lapse the fourth: deciding

he said nothing
had to do with torment
and aches were like the quiet quills
of the rotting porcupine
occupying the back door
stoop.

"torment was its own
beast" dallying in introspect
and loose corners of soul and i
said, "what's that?"

a pause diminished his point
but somehow sounded
deeper than a gavel
or song deciding
its grace lie
far away
from
every corner of eternity
and i said
"what's that?"

true story

a glimpse in the mirror
how did we get so old?
has it really come to this?
shitting our pants and playing
with the sheets?

countless hours wondering where
and whether I will go - don't know

just don't know.

I never thought you would call me
a schmuck,
never thought you would turn away from me
and scowl,
lumping me in with the others
to show me, your ass ...

would have done it too
considered everything
a conspiracy

now my destiny fingers the bars
of a prison
that need not be imagined

I live it

my destiny now fingers the rotten crotch
of a person
that no longer knows it

wondering whether

the wind will carry
this pain
as the wind blows

lapse the third: a hallway

enter but enter only

outside the days, the sun, the sea

lapsing

outside the clever lea shaking
in fear as the clouds take notice
and measure the angry jaws of this upturned
abyss.

for even as the years may pity

they steady

and hurl abandon in an awkward mess

and steady still a song like an aeolien harp

marking its return to chorus
and whispers of
"undo this, undo only
this".

you are either too clever
or too vague and i too unsure
to wish the plague on more
than a few royalty types
and they too busy to know
that we too once fell on the same
pillows as children.

holy old fuck!
that was the moon!
that was the a joy sweeter
than rememberance!
that was Proust without
the sentence! that was
Burroughs entertaining guests!
and Baudelaire shreading
the fibres of either hash or pestilence!
that was the gentle nudge of annihalation
inside the way voices promise
the end of time.

Great roving eye
of rain in the sky
in the soul of one
that can still feel

gather all wonderment
to play with hope with faith

Mischievous swirl
lingering like a tornado
yet still - full
of tranquility - still full
of calm yet calming yet still

I see death in your cunt-
eye scowl and beg
for tenderness -

"The cunning linguist
can sparingly sing"

rings the howling
of a madman
too long without
the light

yet it's raining but raining
and dry and yet still
still but moving but
maybe it's just me
that sees this ominous
foreboding eye

winking with claps
of thundering
darting glances
like the lightning
filling the sky

The great roving eye
calming yet still calming still

Ask me how these generations connect - to find the bridge of time - of mind - connecting the shores of our thoughts - our issues - our loves and concerns -
Ask me to feed the son wisdom - respect the father who fed me and tell me to change the diaper on the Holy Ghost -
A chalky finger trembles weirdly and points to the grave and a soggy ream of paper - a tomb - upon whom's brow beats the golden rays of eternal sunshine -
the cool salty breeze of the bay brushing and the tears of the living - longing to hold once more that form which the cold worm-whittled earth embraced - for eternity -
The grim angel of death - etched in 1700's stone - serves as a warning to those infallible - those minds of eternal sunshine and roses - already basking in the glorious fields of heaven - while still alive - that the future - the living future - does exist indeed - only we cannot be a part of it
And the children play hide-and-seek with a kitten - curling around the dog's grave - and a mother to the sod tenderly bends - planting an exotic array of hyacinths and lupines - her tears watering the fledgling seeds - hoping to conjure a new floral memory of one that now - in her decline - she cannot recall

On the tip of a quill
is the breadth
of a wor(l)d ...