Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Unstill the Earth; draft

Part I

Unstill the earth calm the air
farmers rise in early hour
before anyone basks in the coming light.
Farmers till soil
and in so doing knowledge unearthed from the past:
our mother proud (yet we may feed off her thinning belly).

The earth spins and the horizon nears
as a brooding presence of storm clouds hung low,
lights crackle and
dance through
across the sky
against mist
rain falls:
a crash of thunder heard from cliff to cliff
and reality yet will be torn asunder.

But townsfolk and farmers pay little heed to the clamor
and ignorant of the cookie cutter clouds rolling closer
their strength still no more than a distant echo
even though it now shakes the foundations of house and tree,
this storm did not come to lash solely with wind and rain
this storm comes to plunder.

Like many days before and many days after,
hammer blows heard across valleys,
the ring sliding past
woods and rivers and
combining with the sound of life
becomes hidden in the early day’s darkness
and though the work of the day needs done
these men and women are fit to work it.

Not one endures thoughts of that
sound in the distance, the low rumbling of
some say earth some say heaven
and many say sound of hell rumbling
across our hometowns. All work but no thought
ringing hammer against anvil,
impatient to the demands of soft metal.

Now rain clouds gather together; the prophecy
long predicted comes true to the eyes of the true believer
in them the rain pelts and makes right our original sins:
wanton lust and selfish greed stirred into the meals of 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 privitization 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
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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