What has arrived out of this silence
Secretly kept….silence of tears…
Silence of years….
The one who has slept to waken to the shining you
A shining so pure so alone….
Standing now by an ancient road
Made of blood and stone….
This glass dream that sounds of rain falling….
This dim recognition
Where emptiness folds itself into everything…
Watching from a distance….
Shards of burnt spirit light all around….
Pieces of grey fur caught on the stacked wood
Old ones have passed here….
‘It is raining hard’
‘It is a strong wind’
Sweat lodge song
For peter and Lynn.
October 30, 18
My grandmother whispered to me in a dream….
Beware the white cities…the ones filled with hatred and fear
The ones where the ones who can see are
Imprisoned by the blind….
The ones who live from the dead meat of others…
Devouring their eyes that are staring at them….
The ones who have arrived from the putrid underbelly
Of human waste….
Formed from the shit of their ancestral darkness…
Carrying the heads of their dead gods
As tokens of their devotion…
Eating the white plate of their deities
Forced upon her as a child..
She looked at me whispering
The white cities.
Why have I awakened here
With the watches of the dead scattered like eyes
On the floor….
Somethings that are left of me
Have found their way here
Where I am kneeling….
Praying for you….
Along this rain soaked columbian road
Where singing arrives out of the darkened trees
sitting among the tears
Of the missing….
Drying on the frosted leaves….
In the Andes above Medellin
The aorta spattered flapping against hope
Innocence the last gurgling sounds
Of a baby….
Fissures of unconsciousness
Drying as blood on a broken prayer….
The dead zone texts