I salute each nut with a wand of rock. I salute each nut with a wand of rock.The king-on-bundles-of-leaves— daddy of the threshold of grace my "kerchief is minted in its pack I will need it later for my blood.
We all are busy shouting we all are busy swearing
reeking still as if in fettered silence— our fate as a surging tide.
Dreams die to the glory of famished G.o.ds spring unrefined, of mineral waters,
can"t we shield our nests from caustic winds?
If you examine the stories
and force them through a sieve you will see like I see—
the pot was leaking before it broke.
They laughed, we laughed, and they laughed we cried, they laughed and laughed and laughed; they took our images to the stage,
we uncoated our folly for their eyes.
We walk backing the sun that makes us proud we sleep looking the sun in the eye but
receive no illumination for our awkward hearts.
Men thought liberally but within frames that limit expansion breakaway thought-lines from the square
we have fed their heart to the crow.
Of age yet unweaned
and they yanked us off the breast of time…
The tortoise was a bit wiser the tortoise was a bit wiser
he went stealing f.a.ggots from foreign fires, saw antimony in a resident"s eye
Quickly he ran he grew a lab
conjured a formula
conceived some jargons to blow the mind.
But do you see them, my storytelling fathers they adore the surface and swear at digging.
If they see a thing, a line of puzzle
they do not understand they will cook a myth
Commission an image they will build a shrine summon to fiesta
and knot a lineage.
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Everything had a G.o.d— secret primordial names
and a concoction of chants for trapping its essence.
The G.o.ds of the fireplace of fist-crammed morsels of shrimped vege-stew of… of… of…
Show a line of puzzle they will spill some blood gather their fears
they will spill some blood.
O father, do not stop me let me wipe my tears with dry-dead-leaves
There are no bandages in here "kerchief I will need you later for my blood
I will need you later for my blood…