in a moment life becomes
little more than motive;
a thought of one more breath
& eyes can witness perdition
too soon, too soon, too soon
too soon ahead of death

dawn

arrived on time
run-of-the-mill for a minute or so
before its agenda found focus
in physics & dire demonstrations
highlighting why planes
mostly don’t mingle with buildings
(a lesson left engraved)
plus a few substantial views
full of frenzied fuel; structural designs
& proof that architecture
isn’t always a functional plan
when its sketched aesthetic whole
is tested by a stress of parts.

breakfast

came with coffee
drunk with deft denial
amid renunciations, reality aside
how could this real be real
it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be (pass the popcorn please!)
but resolve gave way as it so often does
admitting acquiescence
with whatthefuck? oh whatthefuck?
what have they gone & done

God help us all, god help us
what have they gone & done.

time seemed to slow then stopped
beneath a voiceless heaven
as the point beyond return
swallowed the faces, the screams
tiptoed out on ledgeless air
in desperate ballet steps

an unasked lasting stardom
performed by silent mimes
before they spread unfeathered wings
like faulty pyrotechnics
exploding shards of fashion
in suits & skirts with matching shoes
along that yaw of runway
which were Septembers’ skies.

infinity is where expected ends
& madness safely takes ones hand
to guide the mind away,
before the truth of minutes
eradicates all words
except perhaps

Amen

afternoon

landed laced with horror
unable to turn from the rivet, the strut,
two silhouettes spit roast to black
before their frames surrendered;
the gravity of Newton’s scythe
uniting steel & bodies
with those too brave to run

& the ante meridien dives
falling again & again
brought us a bottomless silence
collecting cadavers & limbs.

night

became the dark acceptance,
a twilight buzzed by F-16′s.
the truth of ten thousand flights grounded,
somehow sudden relics
of what was, no longer taken for granted,
an innocence forever changed
wanting blood & war.

an emptiness reduced to stars
where atoms joined in matter
or what might pass as soul
gather names to prowl as ghosts

behind these eyes, our eyes, my eyes
that cannot remove what has passed from the past
that do not know how to unsee.

Jun 27 2003 ©L.Emery-Bennett

What speaks only through crookedness
From one place to another, upright less each time
Frankly does not want to hear

The truth, the heart before what is or was.
It starts with false foundation,
Not pulled into pieces, believing itself

In the right. In a country of certain occasion
Where nothing is held to the light
And that which is wrong acts unfairly

Careless of facts or revision.
Because what is crooked is bent on not straight-
Talking. Unable to listen and wanting

That which can only be taken, owned
On a righteous cross. A place of no known peace
Just decision. Faithfully leading crusades.

The roses are not fretful. They become
A symbol of how it has gone; perpetual small bodies
Held by the sun I have come to do without

Each day while the children walk. Careless,
So sure they have already arrived,
On their backs the tools of learning sleep

With potions of strength in the dark.
Their shoes a map of kingdoms won,
Between their hands spring flowers laugh

And something I knew by heart
Floats across my vision, an insignificant seed
Moving deftly in the breeze

As I turn around to witness it
Then watch it drift away.

clouds do not dance with the earth and the land
until they are burdened by heat
twined in the rhythmic and twisted to form
cores that must burst or release.

heaven rains only creation, emptying life into mouths
drunk from the sweat of the sea
and waters may part under knives made of wind,
whenever it chooses to weep.

a wilderness of whispers, can run from below to above
when tongues press their weight into wet
because they are riddled with secular fire
beyond the mere power of hate.

and this is the holy communion, an ever and ever
perfection, where bodies unite into one.
the meeting of matter regardless of faith
at the call of the godless machine.

design is what nature intended, in rivers, the clay
endless abrasion and balance -
a way to contain all the truth of what is
as it lessens what cannot escape.

no one can live in the eye of observe,
so short is that moment, away
and time was not meant to remain unexplored
or only trap demons in sand.

How odd to have faith in a circle
Open enough to uncrowd us.

Impatient, this thing we inhabit.
The steady going onward, a magnitude and general

Thought comes across no homeland.
When I step to the start of it all

I might find you and stretch out
The little of me that is strong

Toward winding up. In view of the fact
Our journey here began from one foundation,

The undermind of lineage, far away back there,
From there where roots still keep

And watch. What I desire now
Is how we stirred as nothing ever dreamt

Before. The wordless weight; my breath
Inside your heat, the interweave of limbs

Revolved around each other
As if we fit collectively. Our hands

Within a steeple, tangled close and looking
For familiar ground. A waterway of song

Getting used to beauty as the last position
Left for those who’ve struggled hard, as if

Caught in this difficult posture,
No longer lost and lingering in leaves,

We cannot come apart.