Migrant piece 1
July 14th, 2020
Revolution starts in the moss where the
smell of the spirit is accurate
Rolling on the mountain with your
ass feet back and knees
The sky is open over the rocks
used by sheep to hide from the sun
Even the most gentle of beasts need
some darkness for a change
Fucking laughable the eye is to the horizon
but cares not to emit a sound
just let the wind pass
You look for a ditch to have a smoke
not necessarily a cigar
but something to remind you of a victory
After countless losses
you deserve one quiet
One time of minimal movement
while sheep bell the intervals
between one root or another
Berries in red on the floor made of void
or something approaching the night
with its star crossings
There a dwarf, a giant
and a colossus of sorts
In distance that your feet dare not measure
stone falls making a thud
You listen as if to hear the enciphered message
but the folly of it catches up before
any sense comes to mean
Contracted back into the tiny space
you occupy
Invisible to the far aboves
you make a gesture
Guest neither invited nor off the list
you inhale the scent of blueberry leaves
Which is not much but so is
the volume of your heart
Though fast, thus potentially
ripe for openings
Scattered in grass moss and waters
I am so that my enemies can
never recognize me
My skin on the stones, bark
and juniper needles
So I can ever feel and be felt
by the loved ones
I think of rolling off the mountain
while becoming a rock
Under which in a year or two
there’d start growing all the red caps
In the dark of the night
befriended by moths, slugs and ants
I dream of a god so chaotic that
it makes my innards sing
Having never known its name I wash
my feet in morning dew
Prepared for movement one way or another
I inhale the odors sun offers
My eyes infected by bright blue
come to rest on a lichenous stub
The silence in my head weighs like stones
washed on the river bank
I inspect my skin for no other reason
but its existence
Bits of breeze lost in the
hairy parts
The smile extends further than the jokes
collecting the warmth
left in abundance
By the goddesses that superseded
the gods
Who fell stupid on the guillotine
Centuries of wails echoing among the leaves
that refuse to rot
Panic of those who lost their riches
Courage of those tough in their faith
Paths walked till the heels feel as bone
Tears wiped finger tips softer than rain
Wither the state of trampled convictions
There’s no prisons among animals
no matter the blood
Typing machine resting on the bottom
of dried up lake
Fish that swim back to the ocean
Waves of resistance gather into a tsunami
rolling slow giving birth
To places and time uncounted and
encountered in adventures
Of which I am a witch and I burn
my sins in a fire at noon
Smoke rises over the mountain
and I signal the clouds
‘Bout the tasks close ahead, of the ways,
far away
I hear a sound of approaching quiets
that may hide undiscovered desires
I store few samples of it into a jar
may be opened when back in the works
The job of the jobless is to trail
the truths of declassified vissions
Moving on the sand
as the mountains decay
Half an inch in millenium
so when they reach the cities and towns
It won’t become their demise
but the futures
I dream of which a lot and know very little
but so does every spring
before it autumns
And starts falling on the lakes,
tracks and barren fields
Infesting the village, the town and metropolis
The breath of the blood of the mountains
Cuts deep into the lungs of
workers, the servants and their masters
Dogs howl and cats hunt for the zebras
Dome of the heaven descends so low
That it makes it stupid to wish on the stars
In this jolly chaos you can hear
the revolutionary songs spreading
from the wilderness
You can’t make out the instrumentation,
the lyrics or the scope of its scale
So you sing along hoping for
it to last enough that it can
aqcuire a name
In the meantime you’re happy
you’re not alone
Walking the freedom to the distance
of a mad one
One heart one soul one spirit
One gut and many treats to feel it with
Comments are closed.