what lives has always been, unmovable and its light is heated and furious
some ancient world remains like pillars rising from the rocks of billions of years standing yet before that, before everything there is the unbreakable truth
transformation flows like the air breathing world plunges through emptiness
return is the only difference, the return alone and alone
one instant of change destroys all, given birth, lives and dies
the cycle of the engine, greased with blood and burning flesh for fuel
i lift the sharpened rake and plunge deep into the cordwood pile
seeking tempered remains, dragging the highest before me like groceries on the shelf
expiration null and void after the unwrapped surprise, now just a disposal issue
bio fuel comes in many forms, each an Einstein of relativity, the human body the baseline
one Einstein stretching beyond possibilities of survival, ten times a hundred a thousand and more, the giant wheels pressed to the heavy rails yet still the snow refuses to melt
what lives long or little, that bring with them nothing or silver spoon protruding
life excuses no one and leaves no prisoners to the reckless abandonment sought,
all eyes feel the seeker of souls, glaring in dreams and rented rooms, hallways littered with trash.
no one speaks for the time for talk is past, only the languishing with flickering life over but yet unlived, begun only to spend its tiny wages on the salvation from which no survivors return
good graces given and taken and spent in the haste of thinking
tumbling husks wind fallen from the eternal tree the true source of existence
whose fruit you and i cannot bear, but those with bloodied hand and eye alike
perish even as the just rewards of honest labor keeps slaves of all mens children
divinely silenced and sung to with bone harp and gutted buckets flung out for more.
this infinitesimal fractioned thought arises not from where the eternal guides but from the lowest chakras fear and desire,
as ever after replays each note, the broken vessel seeks only more breaking and change is always permanent and final.
one life per body, one mother from all mothers weeping uncertain, left lonely to reach this madness through one encounter to the end of the beating heart, task now the very thought that has cast this clumsy thinking, a fresh idea pulled from the vine and upon the altar sung to and worshipped. even now the darkness holds no mystery, the sounds unconsciously rejected and in a tiny workshop the smithy holds each thought to its brilliant forge and flattens it, spreading it wide but too thin to support its own weight, mounted on the fleshy rack of the muscles and bones, where billions have been hung before.
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