Tornado

The hard bright dancing of the stars
Then asking forgiveness
The nowhere soon driven into the fist
The aperture of the old camera and the dark tunnel
into which a become animal in golden haze
disappears

That animal and its calendars
The exception for the cockroach
The sickness of forgiving the health of strong winds
It means the planet is still breathing
(Even the tornado asks a sort of forgiveness:
that a deafening, high-pitched scream of)

But it is the wound of the accident of being born
Tethered to the sky above
It will do anything to escape the world even kill us
It is a native son
It will lift every room of the house of the family at once
Then smash it down like the toy it was

The toy of a gone

Nothing for a center yet it spins and plays
The terror of his draft of a broken military record
The hard bright dancing of its stars
The heard bullet of the name and its ricochet
Above the head it will never have
It puts on the gods’ clothing and dances
spitting death as small projectiles

The things we clutch in the prejudice of the moment

When a child dries up
And we find just these vestments
of the gods left behind

on the single bed where they come to look for guns

 

The Stones

The stones are barefoot
The stones are homeless too
Owing is not what they do
Why are we doing?

A translator arrived
But the moment didn’t want hurt
Nor the water that descended it
Its stones feared us

But the fearful stones
They governed us
As the English did India
As we did everywhere else

“Enough enlightenment for all times!”
Say the stones, which are as cars
They drive themselves everywhere
Eventually, space translates them back

In the end, we seek their forgiveness
The stones          their vanity
We didn’t understand them
We dressed them in clothes

The Process

I like religion. Sometimes. If it gives people
distance from the process, which is everything.
Transcendence. Some it turns to rabid dogs.
That’s a different process than the one I’m talking about.
The one which is all.