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Friday, September 29, 2006

Poetry Friday

DMC was dragging around this book of poetry for about three months (Luke Davies, Totem). She kept taking it off the shelf and dropping it places. I found myself putting it away almost every day. Then it occured to me to put it in my backpack and read it. I read it, and she hasn't touched it since.

Inspired, I've written this difficult thing:

this looking into things brings a remorseful unleavened enlightenment. There's no glory or grace in it.
Glory and grace are encapsulated in faith, not truth. The blessing is in taking bodily, on bended knee, the bitter pill of faith. But every holy day tucking it under my tongue, alone I spit it out for a good look. Powdering, fizzy residue reveals nothing, but the taste remains.

Paul's dead clouds and decaying mountains, no matter how simple, write bibles of prophesy in elaborate seraph gyres and block print press. We feed on the formations of overripe truth, too laden not to drink what falls from them. And so we fall we fall.

Write and write and write
read and read and read
believe and believe and believe
but truth, the useful kind, can only be understood by beasts. The warm and thoughtful soul, to remain intact, could only ignore what a non-fiction bible would say. If that's true, and I believe it is, I find myself worshiping a perfect devil.

Only one inch of warm silence surrounds my skin, beyond that is a cold noise of indifferent violence. But the deeper things breath and warm me with burning brimstone. The restful deeper things, casual in their honesty, immensely cruel but beyond evil, coddle me along a vital landscape of promise and hints among the boils and carbuncles from which oozes a living blight, the sweetest of us.

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