A Dirge For Harpies

I have survived
Too long, too much
Indeed, withstood
To fall now
Down, farther into greater shadows

The light will not drift
I will not allow that
I have allowed too much
Already

Piranhas orbit
Rude carrion
Crawl across the spine
However bent, however broken
Taking little pieces of me
Viciously, delightedly
Careless

No longer

I will not bear their weight
But rise
Anew, fresh in the morning
Their snares, fog
Their hooks, mist
Burnt off under
The touch of the sun

The tunnel has lengthened
But not grown too long
Not yet
To swallow any hope
Of reaching the end

So long
You feeble
Fickle
Febrile
Flock of witless vulturous
Harpies
You amalgam of offal
Disgorged from a creature as
Deceitful, as pathetic and simple

I am broken clay but
There is more to the stone
Than there is to you

Records in the Dark over Market and Park

My Anarchist Pollyanna

My girl too far, too near

For whom I

And she

Was born too little

And too late

Like ships passing

Not in the night, but

Along shoals of years

Across shoulders of giants

Searching for rainbows

Bridging the gulf

And everything in between

 

Random futures are spake

In the grooves of old records

Turning in the dark

Over Market and Park

Blaring

Amid our

Now’s and then’s

Our to be’s and

Not to be’s

These are the questions

I’d put everything up

To answering,

 

But,

 

The answer is in the question.

The being able to ask

That’s what love is, and

All that it is.

Ruin

Small things

Sing

Small things

Dance

Little lights

Wrapped around

Big trees

 

We are climbers

Across outlasted ruins

But the

Ruins

Not their builders

Not their

Ruiners

Well the

Ruins

They’re still

There

 

What does that say?

We put it up

To ruins?

Is that all we can hope for?

To be ruins

To build the

Eventuality

Of a ruin.

Yes,

That ought to be

Our lot.

 

Things tend that way

Don’t

They?

Our bodies will be ruins.

But they die.

Why build a ruinous dying

Thing?

To build a ruin,

That is why.

To live to build ruins.

 

But even stone

Is scoured

From the Earth

Even ink washes away

And storms,

They pass

On the plain.

What stays?

Oh, yes.

Ruins do.

 

Ruins will tell their tragedy forever.

People love them too much.