have you made a war out of your heart?

Saturday, August 11, 2012

have you made a war out of your heart?

have you learned your lessons as well as you could have?
have you poured yourself out entirely and made not a drop
of your soul an acid throw? have you given your mask away
a dozen times and shown yourself naked to the beloved? and if not
why not? the world aches for this sort of courage and you have failed
if you have not done any of these works

have you grown a garden of words and laid the root cellar full of your harvest?
have you gone out into the world and faced each lie with your sword and cut down
as much of that thicket down? have you made a war out of your heart? have you taken
down all those who would harm the ones who are powerless? have you been shield and cry?
have you done the good work? and if not why not? why have you not spoken up and given your blood
for the cause which is the cause of all of mankind? why have you not laid your life on the line?

the line of poetry the line of language the line of acts of courage?
why have you stayed silent while the homeless walked by your home?
why have you not spoken for the hungry? why have you kept quiet when we have been lied to?
why have you not taken out your soul from its burial ground and given it up in life to do the work
of love? I ask you this not to make you ashamed or restless I ask you this because I am curious
how can you let your children live and yet keep silent when their children die?

how can you do this?

Tuesday, December 6, 2011


I am here.
The house is singing. I have not one other desire.
The words fill the corridors in waves. The oceans of sound rush through the portals in the walls. I have a tearing of the real and out of desultory –I enter—imaginary.

Singing makes a knife.
You hurl it forth. The collapsing language yields to your force.
You do this over and over again –as if you were a warrior ---as if you were brave.

This is the only way.
You must be shameful.

I have no other skill.
This slit that I make in the line, this wound that I open in the body of words—this surgical trespassing I do in the hollow organs of meaning—they take me out of the room—the theater of life---and into the other place—where I am able to whir the way an insect does—towards some infinity that I am certain lurks there—that pulls me inexhaustibly forward.

Insect poets are always chasing light.

And burning to cinders.

What –after all----is a life for?

We are to whir like scimitars thrown by the Muse ---to the body of the reader---and kill him dead.

We are to rebirth from the corpse of that reader---a new vivid human being who will also throw daggers and swords at another.

We are to winnow the field of the standing corn.

We are to make a plentiful harvest.

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