(tweeted 2.28.2014)
Every time I raise my mask
I see monsters.
I’d rather play the zombie,
camouflaged, walking dead.
(tweeted 2.28.2014)
Every time I raise my mask
I see monsters.
I’d rather play the zombie,
camouflaged, walking dead.
(tweeted 2.27.2014)
On dry paths
I hear distant water
and take refreshment
While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I intomb my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
To which the blast of death’s incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust
My body to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and find his birth
Written in dusty heraldry and lines ;
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jet, and marble put for signs,
To sever the good fellowship of dust,
And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent: that when thou shalt grow fat,
And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know,
That flesh is but the glass, which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark, here below,
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.
Essential to reflection:
the absence of a mirror.
Truth free of projection
is eloquent and clear.
Now here is peace for one who knew
The secret heart of sound.
The ear so delicate and true
Is pressed to noiseless ground.
Slow swings the breeze above her head,
The grasses whitely stir;
But in this forest of the dead
No bird awakens her.
Proclaiming preference to be rule
stands the bigot; falls the fool.
They say you were a bad bad man
and I believe it’s true
You cheated us at checkers
you have to jump, you do!
(Tweeted 2.24.2014)
Time’s relevance, finite:
no river,
but chain;
Eventful reactions,
each ending
the same.
(tweeted 2.21.2014)
If I carve my name into the side of a tree
who will live longer the old tree or me?
(Tweeted 2.20.2014)
God-fucked and flung to ground,
Groping without grasp;
Clinging to the specter
of divine deliverance.