The Post Industrial Wreckage Warehouse

The Post Industrial Wreckage Warehouse
Wherein Resides the Human Heart
and Any Number
of Other Arcane Devices of Unknown Intent

Here in the belly of the Beast
Century Fine Appliances Inc.

The wreckage strewn through out this quiet cavern
a testament to yester-dreams of post-war prosperity
The only clocks within these walls. . .
my heart and something dripping into a stagnant pool

I stand silent in this place of sloughed machine integument
and post-modern graffiti

In the fractured concrete and debris
there dwells a kind of. . . beauty
I reflect on the ossified architectural concord of design and layout
A kind of rhythm, spacing and style

A broken kind of beauty
Arcane engineering feats of technological magic
Structures and forms no longer functional in any way
Hallowed out spaces aching and itching to be used

If I sit here long enough
If I study the way the moving sun moves through the skeletal remains of shattered windows
I see a beauty in the gliding grid-work shadows
Now ragged and strangely organic

This shaft of light pouring through those roof windows
so popular in the 60’s
pierces into this heart of darkness
and I’m thinking that if I lay on the floor
I could make filth-angels

Suddenly
a combination of motor oil on water and light from the sun
A rainbow
A rippling
radiant
rainbow

An opalescent creature spilling an undulating radiance
on the festooned walls

A spectral innocence shattered by a water clock drip
pierced by a wild droplet from a broken rib rafter
A ripple radiating from a center that strangely holds

And this glassy creature of light
heals itself as if by magic

Returning to a state of luminal meditation

The Chance of Touching You

Madness
for I am surely mad

The door you left open
The chance of your trembling touch
drew me here tonight
And now
silence rushes in through a door I’m incapable closing
A tsunami of numbness tumbles into this dark room
Not peace
Not an end to this madness

I want to stir your heart-fire
Want to dance with you
to the throbbing thundering drum physically heaving my chest
bursting my ears
melting my defenses
curling around my every thought like incense
glimmering like motes of light

In this silent place
I long to touch your face
one more time with my eyes
I call out as I come apart on this
the altar of your absence
within your temple of silence

If you were here
I’d close my eyes and hold your face
My lungs’d stretch to inhale just one atom of you
and I’d hold my breath
till death came to relieve my heart

Madness
The door you left open
The chance of your trembling touch
The bitter ache of knowing the only thing that holds us apart
is a single word from your mouth

the sky fell

The day the sky fell
and everything is submerged in the waters

two men and two women
walk
(can you walk under water
or is it called swimming?)
appear to be walking across a field
some kind of cultivated field
(I’m thinking
one of those ancient grains
cause that kind of thing is so popular nowadays)

they are all laughing bubbles
and the bubbles are acting funny
I mean you expect bubbles to go up
so we must conclude that either we don’t know which way is up
or there is some kind of down current

anyway its hard to tell which man is with which woman
cause they keep touching each other with a strange fondness
like they have no inhibitions
total trust
they couldn’t be more naked if they dropped all their clothes

these kids today

oh
did I mention that it was a total eclipse of the sun?
cause I think that’s why the sky fell

The Artist

 

She pictures an open door
the Sun when its spent
She pictures the corridor
now vacant with lament

She pictures the empty shelf
no leaves upon the tree
She draws me outside myself
but never pictures me

the possession of all that you own

“I might not be able to buy happiness with that much money, but I could make a down-payment.”
“Hon, obsession with money blinds you to the art and texture of your life. You become the possession of all that you own.”
“That much money. . . I’d be satisfied.”
“There is no lasting satisfaction this side of the grave.”
~ from the Handbook of the Reluctant Tyro

When you’ve played the game with Death

“When you’ve played the game with Death as many times as I have, you come to realize that you can’t win, you can only postpone defeat.”
~ from the Handbook of the Reluctant Tyro

When you drink from the Well of First Things

“When you drink from the Well of First Things
the Rush is. . . well, it’s beyond all expectation.
You see your creation take life and cavort in the Temple
and oh how they shiver, quiver and frisson.
Like motes dancing in a shaft of sunlight
falling through a darkened room.”

“Yes,
your creations. . .
but then you come to know
that for every angel you create
a demon must be dealt with.
This is how Logic and Proportion are maintained.
This shows more than anything else
that Balance is the life’s blood of the Universe.”

~ from the Handbook of the Reluctant Tyro