This Was Said over Not Coffee, Not Cigarette, Not Dinner, Not…

James Robinson — Tue, 20 Jun 2006 16:00:11 +0000

*

ME: Your hair wet,
& your church
As natural to the

landscape
as   human dung.
Since dinosaurs,

but more immune
to ice-age & other
primordial editors

of yore.
But then you saw
a church built here.

At 1 st   :   stakes, string,
skeletal-blobs
of outlines

ambiguous as shadow
or fetus.
Then : basement, frame,

skin, sound —
the structure becometh-ing
an architectural

scarecrow, guts of
fibrous Self
insulating the structure

to form, to
mythical-importance —
Or a glove- puppet,

each finger animating its
Singular prayer.

*

Nowadays, you even
drive your church
looking for THE

CHURCH. For you alone       are
equivalent to cops
who seek   laws broken

as windows. For you alone are equivalent
to your confession:
The minor church
growing into you,

subtle as bone.

* * *

Listening to Ache

James Robinson — Tue, 20 Jun 2006 16:00:01 +0000

A good gnashing of verbs
grinds sparks from stale music.

Wind-crushed melodies deserve
a crushed fate being hollow.

The song , I’m afraid, is an old one.
But how old can the numeral 1 be?

I don’t know.

*

Dust its airborne disease
with sharpest incisors. Music

ologists assess an aria
by its fingerprints by

God. Has it touched you, white lady?
Has it pressed a fossil
in your devil’s heart?

Its hands are on
the murder weapon:

the air I breathe —
laced with pestilence —
a sound, as
brick, dense.

· the cultural society · » James Robinson

This Was Said over Not Coffee, Not Cigarette, Not Dinner, Not…

Listening to Ache