The sun makes silent
all the small planets
of inner orbits
and we only hear –
when they pass in front;
The stars have planets
which tug the belly
of their nuclear
mass explosion – soft
but more than enough;
In the lower tones,
of the dawn rise – there
the small star, has grace
for one still moment –
in the day soon lost;
The world compels us.
We are charred by void
when its emptiness
eclipses ours – but
soft glow the small stars.
Memory of Florida (Helplessness Blues)
What I used to be, and now
what I am, as we drive down
motorways through forest mass
listening closely with my voice
align like an eclipse moon
and the past blooms in present
rapture – I love this album
Old as I get, I will not
forget the forest drifting
drowsily past the window
this rain sifting tambourine –
and damp strung up on song lines
for this perfect alignment
in time and of void cultus
The rain sets a gradient on greens –
old lithograph fade, with yellows
as if cloud, slate-dark depressed
is mindlessly flicking through filters.
Only at twilight, such a light.
After, the streetlamps, pale as soggy
worm corpses, settle on the streets.
I miss the phosphor orange glow
of the days when I was younger.
Today, I miss it. Maybe not tomorrow
Pylons grew out of the flesh of the land.
Iron bones of blood-rust thrust through
scaffolds to hold up the sky – how
insufficient were the rocks, now
heaven had grown heavier and heavier –
only metal and electrics could halt it
as it dropped off hurtling downward
toward the cold earth’s plates