This Is Not A Cloud,
That Blows Across The Sky
In A Stretch Of Time 05/04/1985
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Mother, what is this disquiet?
Because I come & go?
Contrary to what you seem to know,
There is no house, here,
That does not have a floor of dirt.
No, I do not **** my thumb,
But, if you listen to your heart,
You will see my smile.
Now & then companion grief does knock.
Here, our chief, he owns the air
And is stranger to none.
Ah, what you seek!
You can find it in the eyes
Of the stranger who rocks your cradle.
I, who overhear the conspiracies of angels…
Do you think I can spread the sky,
Raise roof beams,
And yet have no remedy for tears?
Constant is the questioning.
The happiness on high
Is as great as the grief below;
And yet, where you stand,
They are united.
What is the mystery?
Over the hill a trumpet calls.
Job 7: 9,10
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
Metaphor is not a bridge over the abyss between madness & the sublime;
It is only a signpost pointing to it.
If there is an end to the abyss it is merely your finiteness.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
There is no boat that can carry you there;
No wings that are able to fly you there.
Your feet will stumble before they bring you.
The door is forgotten & easily mistaken.
Alas, it is forsaken;
Multitudes pass.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
11/09/09 1:35pm
It might be forever too soon
To celebrate Victory.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC