friday can be a crucible

11-19-04

washing the moon

so I am here; staring into chasms
self pity is the game and eager is a cold night
“don’t worry I’ll be home soon” –words uttered by another
warming in sight of the Euphrates; his thoughts on scared Iraqi eyes
thoughts like freight trains; dull, heavy , and shrieking
so I am wondering; purpose meets me like a face in the crowd;
a wife perhaps…if the mind is not warm a hot bed allures…
the wives are earned by others…purpose again—focus on purpose

panes of yellowish; glass is subdued to the moon otherwise
dirty is she…I am yet another splotch---seas of tranquility aside
give me a rag…give me warm water
ale makes it seem likely; just to reach up—a good cleaning is all
halt! You are not God. But he likes you. Here is a wash rag from God.
Wash with words…clouds do not count
I am rising now…the chasms have moved on; “you must believe, boy!”
Walk on…

so I am here; burning the pixels…
they are coals; phosphorescence is of no concern
colored dots into awareness….this is my new game
and eager is a heart; WASH AWAY, MY BOY!
speed is the new satan; and moons do not pass with speed
I am trumpeting like the train conductor…
But he is not thoughtful…remember we have God’s wash rag,
Like the cold one in Iraq; I have purpose…
A wide angle lens distorts—but sees all.

See it all…for one day the moon will have no splotches.