A quote, of a poem, this post: https://youtu.be/QcPd1SV8u44
No matter where you are–
I still hear you when you
You sing out so very far
Your voice so bright
–like a star–
All of our tomorrows
spark, kindle, sparkle
spark myself up
Just for you
Light my heart ablaze and
through every torched moment
that you see it
that you feel me
burning beneath your bed
sintering under your feet.
Love–let my heartbeat
form a marriage pyer
for when you say “I might”
for when you might hope to hear me
“Do, I–do, I–love you do–“
Love, my every heartbeat
bears God’s name–BUT–
he has them on loan
Can God make a heart he cannot win?
I can never be certain–except I know
already you–my Lord–hold the title
and the deed and the name and word.
Whatever contract or arrangement you
may have found yourselves making
God now would never dare
–I know! I dared him!–
to claim title to my soul or heart
–Iron Lord of my Soul–
Governor of my Person and
Priest of my manhood.
Lord of my Soul–
I, your Poet–
Me, a Priest of Nothing–
for you, My Lord–
to finally begin–
to make us–
to make me your–
Everyone has bled, but only women and poets
need to bleed.
Everyone fears and prepares, but only sailors and poets
train to hold a knife-blade to civilizations’ throat.
Everyone envisions the past, its future, but only presidents and poets
preside over free souls as commander-in-chief.
I am Battleship 1976.
I am ultimate scion to the first Iron-clad warship;
My engines run on terror and pride that drove Vikings
See me in conflict and it’s already too late–
an armada you yet cannot see has you in range and awaits
only my signal to fire on your position.
I am Battleship 1976.
In the age of intergalactic travel,
my sister-ship is the NCC-1707 Enterprise.
God served as admiral upon a ship of my design when he
won the war in Heaven against Lucifer.
Ancient poet Lao Tzu drowned in a drunken midnight swim,
believing he could cross the Yang Tze river to board me.
I am Battleship 1976.
I am the vessel that every child with Lego bricks tries to build.
I am the ship that mothers pray their sons serve on,
whenever their country has a draft for war.
Mine is the name on God’s own lips, the name that
God whispered before he first spoke his own name.
I am Battleship 1976.
Me, on Street Ever Righteous
Moon, now Saint Erasure Rules
Mother, Stained End Run
My Southern Dog: Mon S. Terrier
The better blues: Mo’non-Stop’Er-where
After a car accident: mmm…on Star, State Your Emergency?
We, we all know we’re all monsters–
we, these humans; the dogs in the world
forgive us, even though they know
how cruel, cruel we humans can be.
Maybe dogs, they just figure–wolves still have it worse
all alone, out in wilderness.
I hope the dogs are right.
Phantom Phantasm and
Phantom within phantom
–the Rolls Royce Grey Ghost
and his Grey Great Grand Damn Damme–
Wonder wander word wand wild world
–the barren Swedish snow is still a desert
as sure as any in Asia or Africa.
I don’t just better work–I
work better under high contrast and
Window sill and liquor still and bestill
my betraying heartbeat–I swear! I remain
indifferent to my expanding fascination.
Still I go on to go on
…and on and on and on…
Let me follow you–riding–into your
Black Cherry Forrest
Mr. Wolf Majesty–
I read the sealed communique from his
majesty’s chihuahua envoy.
We can joust
–I’m no kind of Faust!–
I am the Something More! Word-wise, then,
hit me with your best shot:
I’m every Duke, and
this is my apatizer to my white tiger’s powering
deep into my poetry.
Come find me! and chase me once more!
…from station to station.
Split a block of wood,
–we are there.
Pluck or plant a flower
–we are there.
Read sci-fi, or scripture, through a Summer rainstorm
–and we are there.
The swell of tides and a woman’s womb,
silent-now toys, and night in a child’s room:
we are there.
God, the soul, died long ago, but still
he conducts and connects word and thought,
rag and bone between us ever still.
We are each and every new question today
to yesterday’s final answer.
We are the revelation and the salvation for the
unknown sins that dawn tomorrow.
We are each other, and each other’s savior.
We are the name, and the word, the groom
and the all-father. We are
brother night and mother morning–
sister Buddhist and father time.
