Sometimes love is cliché. Damn the cost of being so young, you and I were but a single being beating and gathering momentum like a drum solo, but in the spaces between the beats of hearts and the vacuum are the things I didn’t say.
Sometimes love is pain, damn the cost of being so dumb.
Should I compare you to a winters morn? You are more bitter and more discontent Than winds that shake even the devils horns. At least winter is cold but for a minute. Sometimes the fingers of winter are warm, And oft is the complexion painted ruse By brush or surgeon changing the cold storm Of crows feet that pass like the pain and bruise Left yellowing by time and the pursuit Eternal,the search for gold and jewels of youth, But your lust shall not pass as falling fruit Or summer days spent plyed in sweet vermouth –So long as you can breath, or hand can spend, –So long lives him, and you will bring an end.
Among the worlds most pressing ruins I have seen artifacts come rising as phoenixes to part their form from the fierce driven wind and sand that whirls around in its dying hour of enjambment with earth and sky.
Here, now, I glimpse the masterwork divine, the immense weight bearing architecture. The lintel at the Treasury Of Atreus, that both amazes and makes us a fool, is suspended, accepted and controversial– but any’ with their beating heart can see the contradictory enigmas hidden jewel, the canary in depths of the past’s stony keep.
You’ve asked me, what the sphinx is waiting for in its ancient riddle of limestone repose, about the alignments in the Giza Plateau seen backwards, drifting towards Orion’s belt; the once polished pyramids surface know this. Time and its carcass has eroded the life we had built: the same sands that bore the Seven Wonders now actively cover up over our ancestral homes.
At Delphi’s famous dramatic amphitheater, the Roman dogs and accidental thieves of our earthen heritage quarried up their prayers to ancient and sometimes all too human like gods, with aspects as mysterious as hexagonal floors, as Segesta and the possibility of what came before.
I’m no Princeton expert, was never meant to scrape the sands away from academia’s financial sleep or slow the politicians budgetary benchmark’s ceaseless creep into the studies of antiquity.
I have only my words and my art to tell you about human genomes and the stretching of time, about the science behind the Homo Sapien, Neanderthal, and Donisovan peoples kind.
In the annals of the peoples of the world, and in the memories and the hearts of those who lived much closer, the riddle was answered– but Oedipus’s answer does not suffice the missing lines, swallowed by ravenous sand.
I have only to tell you about a massive avenue that goes in curves and snakes through Chile and Peru, longer than China’s Wall, and drawn out over the land to connect all Incan temples and polygonal sprawl.
Like Machu Peachu and Cuzco, the bedrock joins, as mason, the Human and Donisonvan kind to a record of ingenuity seen through the kaleidoscope of time and the impact of asteroids.
The Channeled Scablands in Eastern Washington State form forks and branches of a world remade in fire and floods that scraped and scabbed the land ‘till oceans rose four hundred feet, and we’ve only the stones to see and the mythologies the peoples kept on tongue. The archaeology might as well be thousands of leagues submerged beneath the sea, from off Cuba to Yanagoni.
The Carolina Bays point to cataclysm, as do the Nebraskan Rainwater Basins tips; The dappled and dimpled surface ablaze with ice and fire from an asteroid that nearly killed us.
We’ve now the tools precise enough to seed minds with such accuracy as to remake the world, If only we’d be open enough to drink from mythology, stone, and the briny sea.
There are ruins built upon the backs of megalithic stones, and I tell you that the weathered paws of the Sphinx know this; that Baalbek and the Temple of Bacchus groan out their age and denounce the modern scholars Roman naming and rape.
Under the columns and setting sun, the once great city, Heliopolis comes crumbling out. Elemental chaos, Atum, and Ra giving fully over to thousands of tons: the expectant blocks of an unknown and talented race lacking The Stone Of The Pregnant Woman, that bears the babe in its monumental architecture that predates the first plow.
One only needs to go to Gobekli Tepe to see the origins of mans megalithic past bursting forth from rounded belly with heavy stone heaved up the stone courses and circles of mans ancient grasp, purposely hid and buried in land—known forever as Potbelly Hill. One only needs to hide something they’re wanting to save.
The helical drill marks found in the granite holes amid Egyptian tools and relics of the day speak volumes to those who’d seek their course around in spirals about the core with string.
The bronze age chiseled stone, chipped and fitted over the hardest black boxes—quarried in granite and quartz. Forty thousand enduring diorite vessels found safe under the step pyramids put-ons of less skilled craftsman stacked up on more. The names of pharaohs hastily scraped into the bowls, vases and boxes from before.
You’ve asked about the mysterious triangular shapes found stacked in stone around the world’s different coasts, and I tell you that the age old mythologies speak loads and heaves stone up on stone upon the oral histories and time worn hieroglyphic writings of antiquity.
From Noah to every corner of the globe we’re told of floods and a world remade by the gods, and as today Hiawatha Crater stands as evidence to a time when asteroids pocked the land and lit the forests ablaze, sending small animals, mammoths and megafauna to their watery ash covered graves.
Human kind must have faced near extinction that day, and like the tower of babel and the confusion of language must have sent us into a serious dark age; not like the one to come with fall of Rome, oh no more like 3000 years spent hunched over an empty fire, only to wander the sands of Egypt and find , on the luscious banks of the Nile, black granite boxes and many a helpful stone jar to fill with drink and pass the time while awaiting a pharaoh’s rise.
Our lives pass like cherry blossoms, snapped from hurried branch to ripened fruit. We flit from first to fledged to finished, put out to ash one hundred years an instant. A truth we scarcely want to envision, yet death and quantum mechanics will have it.
In human want and vanity we make the cosmos roll into a ball and laugh, as if our hundred was even a flash to its endless procession of cold stars. It’s like to ants a rose would bloom eternal.
Do not ask the cosmos or pyramids of the atoms that went into their form, or the rose of the ants that flit across its back: for the pyramids would not even know of sciences written in scales of man.
The seasons changing keys set fruit to fall from mindful sagging branch to brutal dust below. The ants divert their sacred path to sweets divinely delivered on high, like man attributing meaning to change.
Is it just we who contemplate the ants, the Sagan starstuff, the music vast?
My flesh stripped from the bones, the body miraculous stands but as a series of groans and gears in breach of trust;
MRIs & Cat Scans only tell so much. Silence from loved ones, the sentence unjustly delivered by mere instrument. The Doc’s not much better with bed manner;
O, I suppose that once he was, before giving the news became the norm, like blood to be withdrawn: before the babes’ weeping had claimed that last corner of what it meant to be a doctor, and save the births and the children he’d rather be fishin’, or so said the pin suspended from his lab coat’s vest pocket.
Drooping and thinking of the rafter beams, the dangling rope, the suspension of self aloft, I took note of a glimmering hope, perhaps I’d beat the odds and those damn beep, beep, beep, beeping machines.
Around her I was Icarus with wings alight and burnt to nubs, now glowing as embers and garnets as I slowly descend into the adjust of knowing there is no longer an us and longing to submit to the plunge.
This rusted throne of kings, this gilded smile, This divine right of blood, this gift of sight, This better race of man, madness defiles This luscious home of dreams, this earthly plight, This inherited form, this gift of life, This other choice of men, madness defines.