Another Day

Another Day

Hey, gang (if there is a gang reading, which seems like the least exciting, most empowering gang). So, I ended up having a busy day full of lectures on 18th century religion, markets, museums, Romantic pre-Raphaelite paintings, crepes with Nutella (good God, it was great), and lots o’ reading. So, here’s another poem post. I promise I will do a more prose-y post tomorrow about groups and our identity within and without them (oooooo mystery).

Anyway, here you are. Cheers.

Cycle on axis

It started in a garden
Where angel rivers guarded
The glory
Now become haunted

Water fell
Swept the creaking roots
Carried the sailless,
The pairs and pairs of

Horses and hopes and
Blight at the sight of
The old new world
Soon to be the new old world
As the waves clashed and thrashed

Once the rain and blood ebbed
They thought they had found promised Eden
In Jerusalem
Plymouth and Missouri
Where the gold trumpets rang tin

A garden of Cane held by pretending powered gods
Whose blood crops clot and carve
The backs of millions

Their dark crimson tide sloshing and rising all boats
To fall again
As we steer into the sins of our fathers
Floating Inescapable
Debris

Warping the timber,
thundering crunch,
The prison bars of
God:

The rigid bitter ivory és fruit,
The disease of our ilk.

But our hope:
Ink sediment truth
Builds mountains in the sea’s deep

Where the clay may
learn to pray

For the Mystery to rise
And sing above the static

to those who dare
to listen.