On | Rolf's Poems and Pictures

Dim and slim she says of her offer, “it is mine to give”.

A thousand times over, we turn under as the sheets are

wound around some lover’s other corpse.

Not bad or even sad as the way the sun picks with the wind

at the last leaf of January, the new not born, the last only

a theory of what’s to come of her offer, of our love.

It’s a messy affair to look into someone else’s eyes for a long time,

to gather lint and threads from your pockets and the streets

as the birds make their downy soft nests.

“She is nesting” her friends say and move on mumbling

of the ways the notes play on and by good chance

time blossoms in her Winter womb.

Miracles come from all manner of poverty.

“Give away your things, the end is near”.

Shoeless, graft bitten, willing to vote with our feet.

Our vows, poor and chaste have expired.

We are free in the mire to admire what else has come through alive,

passed the stress test of the bank’s collapse,

the moral vacuity of freedom, not alone but with

our seven billion brethren who also tear down the bright door of their insides

to share with Huitzilopochtli and the infinity of things

traveling free and forever on Mescalito’s hunch back of fame and fire.

The turquoise, the pastels of five flower bands and

the bright silver strings of love and release binding so tight

like ore still in the ground, or voices thumping drums,

calling for the end when we are right in the middle, interrupted

while turning the page in ecstasy and climax, burst arteries

and living hearts on the cold stone of moaning so heaven has the skill

and sees the predicament of our suffering,

at the necks of each other supping on the feelings

of our tongues going down and the dark soil boiling up as lava,

leveling the plains with sharp black rocks.

Reprieve, fertility, all of the ancients with their tablets and togas, their

hands and the animals, changed, tagging along with an old bargain of food and shelter.

When we have sold or truly left, as the free slave with nothing

save the river water turning another body down

as the cost of up-rising, as a balloon with fuel to heat the air might,

as a nation might with ideas,

it is the cost of that freedom herself, little child and egg,

the loin cut and hanging in the butcher window,

the laurels, the vases, the cost held in the ancient relic.

The archaic of the African mother lode,

the swarm of the Asian algebra,

the astronomy of the far shore looking back to ask us

why we never left, how we continue on and

in the next card of the deck,

played on ship board, above the waves,

the sunken dead peel back

as a crowd might part for a second coming.

And the meek speaks of the mild and

the wide envies the high.

The poor hold the sacred blood of the bull

And humble go the feet of the people,

around the cactus and the tree.

Full hearts, so many beating feet like an animal stampede

that were it not for the light and water, black and deep,

all would be a fraud and we many traveling on would have to believe

and tie the burden like a keg strapped to the back of a whipped Ass.

The burden of the living grows.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures

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