The mouth is opened.
You can see the labor camp inside
working on the words to end all words,
at least for a while,
at least to hint an end exists,
pressing the strategic geometry of influence
to restate the circumstantial evidence
into metaphors of the ineffable,
to eclipse both the final say and sayer.
The feet that bring that good news
matched only by the
beautiful belly buttons of better bards,
the omphalos of humanity.
A cloud is rising beyond the trees.
It’s in the air, you know.
We breathe it.
The birds know this substance well.
Full of thought and being,
ghosts live there, you know.
We breathe it.
Spirits know this substance well.
Inhaling all the common memes
we hold our breath and dive in search of life.
Exhaling speaks the blue-green mantra,
Stokes the fire, affirms the strife.
Each thought we breathe informs a story:
we see now how they spin their glory.
Word-weary we wait…
We fan the flame and wonder.
What gods have put together
Let no one put asunder.
Vital vapors reach a verity of height and heat,
cool into words and descend.
The best neither fogs a friend
nor floods a foe,
but infuses life with life.
So many sentient poets now
afloat beyond belief
to challenge all pat answers
and ever seek relief
from arrivals on the scaffolding
still weary from their climb
who want to set up housekeeping
and corner every rhyme.
“This is not it! We are not done!”
The fervent mouths will shout,
“Rest and then arise again
and work the inward out!”
It sounds so simple when you say so.
The air sparkles with largesse
and I fly before I think to flap.
It’s the itchy dreams that form us, you know.
when, at last,
they hear the music.
But never because they
know they know