(Joe)
I hear voices at night, warning me. I
can barely sleep. I can't quite
understand what it is they are trying to
say. they seem to be speaking from
somewhere far above my head.
so, to hear them, I climb over
myself, stepping up over my shoulders,
then pulling myself up higher, and
climb some more and more.
finally I am so high I can no longer
see the Earth below
above, the sky is neither black or blue,
there are no stars.
but I am high enough. I can hear
them, the voices clearly, as clear as a
bell of fire, as clear as a window in
the sun.
I hear them.
they are saying, "beware. stay on
the ground or you will become lost, as
we are. lost..."
(kicked in the window, threw the door
behind me, and ran. still, it was no
good. the air kept following me,
mercilessly.
I tried turning corners, faster than
slower, until I almost run into myself. I
knew there was no hope.
my lungs filled my head, dying and
eager for silence, the perfect breathe.
the air knew I could not resist.
flesh is weak, but is weakness
always bad? weakness serves to
glorify, to ennoble, to sanctify.)
(gary)
she always told me to stay away
from the pit. she would tell me that if
I wanted to keep my life from being
any single color I had best be strong,
and when she died I began to dig for her
as well.
the deeper I dug the stronger I got.
(my addiction shining like quicksilver
along the ropes inside my arms.)
I had dug so deep that all the world
was a velvet black.
(turning even less than black.)
then I unearthed the Goddess.
I took the Goddess home and though
she treated me badly my addiction
turned from strength to love.
she disappeared as I held her, the air
as clear as quartz and rhythm.
it was then that I noticed my thin
charred arms, fading.
now I go back to the hole, feeding
the earth, the grave song and cinder, I
go to speak with my child, like dust on
a moth's wing.
(my flesh white pink fumbles that I
am flesh. flesh is weak, flesh is weak,
flesh is weak as air pushes into
consume and elevate.
what I need is new eyes, new eyes
to battle the conceit that death may be
salvation, new eyes and a vacuum.
knowing what I want, knowing I need, the
perfect air follows, carving a hunger, I
sigh, gasping red and screaming,
longing to breathe.)
I hear voices at night, warning me. I
can barely sleep. I can't quite
understand what it is they are trying to
say. they seem to be speaking from
somewhere far above my head.
so, to hear them, I climb over
myself, stepping up over my shoulders,
then pulling myself up higher, and
climb some more and more.
finally I am so high I can no longer
see the Earth below
above, the sky is neither black or blue,
there are no stars.
but I am high enough. I can hear
them, the voices clearly, as clear as a
bell of fire, as clear as a window in
the sun.
I hear them.
they are saying, "beware. stay on
the ground or you will become lost, as
we are. lost..."
(kicked in the window, threw the door
behind me, and ran. still, it was no
good. the air kept following me,
mercilessly.
I tried turning corners, faster than
slower, until I almost run into myself. I
knew there was no hope.
my lungs filled my head, dying and
eager for silence, the perfect breathe.
the air knew I could not resist.
flesh is weak, but is weakness
always bad? weakness serves to
glorify, to ennoble, to sanctify.)
(gary)
she always told me to stay away
from the pit. she would tell me that if
I wanted to keep my life from being
any single color I had best be strong,
and when she died I began to dig for her
as well.
the deeper I dug the stronger I got.
(my addiction shining like quicksilver
along the ropes inside my arms.)
I had dug so deep that all the world
was a velvet black.
(turning even less than black.)
then I unearthed the Goddess.
I took the Goddess home and though
she treated me badly my addiction
turned from strength to love.
she disappeared as I held her, the air
as clear as quartz and rhythm.
it was then that I noticed my thin
charred arms, fading.
now I go back to the hole, feeding
the earth, the grave song and cinder, I
go to speak with my child, like dust on
a moth's wing.
(my flesh white pink fumbles that I
am flesh. flesh is weak, flesh is weak,
flesh is weak as air pushes into
consume and elevate.
what I need is new eyes, new eyes
to battle the conceit that death may be
salvation, new eyes and a vacuum.
knowing what I want, knowing I need, the
perfect air follows, carving a hunger, I
sigh, gasping red and screaming,
longing to breathe.)