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by David Leo Sirois
Gesang ist Dasein
-Rainer Maria Rilke
Chanterez-vous quand serez vapoureuse?
- Paul Valery
What the hell is it they want?
These crickets repeat
their despairing prayers.
Maybe the moon's beat-up drum,
taut shining skin pulsing-
pounding out echoes
of its primal sounding-
that slowest explosion
of stolen sunlight.
Now, downcast, it pulls
a lake's black surface
into a well-lit kiss.
I'll fight to digest it
along with my habitual lie-
this badly-hidden humanness-
& find my mystical instrument
somewhere among the meaty rungs
of my ribs, a ladder leading
nowhere but the skull.
Yes, Song is existence-
Warm, thin night-notes
carry out occult requests
into the glinting saltwater of night,
swimming with myths & mirages-
all those faces we feed the stars.
Hopes pinned to the panting air.
I let them rest.
After the sun has emptied
its hot mouth of all its wants-
but before absolute night,
when I become a splintering
shipwreck of empty ribs, befriended
by eager vultures,
I will rest on this faith-
Song survives
without knowing,
I'll pass it to
the masses of
crickets,
blow rumors into the mute
mouths of violets.
As my bones unravel
into a streetmap of silence
Song will shiver upward.
Why, then, is my bloated silence
already being born?
When the orgiastic seas hiss
with the sweat of glaciers,
& the soul can grow heavier
year on year - larger, but lazier,
having grown too intimate
with gravity.
by David Leo Sirois
All of nature's children dance
& climb along the ragged rim
of earth - holding onto nothing
but the force that held them first.
They are standing sternly upside down
rilling backwards around the sun
while a pale moon underlines
the storm of images that make up life.
Ask the first & last alive
what they most want,
& what they must -
each answer marks an inner
fingerprint - no two alike -
made before light first
stroked a human face.
Did I die today? Eclipsed -
as if the sun & moon
rose up within me beaming
between my bones until
only the sun could be seen!
______________________________________________
by Robert Slattery
wisps of fog
and sizzling twilight
runaway
driverless busses
full of mexican hindus
careem up
mountainous slopes
propelled
by the
ground licking tongues
of favored postulants
who hang
out the windows
