Overweighed by the truckloads of words waiting to be delivered…
Waiting for the tongue to un-cleave from the roof of the mouth…

What difference would this general make in this new dawn of generous robes
preceding another season of barking guns?
Who again will hold this coal of fire?

The ways of the generals are not our ways.
Theirs are paths that separate
the desert from the sea.

Beware of the wayfarer in whose bulbous robes lies a long glinting knife.
Beware of generals with pathways in their teeth
Beware of mouths which belch shrapnel and spew bullets in the time of the butcherbird…
Beware of the seasons of the generals!
Beware of the mad man who calls you a thief;
beware of the panther which bears down on a crab;
beware of the wayfarer you bid welcome when he expects a farewell;
beware of the thunder that speaks through clenched teeth;
beware of lightning that speaks the language of rain;
beware of the song that ripens in the mouth of the voiceless tortoise…

The desert, the sea…
The desert is death.
And the sea?
The wise man chooses wisely.
Let the wise choose life over death.

It may rain fire and brimstone,
but it will be well for those who court not thunder.

Let the river swell its banks,
Let the sun roast the sands
but it shall be well in the house of the crab…

April 15, 2011.


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here