Part I
Unstill is the earth and calm is the air
as farmers rise in the early hour
before anyone can even see the sun.
Farmers till the soil,
unearth the past and yet mother is proud
(and yet we may feed off her thinning belly).
But still the earth spins, the horizon nears
and there appears
as storm clouds hanging low,
lights crackling
dancing across the sky
against a mist as rain too falls.
All heard the crash of thunder,
sounding from cliff to cliff
as if reality yet may be torn asunder.
But farmers and townsfolk alike pay no heed
and ignorant of the cookie cutter clouds coming closer
and with strength no more than an echo,
but that still may shake the foundations of houses and of tree.
This storm comes not solely with wind and rain:
it is plunder for that she hungers,
and vengeance rides upon her shoulders.
Like many days before and many days after
hammer blows are heard across the valley,
the din of metal ringing against metal echoes
among wood and river
until, in some distant glen, it dies as it combines with
the slow murmur of life,
becomes hidden in the early day’s darkness.
Though the work of the day indeed needs done
and these men and women are fit to do it.
No one endures for a moment to think about that sound in the distance,
the low rumbling
some say of earth some say of heaven
and some say the sound of hell gurgle-screaming
across the doorsteps of our homes,
and so work with no thought,
workers slamming hammers against anvils,
patient to the demands of the soft metal.
Now rain clouds gather together
and prophecy long predicted comes true
the rain pelts holes and welts in exposed backs
makes right original sins:
wanton lust and selfish greed stirred into the meal of the day.
Part II
Maybe an umbrella opens and maybe a window closes,
but rain, its rank mud flow like a river,
wind blowing through bedrooms,
water rising, flooding over windowsills
water spilling out and pouring our personal secrets across the ruin;
the secret kisses or unwelcome advances of girls and boys.
And crack, the hammer is heard!
Through no one though hearing
except that of the crack of
concrete breaking;
wind scattering dust
water and rock.
And the low din,
the sounds of the smithy dimmed:
a long human sigh.
Looted media and
unexpected sources;
evacuated refugees
the living dead and who among us?
the hearts and minds and souls on television,
The bloated lies stripped bare and torn apart
as rabid, feral animals.
Accountant strikes gavel;
day dusk then darkness.
Part III
Shadow grows up under increasing light,
The sun pushes through, workers lament
mass migration and loss of work.
The cycle returns renders progress mute
dead stones sink swimmers.
Sludge of creation ferments deep inside
name this experiment.
Humans still crawl to some light
less the absence of dark and we wonder at
perspire at swirling sweat, collected in buckets:
recycled remains of yesterday’s fears.
In time the worker’s return and to what,
future sits uncertain before us
Though tragedy of the commons
choices being poor
and the repetition of the worst
the worst halves win and seeks larger families,
but new buildings spring summer buds
Though frighten the familiar
dead boast complete confidence,
architects rise early
horses breathe deep gallop forth,
blood streams behind the memories of old remembered,
Not learn future but repeat past;
In this past is prologue, but so too is present.
Part IV
Months crawl to years and years pass
sand through glass
our species reborn as the same people moved on
though still earthly the color of the people be
They kneel down elbow deep
streets full of the excess of bloated sewers
and rainfall from the hurricane,
exception the accepted prior planning passed aside.
Attention span deficit clinics
a buck to the nearest stranger
hope dwindles proportional
To rising privatization as time changes records show
recess our own perception of how we exist in the great emptiness and openness
this air we breathe.
Convex is the shape of our minds
unchanged potential left yet unrewarded.
Literal meaning of the
kamikaze daydream
of the incessant squawk from a parrot dying
breathing
no indulgence unfettered
leaking deep white and dull gray putty-like matter.
Table top pollution,
scraped and tossed lobster cooked bright red
then lost in the riddles and ripples running up
against mountain sides and hill sides and our eternal nature to react with vigor but to
prepare with dismal failure.
