Divinity of Wetness

Through monsoonal bludgeon 

free of elemental encumbrance 

an apparition glides

over broken cities

and abandoned protocol

crosses the blood-line of convention,

papyric fragility 

that can with a word

into heart-dust turn

or with a word

become flesh 

in the timeless narrative

of creation:

love is god.

Illusions

There is nothing original

nothing un-cut

no rough diamonds

just gatherings:

songs others have heard

places oft-visited

books re-read

leaves, grass and waterlilies  

tree lines and shade

sun drops and burns

immemorial hurts

and momentary grasps

common across continents

and centuries;

all things important 

have come to pass

all wisdom catalogued,

we just chance upon old stones

and cut old fruit

we delight as others have

weep over eternal verities

with tears thought to be virginal,

the metaphysical in cell and bone

prick the voodoo dolls 

of our sensibilities 

we dance and collapse: 

'I was the first'

or 'I will be the last'

and with such convictions 

we clothe the lie

and sometimes

with poetry

quietly dab our wounds.

Ode to Fingers

They were made for keyboards

but i didn't know that

not for years;

back in the day

i thought it was for eating

for transferring ink 

from pen to paper

holding tangible things

and to clutch at straws;

then I was convinced

that the mind and heart

had them too

and that's how dreams were caught

and translated;

but now

these keyboard agitators 

they seem destined

to run through hair

they can never touch.