and then the churches
not a climbing peel
not the telling of bells
but an absense felt
a spirit skin hammering out the pressure
the clung tongues of worry
Babel Tolls

Fellowing
then following
and opposing this
A deprevision blow to the senses
a ballooning calm
A nature of electricity makes itself stage, tone
and is source of beacon
A strobe of invitation
past the the mid mark of night

It sounds like prose,
perfect sentence,
punctuation and all.
But broken up here and there,
an attempt to imitate poetry.

To say words that are not words:
Driven - like a wind blown plastic bag:
Uncertain, circling, bobbing around -
But driven it is, if not tapped,
it’ll reached the seas and be lost:
To bring into existence a thing never heard.

A fragment, a hint, an ineffable thing,
an echo of the Word, long lost since Babel;
Yet living, its life’s magic very much potent,
resonant, manifold and transcendental.

Encouraged by similar sounds and whispers,
of dead and living poets,
of the same spirit but differently gifted.
That I owe it to all of them to do my part,
to craft this unique bit of mine.

And the ethereal Word,
more wholesome by the Day,
that it may soon resound,
loud and unambiguously,
that even the dead will rise.

word to us speak
words cannot say
ancient fragments scattered
word in words embedded
craft by spirit and intuition moved
faint and fleeting echoes conjured
strange voices awakened soul
word unspeakable spoken

Don't scream "I love you" from the mountaintops,
competing with the babel and clamor of the world.
Whisper it to me in the still silence of the night,
making me strain to hear it,
blocking out the din of the universe to focus on the melody of your voice.
Let me feel it infuse the skin of my neck,
carried by the sweetness of your breath.

Taste the black and white keys
Caked with the blood of passion
Sweep the streets of keyless doors
Find the lock that fits under the trees
Ration the waves of this nation
And the lonely desert breeze

I have seen the golden sheen
In the alchemy of ages gone
I have worn the berserker's skin
And sung the piper's song
I have heard the sound of earth
And I have learned the beating of the land
I have learned that God can not be captured
By any mortal man

The tower will always fall
But flight will forever be ambition
The human soul is impregnable
The revolution never asks permission
To place that first brick down
Take more than it's been given
To see God within the clouds
And pull him down to be forgiven

i sometimes find myself
thinking about time
and its ability to shrink me
to a singularity in space
and remind me of my unimportance
my insignificance in the face of
a marching army intent
on mowing me down
and splashing their leather boots
in the puddles of my blood
that runs through the fields
and waters the crops
takes a part of me to nourish
from east coast to west coast
to the heartland
and beyond the sea

sometimes i think about
how time takes history
into its sanguinely stained mouth
silver spoon held gingerly
in a vice grip in the
hand of a grandfather that
knows all my secrets
and my shame
he swallows them
masticated to a grey mass
whose form has been lost
an amorphous ball of
unspeakable words and
dreams that had until recently
lived in the pit of my stomach
burrowing into my bowels
trying desperately to escape
to break free from the misty world
of 'if's and 'maybes'
of 'hope'
of reckless abandon

if the words escaped
somehow
the infinite gravity of
time's death grip
could the blind masses comprehend them?
gathered around the
burning wreckage of that
shooting star that fell
from the wide open
obsidian sky
they speak
but they do not understand
they hear
but they do not listen
and my dream
my desperate words that
condensed until they both
imploded into a vitreous glass
of transparent delusion
and exploded to burn
and consume the world that
they have neglected
as they gather around
my message
and their own Tower of Babel
where they've lost their words.