Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Tower of Bliss

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The voice of ashes pronounces
the moon a disease from
which none of us will recover
and yet we persist
our list of triumphs
our extinct rocks
our spirit of the lamp
some mutilated animal
walking with a cane
succumbed to defunct oaths
standing forth in disease
defending the wall of the heart


A Chant

overtone gone below
before the voice
the night
hoarse with effort
now muffled
once bayed
heard dead, thinking
a house of keys
hand to bandanna
the crazy machine
gone below
through the rat hole
to a sea of storms
bayed staff of twisted poppies.

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