The Hempstock mice know all
all that is good
and all that is bad
and all that is too horrible to be known
they are the oldest of the old
they come from a place before
the place of nothing
and the time before
the beginning of the first time before
and if you believe the rumors
or if you don’t believe the rumors
they will be here long after
the last time of all

They have traveled the abyss
and set sail in and charted the void
they can gnaw through time and space
and reality is nothing
they cannot bend
or turn
or rearrange
or extinguish with just a thought

Let us be thankful
that they are animals of kindness
creatures of wisdom
spirits of love
and mice that believe in forgiveness

Their paws are hands that craft things
all things
from the first heart of the first star
to the black feathers
of the first raven and crow
they will craft the quill and the ink
that will write last word
of the last story to ever be told

They named the gods
that named your parents
that named you
and painted the names
of tomorrows children
in the heart of yesterdays dreams

They have seen the end
since before the beginning
and when nothing comes back
they will swallow

Time

and

Dream

and

Life

and keep them safe in their belly
and gnaw through to new beginnings
and their paws will be busy hands
crafting things
all things
and when they have made
the universe comfortable once more
they will let us fall
from the belly of their womb
and we will be the children of tomorrow
born from the heart of yesterday

Oldest of the old
wisest of the wise
kindest of the kind

Mice of all mice
mothers and fathers
of love and forgiveness

The Hempstock Mice

a dimple of great sadness yawns wide,
a timid fawn, eyes and ears small pearls

and it exists only in my body, mourning
lethargy. morning becomes lethargy,
a heavy predator. without commander
or command, it commences. flowering
into living sleep, i obey, when it beckons

primordially. the sky’s cerulean fingers
all sag. backwardly, blossoming
into muteness, all color
is fed to the inescapable

darkness. hand-fed inwardly, it is a gaping
thirst in the sea of unquenchable
hunger. i do not love it; it mimics

moonlight. the limpid doe,
a crystalline annihilator,

havocs the flower
to furlough the meadow
into the silence,
and into the black.

i am fortunate enough to choose my own melodies
as sadness drifts like a river through the night’s journey onward
forget your identity and merge with the trees along the shoreline
who is the gatekeeper anyway
she is the one who decides what is appropriate
i wish to meet her face and see her eyes
for what a challenging occupation it must be
this infinite being presides over our frustrated creativity
i see women dreaming like symphonies
making serendipitous discoveries
individual recoveries from addiction to imprisonment
symbols surround our mountains
and draw us down from the ethers
into present day realities
i choose to face the fire of the architect
as stardust collects on your shelves and altars
you may stall as long as you wish
for procrastination can never touch this
who found infinity first
to brag about it would be laughable
i question our obsession with thoughts
why we validate some and consider others repulsive
can there be value in individual ideas
or only in vast conglomerations
perhaps we are bound to an infinite chain of misnomers
if all skandas are fundamentally empty
including form, feelings, perceptions, formations and consciousness
then earth, water, fire, air, and ether
are all manifesting maya equally
this life may indeed be a satire or a tragedy
with a sprinkle of ire or perhaps a little irony