Slave camps under the flag of freedom
Fanatics of freedom freedom fighters
Freedom blockades and freedom occupiers
Freedom of speech and religion
Born free but crying freedom
We can barely get through a door
Without contradicting ourselves
Let alone navigate
The narrowest straits between words
We shatter every mirror of hypocrisy
Before admitting to a fault line
It’s in the interstices the poison oozes
From the cracks in consonance
Exudes the grief called humankind
Our free will has free rein
Live free or die in chains
The chemistry of words contain
The toxins that destroy us
As long as we’re not free to print money
But others are free to get out of jail
I won’t know if I’m awake or dreaming.
I’ll be carried by water
A long way out into the open.
I’ll feel what the birds feel
When they plunge into the cold.
My bones will never be addressed again,
My ashes will cease all communication
With faith or doubt.
A star will alight on a leaf.
I’ll be at the birth of time,
The beginning of music.
The natal universe will embody me.
This large transparent globe
Drinks the liquid of the sun.
This vessel that contains
The elements of thought.
This horizon within an orb.
This spirit lamp of level light.
It floats on the vastness of presence
Like the stillness of the spherical.
A solar urn, a bubble of heat
Flaring into semi-permanence.
The air gone out of our lungs
Takes the shape of the unsaid.
The player of a snooker frame
Asked to play without a name.
How a ball cued to its target
Supports evidence for kismet.
Spheres attend to a dimension
Of answers without questions,
Opposing their own direction,
Uncommitted to their motion.
What a difference a kiss makes
To the aftermath a miss takes.
If the shot maker is appalled
The audience is unresolved
Having witnessed chance
Careen chaos across remembrance.
“Maybe there is a beast, maybe it’s only us.”
William Golding, Lord of the Flies
With that buried machete
We became conquerors
We slashed at the sunset
Hacked at the stream bed
And bled rust into water
Slowly the steel began to show
A sacrificial lamb was prepared
Field grasses lay down their weapons
Against the piracy of our find
We avenged our families
And crossed swords with the moon
All that slashing
Let the stars flood through our gashes
In our most savage dreams
We cut to the bone
Scaled our catch
Deforested the earth
And carved a path to the grave
We look everywhere, disconcerted,
Finally we stop and search our minds,
We trace back our steps into our steps
But the thing eludes us, like an essence,
And its lostness surrounds us like night.
To be found, it must acquiesce to light,
To accident, proximity, to perfect recall.
A St. Anthony need come round
When something lost must be found
In its place outside of time and space.
To be found requires a state of grace,
The thing must guide us back
To the lost kingdom in plain sight.
The ground of being must be misplaced
For us to save happiness from ourselves.
People go to the market to buy words
But don’t have the words
To buy the right words; instead, they bring home
Words that confuse them more.
Not having words makes them suffer
From suffering without words,
And not having words, they repeat
The ones they know so that those words
Come to mean everything and nothing
And are like existential bludgeons
For their maddening incomprehension.
It’s soul-eroding, wordless being.
It’s pathologic to have too few words.
It should be a medical directive
Under the auspices of mental health
If it’s not already global aphasia.
How can you not have words
And the world be made of language?
Finding a lost ball
Was the mystery of it all.
A rolling ball gives pace
To otherwise static space.
A passed ball expects reciprocation.
At the least, consideration.
The ball struck with great force
Has no other recourse.
A ball that is bending
Is an instance of time pending.
Every ball in flight
Carries hope into light.
A ball touched by many
Has a spell cast already.
A ball that is caught
Vanishes from thought.
A ball thrown with precision
Is humankind in transition.
Though we can’t save the sun
With a ball we can make it run.
My father wanted extra time
But the sun rolled over the line.
The referee blew her whistle
Like winter through a thistle.
The ball bounced off the post
Like the spirit from the host.
The penalty was missed
Like a vision in the mist.
In extra time my father thought
Time’s flight itself is caught,
But like a shooting star
Extra time was naught.
When a watch stops on a book
Something has been overlooked.
The car battery gone dead
Means you can never get ahead.
A dull ache in your knee
Means gravity is not for free.
A button falling off a shirt
With others is in concert.
A name you have spoken
Returns from time unbroken.
The sequence of the numbers
Repeat the numbers of the sequence.
Existence is creation’s coincidence
And being’s kiss from a dream’s abyss.