is10

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i.s.

crawlspace (sermonology)

We linger in the crawlspace of doctrine.
..incarcerated in the mysticism
of mashed potatoes, meatloaf, coleslaw & stryofoam.
-beguiled once more,
with innumerable butterbattered theologies,
tangy blood sausage reveries,
and glib bellwether tokens of agreement.

state fair

We walk in smaller dreams among the farmers, the young girls with creamy thighs dipped in naive pentacostal lotions, and steamy corn-fed wonders of deepfried ice cream, mini-donuts, and tractor pulls. Thunderheads threaten, and the air becomes close - like a nightmare father figure . . We are hidden in the wild lights of bluegreenyellowredblack and music of the apocalypse itself. We chuckle in the general direction of an encroaching fate, safe as long as we do not name it. And we answer with winnowing smiles and a few side-shows of our own. Like a small prize won on the toy cranes, our own hearts are swinging madly with a child’s infinite hope. And we listen intently for spirits summoning us ..
“ ...It’s best for everyone this way.” and, “
..It’s the right thing ..”
It all presses us firmly into a hard land; and we wander, joyously enough really, among the humid pavilions of faith and shame, and all these mysterious rides away from and into ourselves.

The Heart Is An Abattoir (& A Japanese Water Park)

The heart is a meat raffle,
A rickshaw,
A nailgun.
It is a treblehook,
And, as much as anything else,
One of the world’s most fantastically pretentious stein collections.
The heart is a compiler,
But not a completionist.
The heart is a potato,
And which we love deep fried
Rather more than we should.

The heart is hooved.
And it is a bill of lading.
It’s a japanese water park,
An antique traveling circus.
A shim.

The heart is an abattoir,
And a cabbage farm. And
It is spelled differently at different times,
Occasionally making the words, click beetle, or debenture..
And it is highly (too, perhaps) skilled in various kinds of arbitrage..
..Overleveraged..
And a spendthrift.

The heart is a foundry, for
Many unnamed things.
It’s made of burlap, and mint, and animals, and songs.
And it has such poor pronunciation, the heart,
Yet in the end, mute stentor,
Is all the more understood for it.

the metempsychosis of light

the soul of all light
from body into body
streams particles of longing
bent on the itinerant
salvations
which break in waves
all around us.