Blood In My Shoes

Blood in my shoes.
Not wholly my blood.
It is the detrital detriment of others.

The slaying of a Nemesis is satisfying
from the start,
but as the undercutting of a damp hillside,
it is ultimately undermining.

I live in metaphor,
and attempt as I may to keep reality at bay.

It reminds, it bothers, it persuades with the power of chaos.
The cold past the window.

This is not unexpected.
The skill is to anticipate,
to know the unknown,
to name nothingness.

So is the daily shaman work.

For are we all not shamans by now,
by this late date on calendars secret and internal,
striking the bells in our bellies.

Do we not divine, not forecast.
Are we born convicted as a Forecaste,
with invisible marks upon our brows.

Do we not twist in ourselves hourly,
testing our own viscera in muffled augury.

I can hear the city screams.
My eyes seem to dim and enliven
with the pen’s varying pressure as it tilts the page.

This is who we are.

It is language which has changed humans from the start,
from the fireside before our age of glory,
to the schizophrenia hiding behind our steel walls.

The words are time travel.

I think I will hide my words in image,
in the darkroom, inside sounds that bend
round corners from the front porch,
from the drainage of the street.

It is nice to sit outside above freezing tempatures.
It is nice to have an hour’s worth of moments.
I design and so decree,
I die and so breathe.

There is little measure of now without
a known beginning and a known end.
Origin and Terminus.

And so God makes us.
And so we make God.

The respective perspective must be universal.
Good night spoon, hello spork.

What are we to become.
When does what we were, return.

Print, preserve, realize now and now.

Darkness and light,
we are but candles defining the distance.

I wish well, but for When I do not.

Eye see until closed me.