Skip to main content

Tall Grey Men

Tall grey men with knobby knees
Their cultures on their backs
One has eyes and the other sees
But neither one keeps track

Past the bridges and knotted hills
Through tree lines, streets and snow
One must eat so the other kills
And farther on they go

Draw from streams a taste of life
That cascades over stones
Nourishment for withered minds
And rest for broken bones

Everyday the sun beats down
And vultures peck at worms
Astral planes and settled towns
Wait 'round every turn

Feel the way with tethered feet
Outstretched hands find light
Cobbler's stones on sunlit streets
With manmade lamps at night

Epic is their circumstance
Their travels take such time
Gone the days when peasants danced
And actors spoke in rhyme

Hopeful for a place like home
A kiss to bid them in
Long years since their cause was known
The nature of their sin.


Popular posts from this blog

When I See It

I don’t believe in time.
There's much more world left;
So much more to learn,
And I don’t believe in time.
I believe in shadow birds flying
Through the green of mown grass
Under the squint-bright sun;
An ocean dappled with clouds
And the white sails of small boats
Crossing my shoulder;
A thousand dynamic blooms
That I can’t name, speaking
With voices of children
And laughing as they pass;
The reassuring chatter
Of great wooden beasts
That sermonize patience
And continuity.
But I don’t believe in time
Or the limits it implies.
I don’t believe in the failure
Of the manifest soul.
I don’t believe death will result
From the cessation of habits
That feed my blood,
Because I won't believe
In a future nothingness
That I can’t see from here.

Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.


I think, sometimes,
that I can do anything,
but that can change on the way
to the elevator.

I prepare for outside.
Rain makes it easier,
bends my eye to the ground,
to the architecture;
turns everything to gold.
The new gravity holds me,
turns the voices into hums,
the walkers into clouds.

But outside my door,
there are voices already,
breaking through planks of wood
that should mean security,
and I’m in their path;
every word an arrow
tipped with poison.

They’re only voices.
They are not harsh;
they do not threaten.
They’re not aimed at me
at all. Yet I suspect,
hidden from me,
there are faces attached.