mortal orchids
delve into the common body of knowledge,
tap the storehouse of memory watched over by poets.
we are the people! we are the children of the g-d of dance.
we are the universe of ecstatic motion... balter in chance,
loiter with the bees, lollygag to the chant of trees.
tormented by a harsh resonance, driven by the vibrating hum,
spew your word out into angel ears... under a new moon.
this is the summer of stitches, the summer of the woman
of two wings who sails across the sky and flies into the wilderness.
legs spread, wrapped in the earth, hear her give birth blood thrumming
to an opera island as they lay dying under the prince of air.
beasts with erections still fight their inner tyrant,
beasts to breast try to douse flames of heaven’s war brought to earth.
the fallen cries waxing icarus open the last mortal orchids.
the holy ghost orchids wronged in translations across adroit hands of time,
being real gets you hated... being, pulled forward by complexification
while a solar storm aligns with the earth. pull pieces of prose,
old fragments from mouth to post in broken voice deadlier than the male.
new shreds and tangents among the moths and holy ghosts where we watch
young white male gamers activated by the game. who screeds
another daft manifesto, a mash of cruelty and rage cold to the touch?
in this age of assassins and scorched earth, give me the trees.
give me away from those controlled by others and things.
give me a way through to the heart. the power rest in me!
the sacred head cracks against a mirror and blooms peristerion.
dissolving mysteries, burning false attachments, we must touch the earth
aiming questions at the universe, feet on the ground; what is wrong, what is wrong?
a fragment spins this way and that with truth –society, not the canary.
it has been a long time since my soul. dipping fingertips in water,
absolving the earth from patriarchal disturbances again, throw out a blessing.
what a time to be alive with the last soldiers from the war in heaven.
