Saturday, March 28, 2015

HEART THREAD 280 & 281


Flute in the nineteenth century the phone is ringing
yes I am guilty of everything
all I did all I do was this
birds walking on the roof just like the French poem
but the sea is very far
one arm of it though strikes through the land
the River North into a different skin
as far as a ship can sail against the grain
for this is a wooden world and I am wooden too
no one hears the suffering of trees
so caught up with using them leaf shade and timber
and these are my leaves I leave for you. 

Under the tunic the wound begins to bleed
losing the city was worth it we get to find it again
we had to set the image free
with blood I mark crisscross on this stone
nearby an altar chiseled by no iron
defiled only by a word it speaks
through my palms the rock talks up my arms
this was the first stone in the world
jihad against the unbelieving emptiness
fight for the vibrant hollow of the spacious mind
blood was meant to be the secret ink
writing the sutra of reality deep inside your frame.