Dilapidation sunk its teeth into you
Shearing off your softer side
Exposing your skeletal essence
Which had cut off calcium from cows
Long ago
Leaving it on the brink of brittleness
As if the blow from a kiss
Would deconstruct to dust
The bones that once bore the strength
To love without fear
The depthless darkness
Sighed as it seized
The hairs of greybeards
The cries of newborns
Seeing them as funds for a festival
In the district of destruction
Hosted by hollowness
And all of agony would attend
Enjoying endless examples of extinction
Melancholy would come bearing a broom
Sweeping up the sea of scattered skulls
That this crowd had dropped as mere debris
I paddle as he talks
Of life, and the veil just behind it
The water plops as he plods,
On about the things humans never deserved
Saying we have no true structure, style, or word
All is annihilated by the Absurd
Yet with his nugget of knowledge in mine
I paddle on
A petty Ode to the brilliant Albert Camus
Amongst the broken ships
I see thy standing upon a sinking deck
No chains bound her in place
The glare of sunlight shields her face
Then swans and sparrows come in pairs
Settling upon her feet
Pecking and prodding with cooing sounds
Their music a masterful soothing score
That drowns out the brutish ocean’s roar
So that a new sea of melody floods the world
Then all these notes flow into the girl
Resting within her once rigid heart
Which has now become a sacred Ark
She lays along her porch
In clothes of comfort
Enclosed in comforts
A modest house
A ancestral skill
A family purring in peace
Yet I’d only want a piece
Of her
None of all that other
Such a western reality
Is rooted in my mentality
To see her behind a glass
As children gawk and gasp
Here I am wearing an October mask,
here I am having assumed the wind,
my words having peaked with passion,
red leaves painting cemetery grasses.
Memories uncoil,
flash like a startled snake,
scales, fragments of scales...
How many have my mothers been,
even more than all the tombstones seen.
How many autumns and winters have watched
leaves of my own, loss of vigor and blood...
How many winters have invaded my blood...
How many were the joys
to which summers had given birth,
the summers watching them, at last,
return to earth.
How greatly I feared death, my desire each time
drawing the spirit back to earth,
the fear giving birth
to countless sufferings
many of which flowed and frothed,
pointless.

Here I am with a bird's eye view,
senses sharpened a hundredfold more
than human senses can be.
The contours of forest,
the little pathways,
landscape of cemetery grasses,
two storks steeped in stillness
all converge
to form a beautiful blushing face
of a young woman, it seems,
reminding me of my countless
human dreams,
and of the dark Lady that now
summons me to finer, more fulfilling themes.
Being human was beautiful,
glorious at times,
but it was more beautiful to awake,
and there are more beautiful realms
to conjure or make.
One spirit has invited me over
to see some new paintings,
other universes, other realms,
a spirit once called William Blake.
A trembling leaf, lifted
By a passing truck
Where a Mother and daughter
Sing in vaulted out of tune tongues
Their hands salted in sweat
From a day of numbing unnamed work
A strand from each of their hair
Floats out of the window
One flying into the forest
To rest upon a fallen tree
That had seen enlightenment
In the darkest most obscure storm
The other strand floating
For many miles
Into a crowded city,
Sampling each sound
Gesture,
Pace,
Before landing atop a door handle
Savoring the touch
Of so many souls
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