Not all messages are displayed:
show all messages (20 of them)
three months pass...
BLOOD LETTER 0:
I fell with constellations
carved into my back,
the blood streamed to
the bottom of the globe
and gathered in
drops dripping down
towards the floors
of hells that lie
in distant galaxies;
and freezing as they fell, I figured
they should some day shatter
and be scattered on some distant rock,
or else consumed for fuel inside
a star from southern skies, where —
never matter, never mind;
you who read and are upon this earth
still warm and open to explore
and full of tunnels carved in stone,
with silent patience, in the darkness,
by the other dripping things
that shared a purpose with me once;
you robot workers, left to rust
in ghost towns, ever hoisting up
skyscraper spears of molten steel
and frozen crystal to defend against
the hungry and advancing void;
you people, still with no idea
how you come to be between the
teeth of one beast or another
you would rather did the honors...
BLOOD LETTER A:
housing sanity and art,
all whose achievements have resounded
to its name throughout the ages,
still it wears and slowly loses
what would designate the heavens,
and the absence is remarked
upon the line as it traverses
the two faces of the mountain,
tracing where there will be only
empty space in some amount
and shape
in time
it starts to count...
BLOOD LETTER K:
… and well, what can I say
when I have had the wide world
kicked away, when
everything remains
outside my head,
the way Kant said
things-in-themselves
would always stay,
unknowable — I know
this cannot feel okay,
but hope that
it will be, some day,
I think,
and often of you,
and therefore I am and love you.
BLOOD LETTER (to) LA,
land of infinite unflagging
language speaking people
in a global babble laughing
singing shining and inventing
digging deeply in the soil
for the gold that was embedded
by the stars in their exploding;
and the products of your labor
are the things I will remember —
which has something of the flavor
of a burden, I would wager.
BLOOD LETTER ND,
the place to stand
I spoke of long ago and
somewhere else, I think,
was only a confusion
of the language with its
feet already planted
in the graves of other men
and dancing, standing
sometimes still, but mostly
waiting for a
-nother day
to come and
slowly going dumb under
the sun that hopes to
split and spill their
guts like secrets;
and although
I won’t pretend
that I have understood completely
all the words that I have written
and the sounds I have emitted,
still I would be lying
if I didn’t
feel already
that it was the
― bernard snowy, Friday, 4 March 2011 13:13 (thirteen years ago) link
two years pass...