it was a brittle broken bell
it was some bold and boiling blood
the gaunt grey-suited man thumps his chest three thunderous times
three times in time with the brittle bell’s insistent chime
the third times the third time he beats his chest so hard
that he transcends the trap of time to talk with angels from afar
they carry broken brittle bells
they feed on boiling bold sweet blood
they feed on lost grey-suited men
they carry fury forged in hell
the brittle broken bell cried once more upon the altar
cried three tears for understanding
then three more for crimes withstanding
and then and only then did its tinny telling falter
he was a gaunt grey-suited man
he was ahead of everyone
Do you really want
to know all my thoughts on God?
Could be here all night…
The future holds the future
And the past repeats the past
And what’s happening now happens forever
And my heart only flutters every time I blink my eyes
And fetch a glitched-out glimpse
Of an eternal office building
Where we’ve sat in grey-walled graves
Speaking spells of acronyms
That make some ones a million dollars
That make some ones more unlike us
That make some ones forget
That the future holds the future
And that the past repeats the past
And that it all occurs forever
And that amen means so be it
And so we say amen to that
The blue winds blow the black moon past a newly dying sun
And the finer lights of daynight show the ruining’s begun
You’ve witnessed with your feeble eyes grand sights not meant to see
And you’ve conjured with your meager minds frights from which to flee
No, it ain’t too hard to read the signs that say our time is through
And it ain’t too sad to say goodbye to what was me ‘n you
For that blue wind blew a black moon over yonder dying sun
Oh those blue winds and those black moons, good Lord, what have we done?
I expect it will soon become yours, too.
Mr. George Raymond is some kind of seraphic amalgamation of Jack Handey and Jesus.
We only find abdominal bliss
After we sign for the package
Left upon our crooked doorstep
By a maudlin brother grim
Our final results were sown tangentially
Once we spat brown, broken seeds
Into the cracked and wicked soil
That sat long waiting for revenge
In our distant, spacious futures
Most make love to ghostly figures
Instead, I peer toward between spaces
And sharply whisper your bright name
In thick bed of green grass
On a Minnesota lawn
Hides an Easter egg
From the children’s hungry eyes.
The eggshell is not thick
And within life’s secrets lie.
Yes, inside inside inside
An entire universe resides.
The children never find the egg
And soon the thin shell splits,
Spider cracks expose life’s secrets
To the moist and worm-wrung dirt.
From the Easter egg then sprouts
The fabled Easter tree
With chocolate peanut butter sap
And broad, pastel-colored leaves.
All of life’s sweet secrets there
Sugar silent in the wind.
The mysteries of fertile faith
And marshmallow fowl without end.