The Replanted Writer

She hoots
the television screen
transcribes her chant
into whatever you want
the worst kind of translation
and the best
You cannot trust before I understand
And I cannot understand
until you return

Flying through the air,
our souls have sung their songs,
and some have nests among the rocks,
and some in trees,
and some that journey over longest seas
are yet seen by keenest watchers

She says she prefers those dusty collections
of king-backs and wed-a-mers,
those corpses of a bygone time,
which prove that you were right to leave
until I could buy your attention with a window
to another land
And so I bid farewell, remove your jesses
as you lift my hood
We both lift our arms, one to the south and one to the west

My hazeltine amour
I brush my coat in front of the fire
The memory of soft violin echoes
from that fanciful machine we made together
Imago Dei
In the autumn after
Everything began

On this night, again
villainy made its music
Strained, my eyes won’t look, nor seek
not anymore, not what you speak
I hear your voice attack
Its hustling angle of approach
delights the bellicose dark

On this night
I read the black ink of your contract
My eyes made first contact
and I put a flattened palm atop each socket
to stop it

But God’s mind invites the laws of action
to enforce every due effect
of cause’s right
My eyes won’t look
For lack of light
While now I sleep

But God, my rock of ages, speaks
Invites his only proper voice to act
Complete the holy father’s deepest pact
To teach
To lead, to train, to stand
To give and take, to sit and wait and preach
To guard, decree, and countermand

To shake me
when I wake
and arm me for the morning dark

Frantic bog of
unsettled pragmatism
Love is not elliptical
it has no periodicity
Tryst collapses in on itself
a hot, star-crossed desperation

*From the Streetwriters prompt of the same name

It once betrayed its lord for
peace that would not come,
though peace was sent
Impatient darkness, hidden
from his kindly government
We know the cold chameleon
begs its question,
I am sure of it:
“When will he relent?”

To gather courage from his words
It decorates its space in thirds
with mentions of its master’s name
How carefully its fingers trace,
absurd embrace of cowardice
“Am I afraid of love or blame,”
it asks, in God’s name

I am the stuff of legend
she
The starving artist
shows the carving knife beside
her belly

button press the tattoo
feed her bread
steal away
her sudden need
to signal from inside her head
allegedly, the tune sounds
blue blue red

It’s time to go to bed

I

You were the first of us to say, gainsay
the wind—
Kindness isn’t without cost
where money does not spend

[Labcoat Michael spoke, misspoke,
began to say that everyone is
music, in the end—

A tarot deck of liturgy,
control within confusion
A streaming, metered drone of union

We worship not by divination]

CC me and send

II

At your behest,
we dare not summon thee
You, the kingly three
And we, the ones ensummoned
You, the food, the host, the feast
And we, the guest, the priest
A menu full of roasted meats
the Levite chews, the nation eats

If everyone is melody,
my song betrays its oath of loyalty
my king, this thing that in my mouth lays—
it often fails to send you
tones of praise, for you deserve a thousand-thousand-thousandth
verse, beginning with the dawn,
encircling the Earth
I hope to you, my God, my tongue
no longer strays, hallelujah

When I am called upon the stage,
When I the aged scroll peruse
Today, the shield in place,
may I refuse the urge to mildly hum the tune
This song is new,
this song for you,
and I am music in your ears

Gatecrashing destiny at the
brink of starvation
Boundless, they are bonded
Flightless, they’ve responded
All the glories o’er the pond
beneath the great beyond
have touched upon the wind
that beats its coated tom-tom-tom
Breasts heave heaven up in breaths
À bout de souffle written on their tongues
and chests
A spawn of holy feathers in their nests

Scanning from these mountain rests
O, falcons, smothered, robed in jesses,
Guesses hanging from your necks,
connections braided for protection

With spirits screaming for collection,
may hooded clothes of your election
cover all your soaring, virile nakedness

The hunter’s savagery is only truly blighted by
mirrors
Their hunger only sharpened by horizons
Who knows how far it is to fall
when wings of weaponry grant thy one wish
To rise
And that is why I sing of falcons

The curious cluster
hangs from her fingers
Wisdom, having mixed
her seven bowls
sets aside her work
Finally, the figs are ripe

We have together eaten
bread at midnight
broken through a month of raisins
beat hunger out of our brains
through a brave few seasons
Drunkenness made way for treason
Faithlessness, for reason

We have forever taken
fruit from trees¹

The apples, having fallen,
rolling
Your limbs, your branches,
rising to their heights
Your daughters, sons are
growing
Your child’s children, your delight

Your food is light and steady,
glowing
Every word is ready,
blowing bright

You set aside your cloak
You set aside your staff
You set aside your bag
You set aside your work,
finally

———————————————————————————————-
1. I owe a debt of inspiration, and possibly a close variation
of this phrase, to the Bible Project. If I find the podcast
episode, I’ll cite it here.

Produce his name,
the one sh’ma proclaims,
upon your blossom lips

Call to thee the
honeybees and
Sing among the tulips
as you talk

His second oath of loyalty
hath blood in it
to seal the rooted rock
Disguised, the nested spider sets
his eyes
upon the shaded droplets
on your woody trunk

Within your petal walls, at rest
Invisible and undigested
apple business,
folded up and yet untested,
frets

This waiting fruit
attends its season
as requested, under reason
Food engendered by ascent
is nothing insignificant

early risers
drink
the daylight hours
by the pound
ten, eleven ounces
of the banded sound
belonging to the sun above the ground

children’s hands to children’s heart
the laughter as they tear apart
your body,
the loss
a refutation of addition
by
phyllic incantation

fire scat from burning piles
drifts into a bowl of flowers
years turn into days and hours
sorrow grows a hillock on your back

your hunch among the crowds
confirms the co-location of the earth and clouds
do not forget its cold and wet development
has covered you in peace and tears

in time, the wet nurse
calls you in her cadence
the mammary glance of endlessness
feeds you
invites you to its glade
wherein the wildness grows and fades
beneath
the sturdy bow, address
of messrs, maidens
tending to the progress
of the fallen leaves

the Invisible King
believes
in maintenance