Origins

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(Robert Rauschenberg, Overdrive)

 

They sent me off

with the lunatics.

 

The shattering laughter implied

I would be assigned a new identity

shortly.

 

Once they broke into

my dreams

I heard the bell

sound black.

 

There were already several inches

of rain.

 

Do not tell me

you don’t hear it.

Do not,

for one second,

lead me to that place you name

integrity

and then convince me

of silence,

then

help me, God I’m dying,

down here upon the shore,

I can’t think or feel anything

anymore.

That wasn’t supposed to be heard.

It wasn’t supposed to be know that

these were the words I prayed

even after I stopped praying.

 

There is nothing

where there once

were gallant and geological features

I could piece or stack,

or even chisel away at,

if that’s what I felt

I needed to do.

 

But now I am empty.

I am changed.

 

The gravel, the barbs,

the pooling rains

that settle within that space

drown in the yellow waves

of the sea.

 

 

 

 

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To Live

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Hieronymus Bosch

I will meet you

somewhere between the

theta waves

and this wounded refusal

to die.

 

But you have to be there,

truly be there

amidst the graves

and the killing laughter which

revels in your

every death.

 

The thefts,

and the burns

broadcast

a sudden madness,

your premeditated

deterioration.

 

Only when I washed up

on these brinks,

did I choke

on the tombs

of those killers.

 

The next storm

has already been planned.

 

I will be here

if you need me

with nothing left

to be taken.