What is the god?
The god is “what” the “is” implies
The god is light—than what is the dark?
The god of sight?
The implication lies
In a dark entanglement—an enfolding
Like a hole “closing” where a seed
is what? the god that dies?
no god is present
if presence the detritus
awake! for sleep is the away
what the aroused are to decay
when we wake from life we are born—if not
the sleep we waste is what death does to a hole
it is a seed or two adrift the dark
being wherein we, who dwell tenuously upon
this sunny promontory (unconditionally) can
with a naked eye, on rare occasion
if indeed it is a “seed” bound by the dark
that germinates “seeing”, then perhaps we, a progenitor’s
mimicry have released a germ to seek an emptiness
that appears to defy everything we die for
o that it were & love, its flourishing!
the dead (an “effect”
of a universe with all these stars)
has no incentive
they are aroused by what the dark
cherishes—a care seas seek, roots
rain will incite the earth adorn
when the urgency no longer holds—fire
fails the “cause” & love no longer
what man or animal is in awe of
if humanism is the watershed of liberty
than it must be that our dominion, without
a spent river at spring thaw, is denied
by the great sprawl of an unmarketable sea
a pore of night starlight
a sun’s transcendence
a grave site everlasting earth
holes that root for a universe
in the throes of death "mortals" know as embryo
what is it the garden disputes? grow a seed
look within & there it is—the din of nothing
grave eternity! it takes "hold", this assiduous void
the divine forlorn that in loam old with birth
when into a hole we being what the god is told
is in the throes of death "mortals" know as embryo
a farm hand
death says the dead live
& the dead, that death is what we
who surrender ours to a dying
say that life is
a hole waiting
when, for the first time seed from an unseen whole as the widow of nain saw of the “sun” held by such internment (because in fact she was a garden) is let into earth so that faith may show the true leaf that will wither & the pore widow of root incite the god to let die her son’s death—o! that we could all testify!
without the wild there is only interest. interest in resource, in adornment
in capital. indeed capital! without the wild this is our column, our head
the interest not of death but of the enmity, yes!
adorn eternity by imagining a world where there are no ornaments is like
imagining the dead without monument for there is no capital
in the interest the wild dirt has
what death reveals as love is the penetration of a sun
& like every immortal, earthbound desire, the thing to come
comes—& this as the distance the dark is—the distance no death
begins & yet a beginning to all this useless everlasting
god expects to be born because a sun can distend & rupture the dark
like a grave is this birth that as a seed be the space of eternity
Death is what assures a God that being alive is This & This God is convinced that time, space & being are—the This that makes death certain because there is nothing of the infinite that is absent This. An eternity that lives any God would admire.
How does a God know?
Behold the obscure worm (this God urges) buried in an immortal desire that Is heaven!
Let it be known: it is the absence of monument for those who die
that being anonymous is a dying a God greatly admires.
if to be alive is the light we need to wake from sleep— a light barely half-alive across this wilderness—than such a light as life needs a night that keeps alive all who sleep because the kind of life that dreams is radiant with what, in every awakening when (& only when!) it perishes, an aroused, wild sun gets buried-in