artricstery

to sing the truth or stay the beauty,
vex the pain and wane understanding;
original thought though reoriginal be,
i load all my words carefully.
handle the message, cradle the noose
and weather the life from which it breaks loose;
the artist is a useful man.
aesthetic appreciation of injustice deliciously supplied
living on others' insecurities and fables
giving and giving the world till there's none left at all
for me-
it's fair trading;
my lies for your lives
and a pocket full of money.
tragedy will be what tragic can come
and a bowl full of apples.

Lifelings

they make work for themselves
with mechanical mirror eyes
power their flying machine wings
swim through the air as a matter of being
yet never escape their own attraction to gravity.
their toil and lineage buoys them up
and death done downs them.
there is no flying away
the only escape is not to.

Blessing the Rain

I.
a wandering weeping ride just in time for two
we kill the man and his to make our labors do.
fairly fickle and wildly ill, our ailments send us working
to make the day a wishing got, a life for us and few.
across the land it takes us
to the worlds beyond.
it is far from kansas
but really really gone.

II.
I know not this weird familiar land.
it beckons low and out from me
and straight into my guts.
my head hangs down a pitiful mound
and loses your other regards.

III.
dark dark all about and not a place to hide
I'll go down town and waste a while
to make my mind bigger-
till change; and wonderous resalvation.
I will be a phoenix that knows how to die
cause I know when to die-
lying here in bed.

IV.
you and yours are floating to the top
about the windy drifting storm
eyes about like weather.
my body in the ground grows quietly safe
soon to take in the violent life above.
its fires will speak again to you
take into your quickening and root into it all.
bless again the rain.

Respite

i am ok, even though i'm empty
i can get laid and get high and try an education
my life burns the same, now as ever
and this is not the end of the world circles or world story
all after all is progession
towards and about the ends of ends
and not the destination
..of fulfillment
..of destiny
..of the damn pettiness of things
of love
or whatever it is that we do with one another's hearts
as objects and people and playthings or money
those trophies and made up perfections of unity.
but i and all the people who are me are ok
we're fine and empty, perhaps past redemption
perhaps resting.