Author: Joel Best

Let us start as we plan to go on. For

where there is conspiring resistance, where there are

plot-points to morality. In fact a form

of recklessness scribbled on stained flyleaves.

But remiss, later accused of healing the

human race without first asking

permission; this, in the palace of green wreckage

with silent courtesans arranged in the vestibule.

Why be afraid? If touched by Diana’s arrow, ask for

more. No, not a daughter’s faith or insignificant

suffering of imbalance. No, but staggering exhausted

on the saturate shore. No, but no.

But blood?  Blood flowing on July wind? How is it

blood? How is it wind? As we shrug into shrouds

before slamming every door. As the echoes in

the rattle. As they rattle through broken transoms.

Why the invention of mood, a tragedy

we could have bypassed?

shaped by gravity

                             gone-gripped

out of bounds

                             in quick seconds

hemmed with hemp

                             promised deep sleep

through long hours

                             a metronome’s hum

scratching for wisdom

                             vaporous unmoved

if lent two prayers

                             cast in thin acute

cirrus-locked

                             lost to reason

That’s us. Let in the August storm. Let

blow open the windows. Let pulse wind

bring about a typhoon of wicked actions.

Call the tempest by its secret name.

Name that envelopes the mountains

where time goes to sleep. We celebrate

another birthday in the dark. You don’t

want to be there. You are there. You

remember a poem born from flame.

I recite it backwards and close my

eyes. Caught in a breeze heavy

with smoke.

forget the surf still damping

our shoes. forget the soft curve

of drowning eyes. drink the

seaside road, drink the dusk and

follow chains in the sky. or

instinctive memory of solar flare,

of careless sight. for sun. for

afternoon fog as humid breath

puddles the road, walking with

us in a worry and tied in loose

knots. under drowning moons.

the final pages turned, umber

words, out-of-fashion howls.

forget the concept of names,

the naming of objects requiring

names, the objects themselves.

Less than the other, we spread.

Has in the saddle, heart on a future destiny.

Out/into fine voices

and turnaround, catch sun,

finger and discard.

When is time

on the edge, then clocks fall

towards yellow.

And light is gone, is never was a

mysterious lion, she

devours the days. Her countdown in a celebration

of night. Call and call and call again

names that

light the way with lilies

and dream of aliens

in jelly jars.

this way, silent as postcard

landscapes. find us at rest on roots. count

hours until run out of fingers.

to dance in dim hallways.

to sex on rooftops, one hundred

faces invert. wait

for the bus. travel on. move along on.

tumble away, little tumbleweed.

the bus is good and mighty.

she is wheels on fire, reflecting beautiful sunsets

in wavered temple light.

she rides us away to the tunnel between

heaven and hell.

stand on the seats,

bent at the knees.

our smiles that not a soul

will ever understand.

Our favorite

brothers? Carry their

minutes up and over.

Run past the

bishop’s hill. Blind as photons.

Or remember

butterflies in a box, but

the box isn’t real,

so.

So stand to tell

the day go to hell.

Gather underground

while clocks lose track of time.

How the day

wills us nothing but

vacated promises. So the

accident of cold

pulse. So the need

to have wings instead

of arms, an ageless

fiction inspired by hospital

dreams

when Venus descends.

my hand. your hand. taken as the

the curtains swell. taken as moonlight

leaves tracks on the wall. as we

wade in twilight dreams. and if we

meet the matriarch of evening clouds.

and her robes of soft gray. and her

eyes lost to shadow. and whether

she puts us in a satin purse or sends

us off to a secret heaven. whether

we swallow angels like sugar pills.

whether we hold open our hands

to forgiving rain. when the gods

from years so distant as become

cool mist, when these gods fold

us back into a storybook. when

our breath becomes scented

steam. when the world turns itself

inside-out. when we are launched

into dawn, there to hang at the

apex of a perfect arc.

There are nuns.

There are no nuns.

We send them away.

Send away the priest,

send away the choir,

send away an invisible

angel.

We are the beloved.

We send away love.

One of us hungers.

One of us goes

blind from grief.

One of us steals from

the poorbox.

Share coins.

Share guilt.

Put two coins on a

dead woman’s

eyes.

She lies in her coffin.

She lies by the altar.

Did we know

her name?