Unstill is the earth and calm is the air
as farmers rise in the early hour
before anyone can even see the sun.
Farmers till the soil,
unearth the past and yet mother is proud
(and yet we may feed off her thinning belly).
But still the earth spins, the horizon nears
and there appears
as storm clouds hanging low,
lights crackling
dancing across the sky
against a mist as rain too falls.
All heard the crash of thunder,
sounding from cliff to cliff
as if reality yet may be torn asunder.
But farmers and townsfolk alike pay no heed
and ignorant of the cookie cutter clouds coming closer
and with strength no more than an echo,
but that still may shake the foundations of houses and of tree.
This storm comes not solely with wind and rain:
it is plunder for that she hungers,
and vengeance rides upon her shoulders.
Like many days before and many days after
hammer blows are heard across the valley,
the din of metal ringing against metal echoes
among wood and river
until, in some distant glen, it dies as it combines with
the slow murmur of life,
becomes hidden in the early day’s darkness.
Though the work of the day indeed needs done
and these men and women are fit to do it.
No one endures for a moment to think about that sound in the distance,
the low rumbling
some say of earth some say of heaven
and some say the sound of hell gurgle-screaming
across the doorsteps of our homes,
and so work with no thought,
workers slamming hammers against anvils,
patient to the demands of the soft metal.
Now rain clouds gather together
and prophecy long predicted comes true
the rain pelts holes and welts in exposed backs
makes right original sins:
wanton lust and selfish greed stirred into the meal of the day.
Part II
Maybe an umbrella opens and maybe a window closes,
but rain, its rank mud flow like a river,
wind blowing through bedrooms,
water rising, flooding over windowsills
water spilling out and pouring our personal secrets across the ruin;
the secret kisses or unwelcome advances of girls and boys.
And crack, the hammer is heard!
Through no one though hearing
except that of the crack of
concrete breaking;
wind scattering dust
water and rock.
And the low din,
the sounds of the smithy dimmed:
a long human sigh.
Looted media and
unexpected sources;
evacuated refugees
the living dead and who among us?
the hearts and minds and souls on television,
The bloated lies stripped bare and torn apart
as rabid, feral animals.
Accountant strikes gavel;
day dusk then darkness.
Part III
Shadow grows up under increasing light,
The sun pushes through, workers lament
mass migration and loss of work.
The cycle returns renders progress mute
dead stones sink swimmers.
Sludge of creation ferments deep inside
name this experiment.
Humans still crawl to some light
less the absence of dark and we wonder at
perspire at swirling sweat, collected in buckets:
recycled remains of yesterday’s fears.
In time the worker’s return and to what,
future sits uncertain before us
Though tragedy of the commons
choices being poor
and the repetition of the worst
the worst halves win and seeks larger families,
but new buildings spring summer buds
Though frighten the familiar
dead boast complete confidence,
architects rise early
horses breathe deep gallop forth,
blood streams behind the memories of old remembered,
Not learn future but repeat past;
In this past is prologue, but so too is present.
Part IV
Months crawl to years and years pass
sand through glass
our species reborn as the same people moved on
though still earthly the color of the people be
They kneel down elbow deep
streets full of the excess of bloated sewers
and rainfall from the hurricane,
exception the accepted prior planning passed aside.
Attention span deficit clinics
a buck to the nearest stranger
hope dwindles proportional
To rising privatization as time changes records show
recess our own perception of how we exist in the great emptiness and openness
this air we breathe.
Convex is the shape of our minds
unchanged potential left yet unrewarded.
Literal meaning of the
kamikaze daydream
of the incessant squawk from a parrot dying
breathing
no indulgence unfettered
leaking deep white and dull gray putty-like matter.
Table top pollution,
scraped and tossed lobster cooked bright red
then lost in the riddles and ripples running up
against mountain sides and hill sides and our eternal nature to react with vigor but to
prepare with dismal failure.
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