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Though tiredness doth afflict my very bones

August 11, 2015

Though tiredness doth afflict my very bones
and distance yawns between my flesh and mind;
though all my muscles creak and organs moan,
and energy a resource overmined,
it takes a second’s wink to know this truth:
my very bones are thine, my flesh is thine,
from foot to tired brow, from toe to tooth;
my thinking heart is thine; and thine my mind.
My ardent adoration weighs upon
my heart in downy folds of peace and warmth:
no tiredness touches where it rests; upon
my love no weight but joy profound can form.

My love, my life, is thine: thou art my queen,
my empress sole; for tiredness rules not me.

Postmodern Middle Class

August 7, 2015

A concept project exploring the character of a middle class white millennial through unconventional spoken word poetry and ambient drone music; delving into the reality and fabrication of their suffering, thoughts, and dreams.

The moon is a beacon

July 27, 2015

A thousand miles away,
a thousand miles up,
the moon is a beacon.

The moon saw the fires
in the Canadian prairies.
The dry forests saw the torches
of white flame at the tops
of Atlantic waves.
The shifting ocean mountains saw the glow
of faerie dresses in Highland mist.
The thin places saw the gleam
of Siberian ice immemorial.
The untouched winter saw the white
on the underside of the albatross
over the Pacific.
The Prince of Waves saw the flicker
of the streetlight
on the corner of Waterton and McKinley,
and the weak golden bulb
saw a plea in the back of my mind.

As I returned from work

July 13, 2015

A tiny beetle, almost indistinct
against the patterned carpet, makes her way
along the hallway. Suddenly I am
a giant: clumsy legs stretch on for miles;
I fill the staggering expanse of hall
and move with massive steps. My senses shrink;
perception spirals down to follow in
the beetle’s footsteps as I pass her by
upon an infinitely spreading road–
she travels back the way I came, but now
the task seems herculean, though it took
me just a dozen steps to reach this point.
Another step: I’m turning back, the floor
obscures the beetle on her endless course,
she’s lost within the sheer enormity
spread out before her little beetle feet.
I reach my door and face the world within.

07.07.15

July 7, 2015

The sky is a grey
metal plate, hot to the touch;
why won’t the rains come?

Coquihalla

June 12, 2015

I

I am as naked as the stones,
patched here and there with moss
and shadow, rough against the sun.
But for my skin, so soft and false,
I’d lay upon these rocks
and let my shame be stripped away.
Beneath the wind and staring sun,
in time’s remorseless gaze,
my nakedness might be embraced–
but for my sin, so soft and false,
the sun might be my pride,
the stones my equal company.
But human skin is soft to sin
and human skin is false–
my nakedness does not belong.
So clothe me, waters, close upon
my flesh; encase my form
in icy vestments, dress my sin
in fresh green skin that cannot stay
to taint its cloth with me.
Draw on your garments over me
and dress my every open pore
in rapids’ froth and cloth
of racing river green and white.
Conceal my shape from me but run
your tailor’s fingers through
my every fibre: know my flesh
so when, undressed upon the stones,
one day, you might release
my beauty to me in the roar
that never ceases. Clothe me now,
O knowing waters, dress
me so my beauty might be shown.

II

My friend the robin redbreast flies
with such fantastic ease
across the frothing torrent that
the journey seems mundane. And so,
perhaps, it is, on wings–
when avenues of air are clear
and wide and open to your sight–
but not, it seems, to me.
I do not see the curls of wind–
the smooth, wide tracks that wind makes or
the narrow streets of breeze.
I do not see the fluttering art
of playful air, no boulevards
of breath are open to
me. All I see is rapids’ foam
and rushing crystal green crossways
to me in vicious paths:
no bridge of air to carry me.
But I would cross this river, if
I only knew the way–
reveal to me your secrets, friend!
Explain the lightness of your bones
that lets you rise and flit
with such simplicity across
this fearsome river flow. My friend,
oh Robin, tell me what
I must release to fly as you
do. Must I shed my naked shame?
(Or must I drown to cross?)
I will not shed my cares to cross,
nor give my prideful intellect–
are these what hold me down?
Perhaps, perhaps I should just leap
into the air–into the froth,
perhaps, perhaps–and give
myself unto what stream that takes
my heavy flesh into its arms.
But Robin, fly ahead,
I may just need a moment’s rest.

