A great stone is rolled away sounding off from a terrible distance
Grinding, the sky, grinding against the sky.
Cloud becomes chalk on the sea above.
both poured
into the cement like expanse.
Skyscrapers, the crude carpentried frames of human centrifuge.
This earth is made of blood.
People blood, animal blood,
The blood of thought, the blood of the planet that spouts with heavenly names like Saint Helen and Vesuvius.
Ideas form craters too, the artifacts of time.

Do you remember when we had to try?
Does that recall? Where does the record begin?
There are leagues of scientists, pseudo scientists, and spectators like me searching for correct channel for faith. We still can’t agree on which flowers were buried with Jesus,
What current carried his death shroud on its tour of earth.
We are still studying its tape and adhesivity of its negatives.
We don’t know what put that face on that too fine cloth but it has become map, so we study it.

It made a sound like a low passing aircraft when it was found. Like a sigh
From deep within, breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Oil, perfumes, the dirt that clings to your skin lifted from the surface as gravity was momentarily lost.
All signs of the imperfection of life, lost,
Likenesses do not yet bear the impression of proof or doubt.
They look like speculation, which, if I were honest
I would say looks like me.


A Thought

Thought is not as kind as the mind nor as gentle as limit.

Within ourselves are both our greatest fears lived out

as well as the infinite of our potential waiting to be discovered,

but it is language that gives these form and that is devised

as concept to the construct to our inner workings.