POETRY ATTIC: A Feast of No Body, No Age, No Place & The Mailman

// Photography: Jeff Wolfe //

A Feast of No Body, No Age, No Place

Wading through desperate minutes
crushed under weight.

Clock hands hold knives.

The sky walls off from sight,
as who I thought I’d be dies.

A once comfortable noose tightens, and the burn chafes.
Pillars of support that once held me up, fissure and split.

Voices of her and him fade as they retreated.
Shards and scraps are nothing you want to play with unprotected.
Need a light to walk out of here alone.
The others had no trouble in abandoning this post.
Leaving only me shackled to an immaterial abyss.

Never a part of the plan to age this way,
conditions worsen in the cold.
Pass the time mantras may speak a path out into existence.
The mounting bones of former idols deposited here
limit space to maneuver.
   


Better burn a fire fast, big enough to signal emergency,
different but similar to the last.

Several spirits need satisfaction before much of anything
happens around here.
The overlapping of their demands make dreams a swamp of entanglements.
I banish them in confusion,
miss them when they’re gone.

I’m as silly as Hercules with none of the strength.

More than 12 trials appear necessary to survive this.
Each to levy a tax unpaid.

Crossing the guards of this world, my biggest mistake yet.
Labor upon labor for debts incurred.
My existence pleases someone, as long as I toil and churn.
Plenty of dirt to be done.
My dreck wave-energy is a wine for the demiurge to toast.

Profane judges and wardens
keep my communication weighted down here,
clogging up the ether of this quarter.

Far from where it’s meant to be heard.

I wait impatiently, with body cracking at seams hoping not to crumble.
Passing to dust alone, forgotten.
A voice frequency forever dissipated.
Unhinged to history.

A footprint gleefully erased by Poseidon’s receding tides.

Time is nothing here.
More still, the binding construct is made of no thing.
When truly perceived there’s a promise of passing through
border cracks made of thought.

Made of magic.

Out there lies a feast of no body, no age, no place. 


The Mailman
I am the mailman,
I see and I sift.
I am the knower of the letter and the word.

Carrying the weight of your debts.
Seeing the end of worlds.
Messages not of me but through me
are delivered.
Aged by the elements, hands hardened
by the handling of griefs.
(Announcements of joy soften parts unseen.)
The task is to connect it all with indifference.

Notes move through the artery of township bodies
as I have designed.
Ever coming, ever going.
The route is forever in my command.

Memos on pillars as far as the eye can see.
In my organizing and archiving,
my radiance grew and grew.

Between every step between every stop,
I am more or less located in the Pleroma.
My main task while carrying was to receive the totality
of communication from all worlds.
To become as they asked of and wished to be.

The storing and summarizing
Made unto me a living file,  
to the deepest reaches of realms.
My repository coded, accessible only to three.

Sleep is where transitions are made.
A contract for insomniacs keeps moon hour mail moving.
Fluctuations of birth, death, love and hate
are surveilled in case of emergency.
Eschatology letters have their own wing
at the headquarters, next to Diviners and Prophecies,
whose cycles of high-frequency never cease.

Far distant oracles rely on me for their wide reach,
people of the fields and factories need so much to know.


A breakdown in service,
none can afford.
Seasons of assassination come and go.
The disruption and seizure of these notes
prevented so far by great measures to alter methods
and moves.
Sweeping deliveries made even under harsh duress.

It’s a great responsibility to intercede for the letters,
syllables and screams that come across my desk,
to get them to their destination alive and well.
To brave against flames and winds or even spears
it is required to assure a secure landing,
keeping the waterways of lucid language afloat,
undammed day after day.

I am that mailman,
that messenger, that winged kite.
As long as there’s words and wishes
I flight to places well hid.
Until that time of words ending,
among the mount of Lords
I then join.

Having done the work
long enough to grow weary for rest
from the ceaseless conversing natures of
a speaking species
with a tendency to self-worry;
but occasional aberrations of brilliant faith
which gave off a bit of light down below to
mirror the stars up here -
both keeping me company these forgiveless nights
when the wind is the only other witness.

1 comment:

  1. After going through this document i was confused that what could be secret transmissions. As it has a really curious kind of title. But when i went through it,it is more than its title.

    ReplyDelete

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