Untitled Poem
What if you drank enough to see the connection between everything? What if questions became answers –
What if you were thirsty enough to drink sunshine and let words fall into a Word.
To reveal the connections, or one connection. A totality of our communion with brutally-ripped shreds of gentleness
What if you prayed enough for your knees to become your lips, what if what if became what is, You Exist, and something greater exists that may also be YOU and I and I. and your
Green possibilities, cascades of balkanized historical theories, became the surety of sunlight in hungry eyes, the strength of guidance in God’s guidelines – irrefutable like seashores of experience painted on the walls of summer cottages in the middle of winter
Pass through my thoughts like speech,
What if your blasphemy became my holiness because of its soft hardness, What if my blasphemy became your truth, what if love became the truth,
What if goodness was just goodness, what if sadness was just sadness,
Why should a wellspring of youth wither by the wiles of a broken uncivilization?
Why not
Cruise at 1,000 miles around the side of your blankness, oh materialism whore redemption refunded in your pew of conformity and new ____ for only $49.99 put your future on the line we will move into our box and call it a castle, pimp out our future forever for the sake of your advertising slogan – make sure goodness is bought and sold as you divide the clothes of the nations.
Yet still can find a song of grace and power where the beauty of the eternal feminine is found even in a strip club, and
Pulsing with crushing stability – the old glory of belonging crushes separateness like a war of love , Peace, hungry for your soul’s syrupy ode to a realistically-idealized idyllic vision, the easiest thing in the world is the hardest, where hard meets soft, do you feel the truth, we need no hurdles like a movie set, disentangle from the fray,
Summer days – you play at time, time plays at you – your reflection of identity in a shard of glass or a movie screen, but the chorus of a greater song supports the hymn of coruscating questing – if you feel the questing you are the grand path, answer, question.
© 2011 Paul Brian
Production Line
Sometimes I feel like a part on a production line Pressed down, cut out, Heart marching in time Spit out of the loud bang of machine sex and machine God, Conveyed ubiquitously from the coordinated crash of a vast machinery, Pressed out of steel, steeled to win at all costs, but watching winners lose, Forget if you are me or I am you, On the production line.
Yes, sometimes I feel like a part on a production line
Pressed down, cut out,
Heart marching in time
Spit out of the loud bang of God sex machine soul part whole
consume, consumed, fed along a track,
Conveyed in a generic mechanical progress,
Pressed out of steel, steeled to lose, but never winning or losing,
Forget if you are me or I am you,
On the production line.
Programmed and designed by some higher beings,
Or maybe just those with a different vantage point,
Made by sharper eyesight and a more perfect understanding.
Sharper will. Pressed in the middle of a cast-iron die, that has cast you in your part before your time even arrives, divided from your fellow material in a process of creation and destruction.
Pushed out as a part or as scrap metal to the side,
The inevitable byproduct of the finished part,
Sitting in a bin of scraps,
Little other parts of hearts.
Sloughing off in time -
Where a process and a reason express their lesser rhyme,
Sacrifice for the whole; perform martyrdom on a dime.
Reverberating with purpose, hard hit and cut out
Into your function,
Formed in a moment of hard meeting
Designed with precision
and based on your material
which will conform to the higher force
and form something greater than itself
more defined and purposeful than an unformed whole?
or more used, ubiquitous and lost?
The questions ask themselves with each boom, with gusto,
I am, but in what form and where should I go?
On the production line.
© 2011 Paul Brian.
