"Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait" -Longfellow

Saturday, March 5, 2011

The Drums of Death


Gulping hard enough,
this Big Red can feel like a brimming bowl of cold blood and bees,
The clicking of the throat like a hundred thousand 
strategically synchronized wingflaps.
Death allows me to say these things.
Coldly magnanimous death, in which I do not believe.
Irrational and formulaic intensity,
Paragon of universe and method; death, in which I do not believe.
Actual death, no bullshit death, cannibal mouth death, 
time-managed death of purpose and presence; death
In which I do not believe.

Old pictures in worlds removed,
Old sometimes and anytimes, waking up and falling into figuring it out.
They call this peculiar awareness nature, the stoppage and the gulf of continuance, 
the warm close self.
Death allows me to say these things.
Material, wise and important death,
In which I do not believe.
Master of products and prophets,
Grand vision of equality and opposing infinities; death, 
in which I do not believe.
Death pointing us towards God, empty death, final death, 
death of hope and suffering; 

death in which I do not believe.

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