Wednesday, October 24, 2012

On Religion

Place the lay monk in a room
full of earthen statues of men in prayer.

So that when he opens his eyes,
he finds mute reassertion.

And everytime he believes
that it is time to end a prayer,
He shames himself in the reproach of
a thousand glassy eyes raised heavenward.

And each time he places his folded hands
on the warm,thumping cloister under his robes,
To him,it reverberates in the chests
of the solid, cast men around him.

So that all his questions are answered in silence.
And any movement made by him,
driven by his own will,
is an act of infringement.

And so that his fear resides,
Not in forgetting the One
whose name he chants in cycles,
But in being seen when he does so.

good measure

Whoever it was that told you
it's worthwhile to dream of wings
has a stiff-necked, singular way
of looking at things.
There are beings that give up flying
to crawl on all sixes and fours
for wings are no good
when it's pouring outdoors.


It won’t be long
Before the careless brush
Of a hand
Will tip over
This tall pitcher of a universe
That holds everything
In its dark belly.
And the crash
That follows
Will be silent
Because there will  be
Nothing for it
To echo against.
And the sudden emptiness
That we will feel
In the pit of our stomachs
Will inverse and occupy
In a monumental vacuum
All that surrounds  it.
We will all be reduced
To empty bellies and
Nothing to feed them.
No way in
And no way out.
And the giant hand that
Tipped the pitcher
That holds the last of
The blackness
Under its fingernails
Will tickle them
In the perverse idea
Of a joke
And we will laugh as we weep
In the helpless submission
That we fell in
As we believed
That the hand
Will always provide
Even if the universe was
Reduced to empty bellies
With no she and he
To fill them anew.
But what will remain are
The thoughts you thought.
For they were empty to begin with.
And the words I wrought
That were light as air.
So stay hungry and
Store a thought in your belly.
That occupies one dimension
But survives the death of
All the rest.
So that after the
Pitcher spills over
And washes away
The last of the blackness
There still remains
The  faint glow
Between our bellies
Of the hunger that made you
Think of my presence
Of  the hunger that made me write
About yours.


It is the easiest thing
To go missing.
It takes a second
Of loose footing
In the sinuous stream
Of entwined cogs,
It takes a distracted
Shift of the eye
To discomforting fogs
Of strange faces.
It takes the chasing-after
Of honking blurs in new places.
It takes the shared shock of strangers
In rooms with a tipping ceiling.
It takes the overlooking
Of a single hurt feeling.

It is easy to go missing.

But I will find you,again,
In this conundrum of give-way gears.
I will deafen it’s humdrum
For a familiar whisper in my ears.
It will take you the effort 
To look twice more
And recall my name.
This much I ask of you,
When I find you again.

Say you will, 
And I will whistle a song
To reach your ears
Over the city’s saucepan
And its senseless hissing.
Say you are, because I am.
And it takes two to go missing.