Of creation and feeling

"Art no longer cares to serve the state and religion, it no longer wishes to illustrate the history of manners, ... in and for itself, without "things" ... feeling, after all, is always and everywhere the one and only source of every creation." Kasamir Malevich

On our tail, the evening star

Trail us home O evening star
and hang your tail above our door
send battalions
with each, my lovers
and guard them too
before night fall

Trail us home O evening star
and stalk the dark away from us


I heard a story the other day about my friend who used to believe that the moon and stars followed people when he was a child...makes perfect sense to me.

Weathered

Inside weathered hands, lines where heat and water have run away with our strength, we now indent each other; aged. We calm down time and cup it pealing the skin of each minute and like love lost children we soak each falling kindness and hypnotically follow its trail.

Inside weathered hands lives a little warmth where we can hold each piece of broken moments lost. We bear evidences of things no longer remembered but worn, and like young favour the savoured relics of the gone.

Inside weathered hands is room, narrow passages next to fingers and valleys for you to leave me and return, to burn and scar and hold the moon. We do not demand, but lend and borrow and bend, always bend to reach each other tomorrow

Allay me now

Smooth calm arm
and fire of scent,
you balm
allay me
allay me now

persuade these knots to
leave me
treading softly
'round the giants
of near ends and we're fenced
picketed
Old lovers still half warm
breathing
fill our silent circle thick

a half mile more
could split the difference
a half hour more
between
Him
and matters of men

Allay me
Allay me now

2 minutes

I wriggled out from under my 2 minute cigarette
if they were any longer we would not have the
attention span to smoke them.
At the bottom of every cigarette
a new person is born
we're always a little less whole
than we were before.

People make holes in us
for hurt to reside, smoke makes shadows
in these caves
we can hide

Flimsy smoke shadows, faint cigarette,
fill and distill life's fresh breath
and help us swallow

Out the front of Hernandez sipping coffee at sundown

Sunday tree of afternoon tea
patches up the tuesday
sun of eye and teeth
under mid week life
sleep defied
now recline, it's sunday

Four white chairs face
the road
in shade to keep watch of the sun,
and dean who used to commentate the hours
has now since left this quiet chair to me.

the thought of being a
stranger on a church bench,
to under God's watching eye my noon
time spent
all got cancelled by the grey haired scandal
why are we left so little dignity?
death upon mother's mantle


In sunday moments I still watch for a
little
cloud hole
for up to climb
on up we climb
or else

Sad Normal Plums

Who faithful lies still with their wives?
Their wives are gone
their wedding none
can ever find
'mongst
unlabelled boxes

She bends and grows
toward the sunlight of
attention
that burns her face
her thighs, her cheeks

and leaves her chilled
each night of the week


O faithful husband
also lies alone,
he does not know her
does not feel her throat
their wedding done
their needs like plums
grow side by side

til strangers come to pluck them