Monday, December 12, 2016

the evil hand.

dreams of
that isolated paris, all the stuff

that brings crescendo
to any impression

that our heads
are heads in the clouds- whatever kingdom
was the kingdom meant for us
at the time.

is not a darkness, not a death thing

for the magic is either lost
or underwhelming

though not cursed. i am the grandmother
and our chemicals

are not something my tastes have
matured for yet.

there's vague memory
of runaway castle, leader of life

i have not called on
the powers of.

is often more like grief
over a parent

who hadn't the chance
of teaching me

one must seperate
and how

one must seperate

if i may be given a choice here
and recognize

the choice in it
the architecture of this

if it can wave off my transgressions
in favor

of my caring

what responsibility i have taken

and yes, i do continue
to hope, nevertheless. we humans

have valid reasons
for our statelessness.
we're all about

the miles of ocean
that have constituted us

generally for
the manipulation of

the illusory

whose doorstep
i still dissolve on.

the great mother
takes your hand, with hers,

things that are parts

lift into waves
through the ether.

the dressing of our sorrows
having something to do

with oppression. tough love, i guess.
wounding and healing

being up to interpretation advantageous.

seducing waters to draw near
for those who see it fit

to crawl ashore.