Untitled

Untitled # 73

We reached the sainted field at last,
and unrolled the blanket slow,
in quiet agreement with night—

a pact of flesh and shadow,
what desire had been gathering for years.

The scythe-moon cuts into view,
silver through the black meat of sky.

Lover—
the scythe-moon has risen again.

Untitled # 508

I am weary of hunting the ceremonial six—
that mythic animal with six immaculate shadows—
yet when thunder cracks,
the actor becomes a porcelain teacup, trembling.

This is the arithmetic of a paper nation:
hands lag behind intention,
so museums are opened—glass cases of iron fruit—
and everyone studies the artifacts of courage.

A chrome instrument naps in your lap,
a lullaby of bullets humming,
but your finger is a historian,
refusing to touch the future.

You, curator of postures,
announce each new relic to your choir of echoes—
another polished thunderstick,
another certificate of maybe.

If the package bursts—
if the sky tears like wet cardboard—
you will plant your banner in the dirt
and call it strategy.

Meanwhile, the ladder to the Great Circle
is greased with haste;
young meteors climb it,
then vanish before naming the stars.

Speed becomes a religion:
fast shoes, fast love, fast mirrors—
and a queen of velvet lightning
who asks what you know of abundance.

You spend your harvest on perfumed ghosts,
scatter coin like breadcrumbs for wolves,
then chant: quick, quick—
as if time were a door that listens.

Rise, says the drum.
Rise, says the echo.
Rise, says the staircase with no top.

My companions are carved from oathwood,
roots drinking from the same dark river—
they would unwrite themselves for me.

So when you approach with your chessboard of threats,
I answer with weather:
a twelve-gauge storm rolling low,
naming you in thunder.

I am not the standard villain—
some are born mid-fall;
I arrived with gravity in my pockets.

Assemble your army of mirrors, friend—
it will take a cathedral of reflections
to bend a figure like me.

I advance as a full sentence,
punctuated by sparks—
I hope your chorus has learned the language of triggers.

Because I move like a merchant of momentum,
and if you carry instruments,
they must remember their music.

Nine small comets streak at an unreasonable tempo,
directed by a basket crowned as king—
logic wearing a paper hat.

When my clock says pop,
choose: soil or sky,
stillness or motion—
no sitting on the fence of indecision.

Hear the hinge of the metal hymn.
Rise, insists the hinge.
Rise, insists the rust.

No one tangles with me now—
I have claimed the calendar’s spine,
the year and its aftertaste.

Bring your bravado, your banners,
your invitations to collision—
I will portion you a continent of consequence.

For the crown does not fit the timid;
the larger the body, the larger the shadow,
the larger the myth it must drag.

Step forward with your costume of errors—
I will empty the constellation,
each star a verdict.

No rabbit-runs remain in this geometry;
the field has teeth,
and it is learning your name.

Bring your hat to your own horizon—
invert it, become the echo—
for many arrive uninitiated,
confusing thunder with applause.

I have never been granted that luxury.
So if you fear the bite of inevitability,
then rise—
rise like a tower forgetting its architect.

*18*