she sees the gold in mud

she
sees the gold in mud,
the health in blood,
the rainbow in oil,
the passion in toil.

did you see

did you see them running, running,
did you see? did you see them
black with blood, did you
see anyone stop to help, did you see them
motionless in roadways, screaming on sidewalks,
did you see them, mouths open and teeth chipped to pieces,
did you see those who did this,
did you see their shiny clubs, their
bright and favored flags,
did you see the smirks they let slip,
did you see?
did you see?

Flesh Imitating Steel

Flesh has its rhythm
in constant self-repair;
the rest from labor enables greater labor,
and muscle builds stronger when strained, so
why must we pretend
to be as steel; unwavering, unfeeling,
ignoring the needs of flesh
(to eat,
to slumber –
to love)
in favor of steel-bound schedule,
approaching our ultimate tensile point,
waiting to twist, to groan and
shatter?
cast away the mimicry,
do not conform with an inhumane system –
resume the dance of exhaustion and repair,
do not live as steel.

Selling time

All that life has become
is the selling of seconds –
the bartering of hours;
the flowers do not dare to bloom
until they punch free of the time-clock;
and so hours are spent in useless rooms,
providing nothing,
no profit to mankind,
no meat in these hours,
no purpose but to pass,
and to pass unremarkably.


Forgetting the Names of Flowers

Lilacs, lilies, roses, still –
marigolds and dandelions and
small seeds, small heads
rising from the fetal position;
pale limbs poking through, hands poised
to claw the surface;
what are these things,
what purpose did they have, what
mastery did we seek over them by
lash and flick of tongue,
what did we drive them towards
when we murmured their names,
their names, lost now in winter –
are they found in these sturdy limbs?
Are there names to view, names to eat?
syllables quivering in the wind, and
names that bring in butterflies?

Tracking Time

I have found the track of time,
in the forest where it dwells,
I have seen it’s willowed prints,
claws fixed, scratching sand,
seen the spots where it was halted,
stooped for names, felt for signs,
I have followed it, relentless,
(as the predator; so the prey)
I have walked where it has feasted,
through the halls of medicated bones-
and have run where it has slipped
in the dimness of delight –
I am on the track of time,
hoping it won’t turn for me.

settling to a rest

we have bowed our heads beneath
the drop-ceiling skies, fingers pecking
crude metal, without knowing why
our works are useless to all, serving only
Mammon’s musters, our eyes are glazed, our
necks are craned, our
joys have lost their luster,
and all of us, sighing,
awake only for our shift,
and squirm, and scream, and dread to think
that this could go away.

Flowers for Doomsday

Roses for love, roses for lust,
simpler symbols have spawned worse fuss,
and truer chains than trust may rust.
Lilies for the survivors, as for the dead –
merely soft petals on spearheads,
trumpeting every spring – every spring,
when memories of fair seasons bring
the bud of rage at what has passed,
when all has gone that was meant to last
and they will grow – one, all,
they will grow green and tall
as pride grows long before the fall



The Sun Comes Up On Gardens

The sun comes up on gardens
and broken bodies,
it shines and brightens,
even on wrack and ruin,
on dissembled fathers and
deconstructed sons, the sun comes up
and shines on gray flowers, rent
towers, on dainty, bloody hands,
poking through the rubble, reaching –
the sun comes up on gardens,
filled with abandoned shells,
the sun comes up and greets
mortar teams brewing coffee, the sun
comes up, the sun comes up
on gardens