I speak on a flat dream.
It squeaks inside its ream.
The ream of dreams are safe within their seams.
A page may be exactly what it seems.
If ink were a hallucinogen, triggered by a touch
and words became chemical codes for real things,
I am a lunatic addict with flapping wings.
I want the oily ink to black my tongue and
stream from eye cracks and erode my stone
lips and slick my rusted copper jaw
and raven me black feathers and an enigmatic “Caw!”
The rook shakes the cold off like fog
perched on your shoulder, hungry for a mind,
worming into ears and eyes and tasting each in kind.
I found you in a chill heat
by the creeping of your talon feet.
Fly through this oily sea and let us meet
together on our unassuming sheet.
These 3 poems I randomly wrote during class. I’ve missed writing.
All hail the database administrator,
the principal of boxes, liege of facts
who arbitrates the accessing concurrent
and hires all his vassals with contracts.
He scratched his head, he shook it, and he wept
from sealed capsule windings in his eyes
and wondered at the lights and rackets ’round.
He padded at the doorstep of the wise
but all his anxious fury only crept
back to its master’s sickly echoed sound.
The shepherd watches over his flock
and his tongue tastes their wet scent
and his ears curl at the market’s growl.
For love or lust, the shepherd went
to the temple and took stock
of the prices at the corral.
Sorry about the absence. Just been busy with school and things.
All the air is gray, a hiss and sigh
of vapors from the towering sky
dropping unseen needles, shimmering light
into the streams of water wandering by.
My coat has garnered particles of white
and shining, heavy from the slippery site.
My hood covers my eyes and hides my face
from rain, from animation, and from light.
Fat stone I am, the granite of the place.
I am the hieroglyph of human race.
The lines are written in the living eyes,
the crevices and creases of my face.
We all washed up and revealed to the skies
to bear the storm, the air to which we rise.
Hope! Stones cry out, rejoice the withering rite
that makes us pleasing to the Father’s eyes.
Sitting quiet in an empty room
one notices the little sounds that fill
the silence you once thought was always there
under the river of voices.
In the stillness something moves,
rattling the walls, creaking the doors
of ratway halls and subterranean floors.
It is the room itself that quivers so.
The grainy ground underneath it all
might be shifting with watery weight.
Rains washing in sheets across the rocky plates
bend, break the steel these walls were planted on.
So the sounds are signs of the falling, falling earth.
Let men then wonder what their walls are worth.
But these walls of plaster and of stone
can think and see and feel, all being made
in the image of man who does the same.
At least, I like to think of them that way.
And I imagine, seated quietly
that the walls and rocks even as they grow old
are crying out because we are silent.
We have become stone, and creation animated in its dying
crying “Blessed is the King who comes
in the name of the Lord!
Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!”