July Poem 24

Destruction’s creation into motion.

The world’s first begins for posterity.

At the distant edges, the thing moves fast—

Faster as it converges. I am the

Center. A universal spiral. All

Matter historian, void. Moving to

Coalesce, spin in a vortex, to gain

Because I recognize even them. It

 

Spins in reds, oranges, and whites. Once down

My face, there is a tension. My chest. Lost.

I can feel the tears streaming, only this

Tightness of sorrow. I am lying face

On my center. I remember the old

Arthritic knuckles and the wrinkles and

 

The wrinkled hands. My wrinkled hands. My hands.

Covered. In red all— The friends dead. Write down

The results. Preserve the universe. This

Moment is the event that causes me.

 

https://therichardbraxton.wordpress.com/2016/06/21/june-poem-21/

July Poem 23: The Chugging Machine

Were lit, it would curl out in a ripping

Unevenly achieved moksha forth from.

And even broadly the universe would

As the dog that stands in a hill of ants.

Sparks, smoke, scraggly brush. The chugging machine.

Jokes at work without getting fired for

Black and red ripped ends. Smoke it as if it

Were angry fire that ants unblinkingly

Allow. Homemade sausage native of weeds

Punctuated by work as numb plants that

Swarm up my leg stinging me around pine,

Oak, and sweetgum giving way to red fields.

But when sparks and ash spewed thump-thump-thump from,

Brahman was the sound sparks and ash don’t say.

September Poem 4

If sparks and ash spewed thump-thump

From the unevenly achieved moksha forth from

The inescapable load in my neighbor’s washer,

Brahman is the sound:

 

Sound is the energy

And while remaining part of the mixed energy,

Cannot be created or whole.

 

Moksha is the distant thump destroyed.

Sparks and ash do not stay,

And even overly broad

The universe would be suspended.

 

Mechanisms that control the grinding wheel

And inspire music in my mind,

Destroyed only to be created.

The universe would break down.

Released by moksha.

June Poem 21

Destruction and creation

Into motion for posterity.

The world’s first beginnings

At the distant edges

The thing moves faster—

Faster as it converges.

                                   

I am the center

A universal spiral

All matter historian, void.

Motivated to coalesce,

Spin in a vortex, to become gain

Because I recognize even them.

It spins in reds, oranges, and whites.

 

Once down my face,

There is a tension.

My chest. Again lost.

 

I can feel the tears streaming.

Only this,

Tightness of sorrow.

I am lying

Face on my center.

 

I remember old arthritic knuckles

And wrinkles and wrinkled hands.

My hands are covered.

 

In red all—

The friends dead.

Write down the results.

Preserve the universe.

This is the event that causes me.