Saturday, June 14, 2014

Questions For A Sunday Afternoon

There is a simple choice
one of gray, with fingers of red and black.

There is a simple choice
which I ponder, which I let roll over my tongue like goo and
the delicate noise of percussive vocalization.

There is a simple choice,
but it is no choice
simply because I cannot understand the alternatives
not with the parts of me that wander out windows
and stare at the bright lights of coming trains.

What can a choice be
when I do not see it laid before me
on a platter of shiny silver edged in delicate floral patterns?

Here there are vultures.
Here there are laws where the civilized go to worship
where the chant echoes hollow on stone walls
where books are torn and stomped under an army of bare feet outlined in black ash.

Worship comes in all forms
All contortions.
I have thought it is for the faint of thought
for the weak of body
for the stubborn of mind.
I am no longer sure of it
as I sit on the edge of a plump bed,
words dripping off the edge of my tongue,
the sticky semen of civilization.

Thought is not without consequence.
This we have known for far too long.
There are places with cages,
rooms without windows and touch,
procedures with complicated names
that kill the part of flesh still seeking
the colored fractals of knowledge.

There are the rooms in which I have hidden.
Rivers crossed which cannot be undone.
I have made the choice,
There is only one.

Stars are out there
deep in the black of beyond,
I can feel them through the walls,
can sense their death long before I came to be here.
The moon pushes parts of me onward,
how can I say no?
Such a pretty light cannot be ignored,
not by one as romantic as I.
I will follow the waves,
waters need no words,
each crash is a sentence,
a communication beyond symbols and fixed meaning.
It is sometimes sex,
a thunderous pounding.
It is sometimes red
And soft like petals.
Sometimes roaring or delicate in its nuanced fragrance.
We can never tell,
and I do not try and understand.

Can it happen here?
In this place
under this lamp

In this collection of clutter and mass breathing?

For now, the questions await unanswered, wavering in the darkness like flags forgotten.
What can words communicate more than a slippery tongue?
I will take my chances on the pile of stones.

I have arrived at the place for mindless wandering,
I have come often.
Naked, alone, scared beyond comprehension.
I return.

There is but one simple choice,
though I laugh, sitting here on this plump end of a bed.
Laugh, knowing it is not without its temptations.

This is for all of the moons that have passed
in this country of falsities,
of missed turns and rounded corners
the devil hides among the faithful
the heathens rarely bury their young.