The poet has no self – it is every thing and it
Take away the efficacy, burn the avarice -
you deserve nothing in humbleness
this desert night, moon-faced
by frost – childlike, bright.
We all come to simmer into the desolate
Death Valley, strewn by clouds of sage, (strewn with sagebrush)
weeping themselves that one
to one, we must perish in the wind
The sky, the soil, the sentiment
of the earth
wants us to be as they are through passage
and silence – freedom pays its price
in small doses of "I" and not "Us"
as you lean on
the narcissistic hands
you sealed, opened – occasion meets choice
in purgatory barracks populating like rats becoming
Kings of torture and Queens of worry.
Set the spinner straight
you need all time and trail to follow
the ghost into the darkness;
crack your ligaments,
bury the false joy of departure.
It is not enough to live
a quarried life -
(reason is without cause
sound of the heart
is where the journey must end.