Moscato Grapes and Miracles

 What candles may be held to speed them all?

      Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

      The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

-Wilfred Owen

Man gets lost in the forest

Woman glides over a lake

Man discovers a lake and woman gliding over it

Neither can swim

They find solace in their inabilities

Man and woman roll on the shore

It gets cold in the sand

Man goes for firewood

The tide rises

Man returns triumphant

Woman is elsewhere

The lake dries up

And man drifts to sleep

Wondering how it was even possible

For woman to glide over water in the first place

The Distance To Now

Like when we walked home from the bar

And the sinking-sky obscured

Our distances–

Its like that.

Fogginess of the sky and skull

Even certainty can be complicated

With what lays before us.

I who 
am dead
call to 
the living
little 
brothers
how absurd
your walk 
is
unencumbered 
& adrift
you run across 
life’s 
stage
your words 
are manacles
& cage 
your mind
I know 
enough of you
to sense 
your pain
freely 
& fiercely
I move 
into a deeper 
space
where none 
will reach me
here 
I strike 
a blow
an imbeciling 
fluid
from inside 
my body                                
covers 
the ground 
between
& blocks 
all entry
birds 
like little 
knives
dive 
down the sky
le mal
du ciel
the phrase
I hear
& fly from
- A. Artaud