Three hundred sets of words to make birds catch fire
and fall like ashes into snow above funeral pyres
of being and ways of seeing forward and two word
bits of witicismic flicks of enlightened states because
the life examined not is not worth living and knots
tied in strings of the unbearable lightness of being
that can't be undone can be cut one song at a time
with skeletal frame shaking rhymes and I tire
of the vastness, the big "is what it is" grassless
deserts of acceptance when everything can be cooled
and fools turned to dumpster jedis in duels
with absolutes if a body gets up and undresses
the spools of pretended lives into oil nudes.
Three hundred sets of words to make herds
into stampedes of murder crows and live lyres,
out of tune but amassed so thick the nuance
of feedback on feedback leaves deep tracks
in the annals of knowing like artifacts,
curling jet spirals of evidence like tickets from speed traps
and bring back memories so distant you need well caps
to prevent horizon blotting smoke from rig fires
and need armies to cede back land consumed
by time's march and turn preoccupations into
destinations and manifest destiny from empty guile in
the unending bad machinery and badder robots
running wild like skin searing 'tricity from loosed wires.
Three hundred sets of words and not
a God damned thing to be said
for the bed made and at a loss for a lay
or a take on the electrophonic span of
a heart beat's jagged sine wave that tells
an ear "there is life in here
and years of the game left still to be played,"
but three hundred in and riding the fence
at fifty percent blessing and fifty percent sin
there can be found enough of motive and
enough of aggression and wonderment,
enough of self pity and spin doctoring,
of past and present and narcist rhetoric,
naturalist and hallucinogenic
to believe the best is yet to be sprung
from dungeon doors and made to speak
though deaf, blind, and to this point,
blue and black balled dumb
as an industrial chemical spilled and silenced creek.
