A parade of zealots

Anticipation.

Dark rituals: 
through gaskets, we are birthed.

geese in the duckweed, green

ducks in the lemna, the slave built the limnion

of stagnant rushes, and shallow mud

[kanał] a noun.

 no olympus on the water,   just 

 rocky eddy turns and  

 microsurfs, a parade of: 

 ZEALOTS 

 I will break my bread at 

 the edge of the river,  

 greeting dawn where few  have tread or swam, 

 and the eagle will break it  with me, and in this 

 breaking we will also be 

 reborn. 

 błask. the sharp red dawn   over 

 pointed river surface 

 what you see 

 may not matter compared to 

 the deeps’  stealthy teeth. 

 against great slumber and waters’ uphill return 

 I against I. 

 calm before the plunge, oceanic side surfs

 over where the light don't shine. 

 goddamn apes. munched. 

the sycamore seeds pillow  among

old blast holes, and angled stone wreckage

protecting the outfall. 

life collects

at the high water line.

in traffic, it’s all savagery, no rules nor decency

just cold blooded power plays - squinting into the sun

past the baby’s windowshade.

over the buried creek bed \

I will drink the water and 

hang me out to dry.

Deep in the Dark

awake in the dark in the last days of warmth

before the sun

the freeze is coming and the squirrels can feel it in

the breeze from the hawk’s talons close upon their back.

red lights, white lights, the neighborhood sleeps but the thirsty road keeps on drinking

down the gas 

mania underneath the serpentine cement (a drain plug down the sewer - recovered with a crowbar and a grin).

subterranean:

most of the flow, 

is beneath the surface.

If it keeps on burning, the rapid will be submerged, and according to Dave, Chuck and Fred, 

we too will be subterranean, techno-trolls in smogy caverns, claws upon our backs in the

feeding frenzy.

A kingfisher sits, white belt about her neck, daintily plucking a fish from the canal.

The land is fat, the river lazy, wide, a few pointy rocky holes here and there, on the swirl, the current is playful - fast whips into boily eddy lines, the beaver slide, juicy, ripping, bucktoothed and squirty; stay upright to avoid the river's teeth.

No mist today, barely any spray foam, no brown chunder dome off the dino’s back, just two engulfing waves on the way to the darkside, which, safely squirted, plants one solidly in the seam, and the avenging hand of the river must have heard me talking sh*t, cause now I’m upside down, fighting the two downwelling boils into the deep deep deep - the dino’s got me, claws around my neck, the paddle brace squirrelling, oh the horror, the brutes, the brutes, the horror, the deep, relax, feather, feather, relax, find the surface, still squirting down down down, the third roll, still swirling, am I even floating, boom, the catch, I’m upright like a great blue heron leaving the eddy, where I can breathe, sweet breath of life, mind voided of thought, body drained of emotion, the river lazy on the downhill, always going down down down, the surface only hints at whats below. Everybody’s excited, the ride is over, please exit the vehicle, here use this handy pile of blasted rocks and concrete.

Back on the ridge in the autumn orange it’s grey and loud with the leaf engulfing machines rolling round, hearing protection for the labor, smoke for all, the deep for none.


.

Three Weeks, Three Worlds

Three weeks three worlds

There’s never enough time it seems

and though God is Red: and SHE IS

Placed, Rooted, Planted, we

float like the 

whites of their eyes.

in the fog we see what we touch

but the scene

drifts
surreal humans

pass in boats, disappear, appear,
and the sound of the river

almost drowns the big silver birds above.

in the whirlpool, one can 

squart the wall,

or swim in panic from the upside down feeling

and in the dark side at high tide
mega bouncy surfs

pinball on pointy rocks, collide and flip, 

near broach to bow rescue.

the dinosaurs are getting hungry, time is the enemy

the earth is hungry, the river is thirsty, the land is starving 

some people are worrying some people are slarving

it’s all so alarming that the forests are burning and the cars keep carrrring but 

no one seems to care except what the orange lunatics are pardoning

I got ugly in the fog thinking about

the history of blood soaked land
the millions of bodies buried in the name of the canal,
the weight of the road matched only by 

the blood of history: the crimes that don't need to be hidden 

the textbook history of government 

clouded in the enduring fog of war .

And i think - ever since "They" taught us,
why is it that we know what has been done

but 

do not feel we can change the flow?


 time is the enemy (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nvUeo5sagkA)

and the fog of war (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h8ZhIi57x-4)