NaPoWriMo 15--17

April 15, 2011

Liminal, a god
washes up on the rocks
of everything. Its lightlessness
howls I AM ALL, WHOLE, A PERFECT
ATOM OF CREATION.

It looks about, absently
shuffles the stars, knowing
that it knows that it
knows that it
knows that
it

cannot create relevance.


April 16, 2011

Geodes know
the secret to happiness.

Keep part of yourself
empty. Full,

you cease to be.


April 17, 2011

Holub, eye bleeding absently,
was not surprised
to see an angel
rise from the depths
of his poetry.

Its face was lightening. He measured
the voltage, mapped the looping
currents, observed the terribly
neutral polarity. He diagrammed the
six wings, counted each toe.
The oxygen-to-carbon-dioxide-ratio
was documented, the clotting factor
of divinity.

All around, the atoms
circled their cages like mice.

Salvation can not be measured, and so
Holub's angel, like atoms
or mice, did not know the shape
of a soul, was not required
to save it.

He dissected the angel and then
wrote a poem. The poem became
a knife, which he used
the only way he knew how.