1. |
Reprimand
08:38
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I. Alien Grace
We read the skies,
Each star a poem.
Galaxies of rhyme
Calling you home.
Of the Beginning;
Of the Eternal;
Of the Extended;
Of the Pure Concept;
All is forgiven;
All is forgiven;
Always forgiving;
Each one forgiven;
All is forgiven,
Pristine ‘neath the canopy of evening’s tender light.
It’s gotta be
Somebody.
But it wasn’t me.
It couldn’t be.
It’s a hit and run
With a rubber gun.
Are we sure, is it necessary,
That it was someone?
We feed on light,
Your flame’s a meal.
Each hand’s touch a bite
That you won’t feel.
All is forgiven.
II. The Best of All Possible Worlds
Man’s defang’d –
but scurvied gums can still draw blood.
The future has been arraigned,
not with a bang but with a thud.
Scalpel sharp –
babes slice thumbs on tight harpstrings.
Sweat stings – mingles with blood’s marks
on the blank charts for an abandoned life’s coda.
(Far from false charity,
I have received the gift
of plucked out eyes.)
Hand on heart –
its muffled beacon beckons breath.
Lest death do us rend apart,
swear that you’ll leave it in my chest.
Kingdom come –
the curved path of varicose veins
leads astray till they pull plumb
from the full force of love, flushing claret – God’s love.
(Near to calamity,
I have refused to hear
your rueful cries.)
The best of all possible worlds:
Eating custard powder in a fallout shelter.
The best of all possible worlds:
Smoking butts found afloat in the rainbow’d gutter.
Clench your fist –
the migraine’s grip of my grim shame.
Crystal moonlight hits, my cysts
confess their breadth ‘pon my gaunt frame.
Sick with age –
or, shorn by the scythe while ripe and gay;
hearty, hale, and full of rage
‘gainst the first flush of lust for younger days.
(The bread of God is free.
He feeds the faithless who
would rather starve.)
Mend his wounds –
“Ma’am, I’m afraid your man’s been maimed.
Our blessed knives could carve a womb;
fold him in the hole, he’ll bleed out – born again.”
Man’s defamed –
he’s harried by his mother’s eyes.
She spies the pleasure that he names
Adam, who didn’t pray, who didn’t have to pray – nor I !
(The brand that’s seared on me
spells out my deference
in florid scars.)
The best of all possible worlds:
Reading lonely letters torn from a quaint porno.
The best of all possible worlds:
Seeing children lied to: “no, you’re not just born to die.”
III. The Reprimand
Were it as simple as care – if care had no character –
then I might find it fair to reprimand my reprimand.
But we’re fragile for fear – “afraid” is a barrier
that only pain can clear.
Only I can get you clear.
Would I lie?
Would I lie, my dear?
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2. |
Waters of March
03:43
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A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone
It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun
It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush
The knot of the wood, the song of a thrush
The wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all
It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope
It's a beam, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart
The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone
The beat of the road, a sling-shot stone
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump
It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps
The plan of the house, the body in bed
And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud
Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing
A cock, a quail, the promise of spring
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March
It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite
A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night
A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain
A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March
It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart
A stick, a stone, the end of the load
The rest of a stump, a lonesome road
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun
A night, a death, the end of the run
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart
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3. |
||||
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A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone
It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun
It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush
The knot of the wood, the song of a thrush
The wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all
It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope
It's a beam, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March
It's the end of the strain, it's the joy in your heart
The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone
The beat of the road, a sling-shot stone
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump
It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps
The plan of the house, the body in bed
And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud
Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing
A cock, a quail, the promise of spring
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March
It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite
A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night
A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain
A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March
It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart
A stick, a stone, the end of the load
The rest of a stump, a lonesome road
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun
A night, a death, the end of the run
And the riverbank talks of the Waters of March
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart
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YEP Vancouver, British Columbia
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