god is chaos.
I necessitate wonder
for the questions that I ask,
but my answers afford me a title
long-since feared & wearied: mad
not only at the world, but
also to it; that
is, I mean to say, that
eyes fling themselves to me
like stars toward the sky at night; too long
to fall short of brilliant, far too
bold to blend into the bland.
god is chaos.
I rely half-heartedly
on the accidental wisdom of a humdrum day
and whole-heartedly on the grace
of the intricately-placed and incoincidental
moment of illusion that reeks of truth;
for I could swear by
the cleanest tongue, the clearest
mind—a sun at twilight—a step
in a minefield—a searing life
inhabited by one with flames for the ideal
but you see, the earth’s
but an ocean of dirt
and clarity bears no crown
when lawless hearts thump against their perfect prisons.
god is chaos.
the early tome cripples with knowledge
all vision wrought in solitude; light
is absolutely caught at night
by the erratic hand, unjustly, spied by eyes awry—
decay into a permanence is slow
and yields but in fail
its all-arresting bloom of chainless green.
2015
West Vancouver