And, if we find joy, or sorrow, or luck, or
tomrrow, we find it only in the love in
the spaces between the spaces between us.
I’m tired of things only meaning one or two things.
I’m in love with orthogonality:
one becomes five becomes ten-thousand
becomes purple, becomes God.
I have reenlisted in the Poet Core
to serve on this, a top secret mission–
which, as poetry, means I tell
everyone who reads or hears this poem:
the secret of the Bent Christ Cross,
the 24th letter of the English language–orthogonal T–
Sacred, bent “t”–the letter X.
Love letter, Leadbelly, where were written your poems
In the pines? In the palm trees?
In Red-orange embers?
In pale-blue sky?
Somewhere between the Holy Trinity, the letter “X”
somewhere lost among shoreline palms
and midnight psalms, whispered, whispered and
if you listen very hard
the words will come to you at last:
this Declaration of my Beautiful and Bent
A Prayer For My Son
Since Harry Potter wasn’t the only young man forced
to summon his own Patronis all alone,
and since, still living, I’d never abandon my son,
to cast alone that spell I, too, can summon,
I write this poem now as a prayer for you.
May your should always be the perfect place
to cry, laugh, or sigh upon,
and may the twinkle across your eyes always bewitch
the eyes you deepest desire to set ablaze;
may your lovers find that missing you
stings far harder than forgiving you;
may you never forget that some kinds of jealousy
are just the sincerest sign of falling in love.
Never notice with alarm those too timid to bring
their full fascination with you out into the open,
and never rue a friend you realize laces or chases
unyielding admiration with occasional spite.
Never doubt those who trust you, somehow,
ever more than you doubt yourself,
and always allow those who worst broke your heart
at least one chance to try to mend it.
Know that, as my son, those you cradle within your arms
–in your conjugal bed–
will never find a safer or more sure sensuality;
remember too, as my son, that those you swore forgot you
must be the worst heartbroken, if having lost you,
you remember them still.
Understand that sons and daughters
listen ever more loudly than lovers, and they
remember true the purpose behind your lies–
see that those who raise up your children
are the true Mad Royalty of civilizations–
they insist on empires run for men like you and me.
May the depth of your forgiveness run as deep as
your best arrows of indignation fly far;
may you always find a joke or toast or poem
to reassure any timid, wayward on you find you found
–somehow–as you travel on your way through time.
Amen, my son, amen.
We hold these poems to be self-evident:
the shadow of a palm tree as it approaches noon
is a poem;
Las lagrimas–the tears that flow to the ocean for lost love
are a poem;
Birdsong in the dead of night, a rooster at dawn
and a dog’s distant barking:
each is a poem.
A lost child in a mall who prays to find mother
prays a poem.
The punchline of a favorite joke, shared with a forgotten friend
–suddenly rememberd, as if by ambush–
is a poem.
Pleading eyes for hunger or lust or warmth
plead a poem.
The arctic Aurora Borealis in smeared-sky rainbow;
the infinate disc-edge of a black hole;
the radiation soul-heat of the bang
that was all big creation:
these each play in the top ten
greatest hits, nightly, of this very station:
Radio Poetry Supernova X
The thing about a poem–
It travels forward backward–
The deeper you press in,
The more sense that first
Read a little while back–
Becomes defined to you–
Like a highway sign in reverse.
It purifies the colors: bright spectre!
And the mind and soul of sunlight,
Hidden, awash in sol-light, becomes
Violet violet blue
It makes all the details
Makes them real–
as the mind sees more of detail
The more it takes in
at the future’s
--to right now.
And there you are.
Somehow, you flip-foward
As I walk next to you.
You, with the fear of a Local God
–quiet and intense at the prospect
of being given name.
And there and then suddenly I realize
Always been right
–my whole life–
Sometime ago God
from one being into
countless within formless
and God, speaking his own name
in his own tongue
is how he begins a prayer to himself
a prayer that before it ends,
it mentions YOU.
It all began during a big, distant bang
And will eventually fling apart too far
to see one galaxy from the next,
but, Daniel, may love–
how are YOU today?