III

I lift my eyes from frothing glass
to see the mountain’s eye,
relaxed, look over me and down
the river, sparing not a thought
towards the dancing tree
that shadows me, nor what it hides.
This river’s but a vein to her,
a hair’s-breadth course upon
her foot she crosses every day
when sunlight hides behind her back.
She casts her eye upon
its length of roaring foam and mocks
its noise with silence. What am I
to such an endless eye,
and what am I to wish to fly
across this hair’s-breadth vein of glass?;
to think I could be dressed
in cleansing cloth drawn from a thread–
as seen within the mountain’s eye–
a single thread to dress
a tiny naked body, huge
as God but small as nothing to
this mountain who can cause
the sun to sleep each passing night.
She would not blink were I to fall
into the torrent’s arms.
I would not draw her gaze if wings
grew robin-grey upon my back
to carry me on streams
of air–no crossing of this froth
would inverse through her distant eye.

These rocks on which I sit
are dust of ancient mountains’ skin,
and I am just a germ between
their crags, left here to fade
before a single stone is moved.

IV

I’m sitting useless by a fire.
The river’s roar is faint,
now, through the trees, and I am still,
and clothed in smoke and cloth and thought.
The wood is running low,
and . . . so am I. The forest breathes.

V

I am as tired as the stones,
but never quite as still,
and never quite at rest enough
to feel the flow of time dissolve
my edges. Tiredness
is soft on me, but weighs as much
as mountains–would that I could be
a stone! A flake of dust,
to fall asleep, to melt away,
stroked by the river’s lullaby:
to never feel the mountain’s eye
or need a garment but the sun,
a blanket warm and kind.
I am as tired as the stones,
but I am still awake.
I can still lift my gaze to watch
the robin in its easy flight.
I can still hear the song
of rapids’ froth–no whisper of
my beauty there, not yet, not while
I’m still upon these rocks.
I’m still upon these rocks, in shade,
in shame, in cloth of weariness
and dreams. Devour me, mouth
of mountains! Spit me out as stone
and tumble me along your vein
of foam and glass to rest,
at last, upon its bank where I
sit now as flesh and cloth and dreams.
I am as tired as
the stones, but stones need not awake.

VI

The rocks collect in company,
a thousand drops of rain
and mountain snowfall fellowship
in every inch of river glass,
but I am here alone.
Would thoughts like these infect my soul
if Laura sat beside me on
this stone beside the froth?
She’d see these rocks as steps and leap
in laughter over them, or as
a theatre of seats
to choose between, to sit upon
to watch the masterpiece of God
exult before her eyes.
She’d see this river as a bath
to splash in, ice and joy within
each crystal water drop.
She’d see the mountain as a hike,
a subject for a photograph,
a forest to explore.
She’d see my skin as softer than
the stones, my hands superior
to Robin Redbreast’s wings.
Her human eye is kinder than
the mountain’s distant gaze,
and greater: seeing more
and feeling much. The mountain sees
a vein where Laura sees a source
of joy: a fluid stroke
of painter’s brush, alive and deep.
I am alone upon the stones,
but not as lonely as
the mountain, not as lonely as
the rocks, and not as lonely as
the rushing waters, for
I have the company of all
these things additional to what
I hold within my heart:
a naked love, a godlike art.

VII

I am as naked as the sun,
clothed soft and grey today;
and, hidden, I can sleep away
from mountain gazes, river eyes,
and darkling thoughts of shame,
and, when I wake, the city lights
will clothe me as the rest. But when,
one day, returning here,
when hand of love in hand with love,
with skin beside my skin and eyes
beyond my eyes, I think
the sun, undressed, might see me smile.

What the seed has learned.

May 23, 2015

I always thought you’d be the sky,
but darling you’re the dirt,
and you embrace me as I lie,
a tiny little seed:
you nurture and inspire me.

I always thought you’d be the sky,
but darling you’re the dirt,
and even when I’m, by and by,
a weed or mighty tree,
my roots will drink your wisdom.

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