Here are where the wicked are cast.
It is a kind of island. I steer
from behind, and a coughing river
communicates the rage of the static night.
My skin and hair are old, and
I usher those who've hated
their existence through a
maple screen. I glide through
thick bubbling waters.
Some say this boat
on which I tote the lost souls
of eternity is a kind of podium
on which I have always stood.
Eager they are to accept the
ashy coffers of Hell's rafters.
Their nailless fingers clutch
the boat's side in a deeply
sympathetic way. Some say I am
the bird who had perched for too long
on the misery of his favorite song.
What stirring tides Iíve held-
in the grips of my Earthly palm.
I articulate the negative from nether.
I am the roaming reason to breathe.
For in the strength of my will,
I have taken you all, already, by my side,
and will deliver you naked and crying
to the one who lives at the end of this ride.
I do not disturb the sleeping.
They have other matters to attend.
And you will long be gone
when I steer to that domain.
In transit, you will need not
the bits I seek, to build
a bridge up to my steeple.
In the lake of your own solemnity,
I, with encroaching examinations,
will lay my hands upon your beaten sides.
Your mother's love there, sodden in your eyes.
I, as one would pull fresh weeds
from a garden, strike your pungent
must. In a solid swoop, I have you.
I have you. I must. I must.
For after you have left your Earthly cares,
it is your final wish, that you be made
into the ground, that holds all who've ever stood.
Hell, not heaven reaches for you first.
It is the sky of your abiding trust.
Your very pulse, the current rise,
And when Hell calls for you, the Earth abides.
And Earth accepts, as we should too
the crushing dexterity of vaulting its life
into those passionate empty realms
glistening in space with such starlight,
and a thousand reasons why.
And the things of this Earth fall
into her cycles, her seasons.
There is no escaping our identity.
As our oceans crumble rock to sand
so does death destroy our first
association with our selves.
And we are left there, treading water
in our deeper self. Treading the expanse.
Treading the very stratum of our future
As a future incarnation,
would there still be a "we?"
It suits with passing manor,
the question at the Bodhi tree.
Are my past lives experiencing
my connection to their several
possible selves. Am I then,
I am sure
that in some past time
and place, I was a Dentist.
Somehow it seems only right.
My pointy nose peering into
the cavernous expanse of
a panicking person's gape.
They laying at my mercy, and
with something close to
perfection, I dismiss their ails,
which were caused entirely of
their own penchant for the
How closely is the cavity to sansara?
The classless ills of all mankind.
Sorrow sprouts and approaches light.
And in the East they are rubbing
two sticks together, procuring fire.
I am a narcissist, and
I love myself for saying that.
I draw plans to maybe take a bath.
In them, I am a careful aid
to the conduction of symphonies
In the bath, I have owned
more countries and small republics
than the French in their height of power.
I look good in caps,
smell nice on winter nights, and
I only ask questions
that don't need to be answered.
There is no fear in my bleak heart.
As a child, I took the world
to be the Ace in the deck.
But if I had to guess now,
I might say the Five of Hearts.
What worlds were born today?
I wonder. Because worlds like
starving children in African countries,
are born and die just about every day.
There is a small world outside the
human geodesic notion of space
that violently met its death this morning
while my thoughts turned to poetry,
and then ellipsed.
Another was born, looking
equal parts its cosmological Father,
and its biological Mother.
Some of its
forests it gained from its Father.
And some of its lakes were given by Mother.