To Rest

Mortal Asymptote

Once Again, I Long To See It Coming

The wheels on the bus go round and round.
(round and round, round and round)
finally we’re at some sort of destination.

Led out of the metal cage,
fifty feet in the usual direction...
Sometimes, I wish they’d just tell us:
"Careful now, children...
You’re standing on the edge of oblivion.”

But all I hear is a distant clamor,
reverberating through the cavernous halls.
and see early morning frowns reflecting
Thousands of transitions...

All of them, enclosed and compressed
(Exposed and surpressed)
And then a strange sound causes them to scatter.
At least it gives us structure.

We dissipate into seperate cocoons
where irrelevant instructors try their best
as the anxious lives look on,
this time waiting for the sound
(that electric scream)

They thought they'd see it coming.

"Hear Your Silence"

The walls can now hear you speak,
words (even whispers) are twisted legalities.
fingers are bitten down to the bone...
WHITE MARROW, to be consumed by the man,
the man who always wins--
In his shroud of black
(red and white and blue)

He hides behind the plasters,
(in the creases of the mind)
waiting with his crooked eyes
You fear him.

But when he’s come, remember:
You have the silence to remain right,
Surely you’re no longer speaking?

"To Think of Rope"

THE CROW SPEAKS WITH A SHROUDED TONGUE
- an incessant sound -
As he licks his fingers...

(he does not care; he saw it coming)

And now, father lies still with broken eyes--
As the children inquire...

"Is he sleeping, mama? He told me he was tired."

Tears shed down spoiled cheeks,
Mother says she doesn't
know.

Grieving colors of monotone men,
And the faces of solemn women look on.

They are frightening.

And when the little ones ask who will push their rope swing,

Mother can't bear to think of rope.

"Temporary Suspension"

You know how it goes:
A cardinal flies overhead while you're walking alone,
Nothing but dirt under your feet.
Neither of you make a sound.

Neither of you know how.

Mothers lips come to mind, but they're no longer there--
two wings remain, crimson undulations.

A temporary suspension of her image,
Like lips illuminating her face in your mind.

The exact image she described
(When she told you to remember her)
When she told you she'd try and learn to fly,
So that a cardinal would be more than


She once was.

"Momentary Brilliance"

Is this a trick of sorts?

Will the red curtain fall softly,

and the glaze-eyed crowd acclaim

the momentary brilliance?



They will exert a wall of sound:

cupped-hand harmony--

for the sake of



what?



But I promise-- when you finish your contortions,

and your breathing slows--

I will stand up; leave the flowers in

the aisle,







And walk away in silence...