard,
been april for awhile now,
wish I never met her,
no predicting her weather,
when the sun comes through
I am the sweating winter fool,
and when she goes away,
such a dream was May,
Dreaming of May for awhile now,
forever is always hard,
dreaming is April,
everything is so close,
like the winter locker with summer clothes,
and when you lose something,
only April knows,
been April for months now,
hard months forever in April,
been coughing awhile now,
cold and painful is April rain,
Been homeless for awhile,
April is always hard,
Been having glimpses of May,
They are cold and painful,
They forever remind me,
There is no adapting,
April is the month of dreaming.