A danger you rightly fear, shall obey laws beyond itself,
Granting you safe passage &
Whomsover shall enchant these words –
Caveskin Cloak of the Rounded Shadow.
Your flashlight a white moth.
Your ballpoint pen a white cane.
Don’t say anything else.
Tarot Baby brought you a silver platter.
Don’t say anything else.
Tarot Baby & her grapes gone a long long time.
The great ship going down
Heaving like a lost city,
No water anywhere
No voice like an echo calling,
Swim to the heart of symbols carved long ago,
You know you never will
(In your heart)
Never swim
To the heart of symbols carved long ago.
TV on a throne
The great ship going down
Heaving like a lost city,
No place to swim
No place to dream
No voice
Like an echo calling,
Swim to the heart of symbols carved long ago.
In your heart you echo
The heart carved long ago,
You kneel in disbelief
TV on a throne.
No place to dream
No echo, calling like a voice,
Swim to the heart of symbols carved long ago,
You kneel in disbelief
The great ship going down.
An echo like a voice,
echoes,
And you will not
You will never
In your heart, still and quiet,
Swim
To the heart of symbols carved long ago.
A place to swim
A place to dream
A place to reappear.
A place to cast aside demons
Far from the killing fields.
Voice like an echo
Echo like a voice
No water anywhere
The great ship going down
Heaving like a lost city
Heaving like a ziggurat on the plains beneath the flood.
A place to swim
A place to dream
A place to reappear.
Swim into the heart of symbols carved long ago
Breaststroke upon tidal waves, push barrels of cinnamon sheaves
Buoyant amulets crest a tidal wave
Pages of an unbound book
Unbind slow-motion,
The sigil of a sun-god
No water anywhere
No clocks no grasshoppers no sky
No echo like a voice
No echo like a spinal column
The great ship going down
Heaving like a lost city
On the plains beneath the flood.
A place to swim
A place to dream
A place to reappear,
Mirrored in reflection,
In your heart you reappear
On the plains beneath the flood
Breaststroke like a ziggurat
Curving like a spinal column
Sigil of a sun-god.
Voice like an echo
Echo like a voice.
Voice like an echo
Echo like a voice.
Some are born human, most have to humanize slowly.
I want to say I’m on my way > at this point: pelican;
in time, perhaps: writer. It seems every act of writing
is compensation for a shortfall of some sort; that to become
a writer one not only has to work hard at the part, but also
be a little less than human. Ideas like these weighed heavily
on Franz K. much of his truncated life. In fact, under their
anvil, he forged one of the few perfect works of poetic
imagination of the 20th century—according to Elias
poemimage 