Pale Tea Numen

Pale Tea Numen

Me not enough, everyone else, too much,

Too tough you and your attitude of critical deconstructions or

More likely,

Lassitudes taking the whole mess for what it is.

What is as reflections of what it was.

Nostalgia of the language of origins and the night to be.

Way to be.

Opportunity and being.

Dark and deep is the night of course.

Loud and loving the cares of the day and her evening wiles.

The woven grass, blankets and food.

Enough already!

Blandishment of the red spot that grows to swallow the world

Like loose blood in the eye of dawn covering as a flood all that submerges and bubbles below.

I held an orange life vest and a breathing tube.

The avalanche of white completely immobilizing all but sense.

Ground hogs and gerbils left to re-populate the ass holes of the dinosaur world.

What could have been is a moat around the castle of our departure.

We still live there as a woebegone homecoming of worn love, aspirations

Of old people and our frayed jammie edges.

The hard push up the hill.

The lasting difference of our movements over tea and contemplation.

Say you love me, bear and sky.

Say the garden rain loves the world, you bluest of liars.

You lion of fakery,

Give me up dead or leave me alone with asking after the past.

Giving up whole pastures of endeavor to the weeds.

I left the Fall pumpkin in the Winter snow where it collapsed its round form and paled

from its orange assertion to a flat mush with wet ground and maybe

its seeds there somewhere.

We shall see.

My words too all hung out at random for some passer by to communicate with and

Sway like Monterey kelp in the Bay or Atacama cactus up all night,

Iridescent with the light of mescal and the old Universe turning its insides, inside out

as if by command of a yet greater sky, beyond, tugging dark at the vast

of an ever larger Emptiness

Filled with its own generating prosperity so long extended that

by comparison all feel meek and poor.

Feeling meek and poor are we?

Busy and undone, famous, way laid and war torn?

Dry feet soles and crinkled skin between toes,

The sand where we put our feet and pass so easily,

the days so hard, long by comparison with all before

and to come offering up some mute pull like that beyond the great beyond

Deft as a hole to persist by its very absence to mock our presence,

Our proud inadequacy on the stage.

Another curtain call.

The train tracks and clapping waves,

The settling sand and the mind out wandering beyond the margins.

Marginalia, evisceration, nostalgia for completion.

Bent over backwards

Laying eyes on the line where taking a stand and giving a gift are about money.

Deep in the holes of your pockets, nothing securely lashed to the turning world,

the economy, the next hope, cash hard number.

Miniscule servant of trapeze thrills, the trill of such comeuppance.

Trashing everything for a song and for the numen to be woman and

Man to be animal, to be toil, to be resurfaced, passed over

Like a thing in a hole and to live again on a tree

Famous for branching multiplicity and for

Dying like a nail sunk in wood,

Snug as the sound of the hammers

and the tracks and the

Dulcimer beauty of her many veils falling away

As the wind bends flags to its will and

Over time pulls thread by thread until we are bare and naked,

Shivering and complete.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures

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