Whispering Pages / Spiritual Voices
The weightless will.
We laugh, we all
fall down.
Twisting
to rest
in senseless sleep.
*
The fallen faces.
I will pretend. They will fall
To water a reflection
Of water at least.
*
And that they could
fall
in reverse it is a matter
of how we find our way around
the pogramed city
convinced we
are still dreaming.
*
There is a sense
of magnitude in boots.
Boots made Infinite in
hovering.
The dead do not
intend anything,
do they?
*
While birds, seemingly matted, cross the screen, the screen, as though flip pages.
While birds, birds too heavy to be real birds, play at gravity.
A Russian novel per frame.
2.
Black cataracts
the sun
goes down in my eyes
*
Dear Afghanistan,
we see
with sepia the past
as though the same war
wasn’t always
being fought
under the same
desert sun.
Dear Russia,
a soldier sleeps
on sunless days
dreaming the milky
black of both pictures,
everything changes
because the eye persists.
*
The dust / in their eyes
profile / of a mountain / side
flat, incisive / sublime
arriving / in slow-motion
whatever “real / time” is.
*
Like icons these soldiers
the clouds which move
as they move
not above them
but as synchronous
surfaces,
angels twisted
in earthbound sleep.
*
The world,
the green
world is a tableaux
vivante or a Turner
where the clouds
break
the sun still won’t appear.
We hover above the cameras of this earth.
*composed October, '05.
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