when
he murders,
is
he not?
1/
Sad presentiments
of what
must come
to
pass a rage
of shredded clothes
the darkness
through which images
rain down
a ruined world
of bricks & walls
erased or
crumbled
shattered* *
splattered
on the broken ground
made present
by an unseen hand
like mine
the lines concealing
men &
women
children
trees
& gardens
grass
gates gravestones
shrines
& temples
class
rooms
radios
& books
old
dresses
fifes
& fiddles
heirlooms
bicycles
eyeglasses
sidewalks
monuments
engagements
marriages
employees
clocks
& watches
street
signs
works of
art
the man’s face
shows it
chest & forearms
swollen
stumps for legs
the cry of blood
so fierce
it stops his heart
his eyes see only
lines like knives
criss-crossing
blood or rain
the word is misery
that binds him* *blinds
him
where the waters rush
& rage
2/
with reason
or
without
the fate of real men
facing off
guns at the quick
or lances
silently
the cries rise up
between clenched lips
the itch & thrill
of suffocation
driving them on
for which the mind
is never still
but races screaming
somewhere beyond
the zone
where real men go
theirs is the dream
of children
& old mothers
huddled masses
at their feet
the dream of where we go
& where the bayonet
enters the sad flesh
the dark device
explodes behind us
ready like them
to make its mark
the blood is like
a ribbon
where it leaves
his mouth
the knife his hand holds
hot to strike
the mind of Goya
falters sightless
writing in a room
without a light
he feels the thrust
much like his own
the speed of thought
where thought ends
the rest is flights
of spirits
dibbiks who will never
find a home
how heavy
we have all become
trying to free our hands
to etch our names
still mindful that the dead
will never sleep
3/
the same thing
from the ax
as from the sword
the fury* *vengeance
of the dead
against the quick
.
those who survive
remember
knives like lights
cutting through time
& leaving us
minus a hole to hide
.
swept into death
the boots
the men wear
when the feet
stop moving
stick out of the ground
.
beyond our sight
the earth
will swallow them
no hand upraised
to hold it back
or free us
.
if my hand
would thrust a knife
like yours
the blow would sever
head from throat
spreading the blood
.
down mirrors
it will flow
& when they cry
for sunlight
nothing
will answer
but the deadman’s
song
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