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Monday, May 29, 2006


The Old Man

I watch an old man sit,
All his years thrown across his shoulders
Like some threadbare coat,
His face a desert of rough sand pocked skin,
As though Christ's feet might have shuffled
Across his forehead in that forty day fast,
Fingers thick and gnarled, beaten down bent
By motherless time, as he squeezes
Out glue from a cracked old tube,
Trembling fingers building matchstick models
Of warships and gunners,
He was young once, may still be young inside,
If only our eyes could see deep enough,
To that godly grandeur we
Attach to youth and exhume out of age,
Possibly a boy still lives in there,
Searching out bold adventures,
As his hands, knocked dumb with antiquity,
Find it hard to even glue together
Unused matchsticks.



A cornucopia of dark dreams
Flap their winged shadows,
Nightmares overcast my eyes,
Parting a curtain to reveal
What may one day touch me.

I find myself in future realms,
In subliminal cuts of disasters,
An areoplane falls from the sky, or
A broken neck at the wheel of a car,
I'm locked in omens of final acts.

Imperfect visions reveal conclusions,
Yet unfairly submerge the cause,
Images of my own doom taunt me,
For I can't stop the unstoppable
Passing through the world's door.

Why do I dream the fall of twilight?
Why not let it fall without warning?
What have I done to deserve the morbid
Revelation that my future is a play
Already written in another world,

Like some damned götterdämmerung.


Descarte's Hell

A great philosopher's dream
of Hell, where the
thing that burned there
would be the memories collected
in the soul's great book
of the world,
a book-burning cleansing of all things
that weights the
sprirtual to the temporal,
a purification process
of developed individuality,
of passion, of hate,
of all lessons learned,
of all living data and input,
abstracting anything and everything
uniquely human,
to become worthy of Heaven.

What a fate worse than death.

Surely the experiences
through this journey
is what will render
any soul paradise worthy?
Hell is a confrontation,
a passage of understanding,
where what is burned
is not knowledge but ignorance,
a paradox of the original sin,
and that it is finally realised
that God awaits not without,
but always from within.

What fate better than death.

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