where the Earth glows –

what of it, these

dark, evolving days that here find Solace

for Repair? Is

there a mishmash potpourri of Sense

and Substance we can Partake

of? All your illustrious demons with

their bored looks and

dead-end deals offer you a price for

your Soul; is it worth it? Can

you bleed through all your portholes as the ship

sinks? What can the

weatherman tell us, Now, now that we lose

our grip

on the slippery Rock? We

are thin Souls unprotected in a harsh wind

hoping

to find those eyes that don't look straight

through Us winding

through traveled routes to find you there

in your reved-up Intention

of fire and ice -- What of

the deafmutes, the sudden Sterility of

a boasting bull? Is

there Reason in

these winding Corridors there where Van Gogh

looks into us

with a kind of shared knowledge saying, yes

i felt that too -- What will

we do, sullen Sister

of the half-light, can you pin us down

and

revert to an illogical place of logical ways

or will we be banished from this our ancestral lair?

armchair heroics on the divan

spill out of us

with a cough, our dry hack functioning

as our Tempered Scale unmetered and

understressed; we live

in lithe

trapeze stunts without a net -- We

are Given

to Understand that a quiet Wind is often

enough

to stir the deepest longings in our Soul; We

settle about

the town lost in fog and feeling out our fingertips toward

your flashing

light; we are your brothers, your sisters, your

friends who support

our heads dragging our spent bodies from the Sea

blowing hard into Us to unleash

regurgitations

of saltwater, our expectorated Woe

on Stage for all to see; a

hungry, yearning populace discounts any

notion of wicked Spirits -- here, in

close quarters, we

ache for the embrace of our Andalusian

Mujer we hurt here

with crowns and festal days the Sun too harsh

for our Pale flesh it is Palm Sunday we

hold down our territory

with fronds of our own an unsure Silence settling over

the ridge we spy

the Mountain heaving its bold

height through Red Clouds and grey

to seek out

lonely hunters and broken backs

its precipice looming

in every upturned Thought --