Black Hole Desert
Weary sun sighs deeply.
Rattlesnakes seek solace.
Tumbleweeds bleed wisdom.
Saguaro reach deep into green pockets
of scattered water loose
in rancid blankets of arid certainty.
Scorpions seethe, swallowing sand,
each and every granule
a microcosm of the infinite.
Heat has no name
the unmoved mover, the tabula rasa
of forgotten ancestors
who once roamed desert oceans.
Only stones know
the pure brilliance of blue dreams.
Water, cosmic goddess of life
laughs caustic spasms
of splintered denial.
How flowing is not knowing.
Move with winds fierce,
gnawing buffalo bones bleached white
by time’s futile satire.
Laugh at eternity’s fragility,
how only stars can implode
sending blackness into holes
of anti-light, magnetic death.
The Relativity of Loss
I am the alpha and omega
the cosmological constant
caught in Doppler shifts
descending and ascending
accelerating and decelerating
beyond the speed of light.
Like some free-floating photon
I linger in my eternity of flight.
No common center of gravity holds me
as one who has known
the despair of departing galaxies.
How your cold blue eyes
defy this space-time continuum.
I am the quasar in disguise
pulsating in my own black hole
having lost the event horizon
of your touch, scent and voice.
Hip Hop
Ready or not here I come to blow your world. Jump, jump, everybody jump cause I got more rhymes than the Bible’s got psalms says the House of Pain as the real Slim Shady stands up just standing there and watching her burn, that’s alright because I love the way you lie I love the way your eyes cauterize my cries putrid in the velvet night of lies living large on a canvas of Tanguy lost in that French eye lurid dreams deferred exploding into abstract angularity. Hey must be the money. Money, money makes the world flow like rivers of rhyme, ciphers on the Rhine getting down goin round n round into circles lost in the sound of the found. Low, low, low next thing you know she hit the floor goin low and movin wit da flow of the Mississippi south into deep parishes on the Ponchartrain skimming them shores of St. Francisville down the Rouge of Baton slitherin southward into the bottomland of alluvial plains Delta of my dreams and then… the cradle of chicory coffee cream beignets on the beam cotton in the seam of pockets lined with those dreams deferred not yet exploded not yet exposed in these lyrics that rhyme with time. They flow they row and so we go low into the glow gloaming, roaming, knowing what we know.