Background traffic
rushes constant
indistinctly
witching hour holds
its secrets, close to the chest
as pocket aces
on a table, full
to the brim with suckers
night yellowed
sodium lights splash
upon pavement
parked cars of black,
or blue, perhaps green
thank god the police
aren’t asking for a description
soon the cliche will come
that it is darkest before dawn
despite that being
demonstrably untrue,
a diplomatic term for
bullshit.
I skip across the night
on moonlit lily pads
the copse of willow trees
lithe, and twisting
urging forth each step
beyond this path
lies all else, ethereal
ten thousand moaning
terrors, which upon the dawn
dissolve, awaiting their own
inevitable return.
It wasn’t pretty, avert your eyes
torn in half, one part blessed
by the almighty good
anointed
to lead the world
scourge the sinners
a new Age
a new Dawn
one cursed
by inane chance
imprisoned
to starve, to waste
slew the righteous
a new Hell
a new Dark
If I am not both
I am nothing
I am the cursed, the blessed
anointed, imprisoned
leading, starving, wasting
slew, scourged
in glory, in damnation
in the light
I am also the dark.
All or nothing
The great and
the terrible.
So it is,
so it shall be.
I came upon a blackness
a realm ten thousand eons dead
home of void, writ large
where the stars had never tread
The universe forsook thou
and gave light to Sol instead?
A Creator cares not for you
it gives you simple nothing in its stead.
In the darkness of the room; I am surrounded by owls
sighing with their blue-white eyes as they sit on tables, shelves, and ceilings
they gaze;
but yet they do not see.
No fault of mine for I know not where
in what factory, in what nation they took their sight; yet
I wonder, in the obsidian winter beyond these walls,
who are you, owl of mine?
Can you think, or are these numbers upon you a tattoo
left by an elder long since past away;
can you smile, or is this happy expression merely a mind contemplating
for a few minutes too long;
And can you feel, or do your memories hold no tulips, no zinnias, no tours around
a field, coyly gazing at an owl sweetly returning your gaze
Bedside owl, I do not know what sorrow you hold, what joy.
But I love you, if it means anything.
Unspoken Politics 