I will sing my eyes to wonder again.
I will once more uncover leaf-strewn paths
Across the canyon of my appetites,
Across the endless ocean of vague and
Argument, and find the eyes of a child,
Wide with startling certainty and clear with
The utter absence of regret.
Hazy and forlorn,
High beams after ev’ry turn,
Defrosted eyes burn.
Feet for feeling.
Imagine water reassembled,
Cold prints canvassing the
Pavement like inkblots. What
Do you see? Streets running
Sea to choking sea, every
Valley shall be exalted and
Every mountain and hill made
Into trees of money, every
Sunny shore a pocket of
Gold to line the barrels
Of democratic export.
Hands that sing.
Voices resonate from years
On years of rotted grassroot,
Tangled subterranean poems
In fractured stone and water
That burns and glows. My
Country, it is of thee, sweet
Land of decay, sweet pile
Of desecrated smallpox
Graves, sweet home of
My heart plunged deep
Into the Two-Heart, of
Thee I sing.
I rewrite the parameters of
My conscience and white
Out liberally to cope, because
I need to hope. Because I
Feed the sea as well. Because
My feet have trampled the
Holy unknown brother. Because
My hands have sung the
Mother to sleep beneath the
Dew-soaked street, and the
Water, coalesced within
The prints beneath the
Neon light, belongs
Rattlesnake, I see you
Too. Pray everlasting
Wakefulness and color,
That the other will not
Tread through passing sorrow
And scatter her among
The stone of your blood. In
Mud I find the bones of
A long-forgotten song
And I sing along. Color
Not song, but stone and mud.
Hi all! It’s been a couple of weeks since I cross-pollinated here and told you all what’s been going on over at The Book Speaks Podcast. Things are going well! Last week saw our sixth episode, and I have the schedule booked until mid-June.
Every Friday I post a new episode in which I read a chapter from the book of a different indie author. It’s loads of fun! Come check it out to discover new authors, to hear what the writing of successful indies is like, or just to get lost in a story for twenty or thirty minutes.
Hop over to that site for follow buttons. We’re on iTunes as well now, and any ratings or reviews are much appreciated! Below you’ll find YouTubes of episodes 05 (Evan Pickering, Hood) and 06 (Joseph R. Lallo, Free-Wrench). In the coming weeks I’ll be reading from authors Izzy Shows, Alexa Kang, Jeffrey Poole, Chris Fox, Elle Casey, Elizabeth Ann West, Stella Wilkinson, and Aderyn Wood. Oh, and also MYSELF, muahahaha! Shameless self-promotion 😉
Let some white dress take them, lazy
Winter. Let some forgotten name
Evade their lips. The same for their
Birth, their death. Erase Amneris
And shatter the golden cup, fill
Up eternal wombs with thunder
Seed, cover the sacred head with
Helm and bruise the heel of Eden.
I’m trying to remember lost
Names, to see more than mirrors in
Faces. I’m trying to build a
Ladder in case we build a wall.
I’m trying to take your broken
Art and make it into heart, make
It into sacred death, make it
Into seed to bruise the thunder.
Janus falls to puddles and we
Stare in wonder, cursed and blessed by
Turn and cursing and blessing in
Kind. The shards are fused together
And find burning names to evade.
Let some broken wall cover your
Lost winter-heart, let Eden fill
Birth with faces, eternal art.
Let the golden cup burn in the
Lips of wonder, in the cover
Of some lazy puddle. Turn and
Remember, turn and build, evade
The thunder, erase death, bruise the
Eternal wall, stare in turn at
Your broken mirror-names, your cursed
Blessing-seed, and make it yours.
This American carnage—magnificent,
Celebrated—this great, righteous reality,
A glorious allegiance. The people, the
People. This moment, this moment.
The rusted horizon. A foreign vision
Will govern our land, will rediscover
Prejudice, will bleed the wind-swept
Plains of the almighty creator.
Your simple, radical voice, ripped from
Our homes and redistributed all across
The world. Your people remembered
Forgotten listening. No longer
Education. Cash. Pain. The very sad
Depletion of our dreams. Today’s
Victories, power, rulers. One glorious
Destiny stops right here and now.
Do you remember the headlights–
How we buried ourselves in the
Ditch each time? Or the loose gravel,
Sand-coated streets in that little
Town, and how we flew down, nothing
But shoes between our feet and the
Pavement? Or maybe that night we
Got lost in the wilderness of
Suburban development, the
Hills of sand like something from a
Science fiction desert planet?
I remember how the moon shone
Down and cast you in an icy
Fire as you stood atop the dune,
Fearless, young, like a pagan god
Shooting out from the birthing pyre.
Like hiding treasure,
Such sense of accomplishment,
Eating the chicken.
Bloodshot, muggy scene,
Burns and aromatic steam;
Earth turns on a bean.
You shall find him here,
Crying, screaming to be fed,
Wrapped in swaddling clothes.