1. |
In Silence
04:58
|
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|
My Beatrice came from over the Labe
Bohemian like I---
On Summer nights I concealed my
Heart in my jacket pocket.
When I spoke, my words were
Slow and careful,
And fluttered
Away with every breath of smoke,
In Silence.
With my back to the warm, yellow glow of suburban lights,
And beneath an uncertain, cloudy night,
My longing eyes were obscured.
The sweet, pungent odor of silver cocktails…
Covered the desire on my breath.
Star of descending night! Fair is thy light….
My Beatrice came from over the Labe,
Now, she has returned there.
I have glimpsed paradise and was blinded by its light.
My joyous confession is solemn in her absence.
My voice is but a whisper.
Futile and pleading.
It’s nothing, love. You’re shaking like a feather.
Hold me,
Let’s go.
We will sleep together.
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2. |
They Are Screaming
04:09
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|
The worms are dying. Why are they are scattered on the pavement, like a broken jigsaw puzzle?
They are bloated.
They are pink like the corners of eyes.
Tragic and repulsive,
They writhe, and wriggle, and knot-
Great and terrible knots-
On the glossy, gray pavement.
We have left the hose on too long,
And now, the worms are dying.
Their brown faces...
Are crinkled like crushed oilcans,
And weeping fiercely,
But they haven't any eyes...
Or legs.
They are screaming.
The work... screaming.
And this is the place where some of the worms had withdrawn to die.
We are people!
We are people!
Their screams are inaudible.
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3. |
GAIA
03:29
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|
The world we know is a
flower.
Immaculate,
And red,
Like weeping,
Its stem rises from the vast,
Infertile faliure of waste.
Even the bath water is tinged yellow now,
Like piss and cowardice.
All of the waste is contrived
in the guts of men,
Sated,
And incurious.
All of the waste is contrived
in society's tangled,
Growling bowels,
And the air is thick with it now.
What is a man to do
when nothing is created but waste,
And everything is burned
in pyres,
Like dead emperors?
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4. |
A Handful Of Dust
04:27
|
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|
Leaves fall
And wander through the air,
Like ash from a burning home.
In the wind,
The trees whisper,
"We do not forgive. We do not forgive."
Every breath of Winter air
Sharply kisses the trees
And the mourner's faces.
It is relentless.
The elms stand over the mourners,
With arms raised in sorrow.
The trees are born of the skeletons that inhabit the earth between their roots,
And they grow forth into towering skeletons,
Above the black huddled mass.
The trees never knew-
Now they know the bottom.
A hole is in the earth,
People are thrown in it,
And dirt.
Each family member offers
A handful of dust,
To the quiet and reposed.
They have always taken,
But now, at last, to their fondest, they give
A handful
Of dust.
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5. |
||||
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All is placid now,
For the drowsy dawn
Has risen
From the phantasmal ashes
Of twilight's untamed musings,
And blazes in ethereal colors,
Just before me.
I might reach out
And touch it,
Were I ignorant
Of its inevitable approach. I am resurrected
From my infertile slumber
And my vague, fantastic dreamings.
To bear again,
The truth,
My volatile humors,
And the heavy wait
Of my salvation.
I am Sisyphus;
I command the hand of god.
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Cicada The Burrower Madison, Wisconsin
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