This digital world
lingers
and does not bring
us closer together.
I only see
my self with the help
of telescopes.
Every love song
reminds me of sadness,
every sad song
reminds me of a plastic
radion. When will this end?
We are torn apart,
slightly separated
by the presence
of conflict, bombs,
some scholar might say
the sweep
of world events;
yet it is back
to the feelings
of distance, the desolation
that you are
not here and may not
be, that causes
an unspoken anguish
I can share with no one.
And they say this digital world
brings us closer together,
"they", hmmm, who? who?
And yet when we talk,
I at night
and you
in the morning,
message by message,
it is only the distance
that is illuminated,
a trembling, quail distance.
I see these threads
unwinding finally,
a bear, a mountain,
drinking cold
too close to the mouth.
Sunlight breaks the horizon
water desert, brown
sand coming out of
your brown hair.
I Will Believe When I Am On A Graveyard Train
Bridges:
In the realm of obligation, despair
Avenues down the moon glow.
Love mourns in death cults
and straw votes.
You’re Face, book, illuminated under
the deerskin, foretold
A migrant population
Eyeless in its hunger.
Parts of skin, separated colors blue deep
and rope tows, are what is left of
executions and sanitized television
mourning: outrage, revenge, depositions
of after the fact awareness
as if the war
hadn’t been broadcast
twenty four seven….
Churches:
Sunrise across America:
trapeze and transept,
peeking through the flat weather
with cold parabolas.
An invasion upon my surface tension
the dew and the itch lay again
over my red eyecoats
and heavens of character:
a soldier walking with an
uncertain synesthesia
upon an oblong radio,
inhaling the obligate lumps
of the low-armored type.
Sulfur feeling
dust legs
painting the shapes
a crescent moon
from a cloud of earth.
Graveyard paths:
There it is,
an epitaph,
A cross,
America, all set in
a desert
of memory,
prone
to the leaving moon.
Alone at the ocean, in the eel grass, healing:
Seagull bodies float weightless into the settled crater,
A Gaza-like sea foam hides
the excavators,
planting
the winter crop in coffin liners.
In the realm of obligation, despair
Avenues down the moon glow.
Love mourns in death cults
and straw votes.
You’re Face, book, illuminated under
the deerskin, foretold
A migrant population
Eyeless in its hunger.
Parts of skin, separated colors blue deep
and rope tows, are what is left of
executions and sanitized television
mourning: outrage, revenge, depositions
of after the fact awareness
as if the war
hadn’t been broadcast
twenty four seven….
Churches:
Sunrise across America:
trapeze and transept,
peeking through the flat weather
with cold parabolas.
An invasion upon my surface tension
the dew and the itch lay again
over my red eyecoats
and heavens of character:
a soldier walking with an
uncertain synesthesia
upon an oblong radio,
inhaling the obligate lumps
of the low-armored type.
Sulfur feeling
dust legs
painting the shapes
a crescent moon
from a cloud of earth.
Graveyard paths:
There it is,
an epitaph,
A cross,
America, all set in
a desert
of memory,
prone
to the leaving moon.
Alone at the ocean, in the eel grass, healing:
Seagull bodies float weightless into the settled crater,
A Gaza-like sea foam hides
the excavators,
planting
the winter crop in coffin liners.
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