Talks
Hands Inside
of Night
Go down in jeopardy
Years Only Use so Much up of you
I Glide in Hell
Take Liberties with Killers and electrocute

Stuff oranges with
methane
indulge senses
never give in
yell at onions
under  lawnmowers
inside gravities pull
hold the listener know
each molecule is mine
in some strange way
—

arrive at darkness
obliged to  shave
occupied
by shallow
demure woman 

in  corners, around  sunsets
on graves stones

wilted thatched roofs in Hungary
noble children Lords–
I yearn for you
like lilacs yearn for spring 

sit in  Nigerian restaurants
ill tense
broken
a never yielding wisdom
saying yield no further 

watch rainbows in the clouds
talk to the  woods when you walk in them
herds of buffalo ran here

A sound rises
I can touch the  wind
the rite of Spring 

thick elemental  reality familiar to few
you who are you?
Where do you fit in?

only fools dance here
another  aimless moment
nothing descends
nothing arises 

All is boredom
all is not what it seems to be
hidden in garages dusty and rusty
in up state new york
recall of a former time
another day a remembrance
of things past a glimpse
of what was
reformed
in regions of the soul

taught only to survive
and gather oneself
prepare oneself for death
but  friends-
do not enter here 

The senses lessen ones grip
on actuality
a woman clean the floor
on her hands and knees 

a voice sings in the chapel
you are alone
given only a brief taste
of what life can become 

I am I and you
besides us there is no one
to tell our story to
a silent veil covers us
we do not know
what birth means. 

the wicked
the zen like
all quickened
like shining silver
reflect the mystery of starlight 

soon it all will pass
no one will remember

the Lakes we use to go to
after the storms of existence 

hike with our mother
in Binghamton New York
on a dirt road
near the a Chenago river

the skeleton of a chicken
or a small animal 

solitary moments–
fall off of us
like night falls off of day
in clouds and waves of muted light
places
we do not visit
within us

parameters
descending
ladders against  old barns
in the  dust of April

all is nothing now
each one lives his own heaven
her own hell
they are not places
or locations but states of mind
thrown on a canvas 

fucked from the womb

we hate the very thing we need
we hate what we love
and it sometimes
is hard to unravel
why we push away
what we most seek

we the forever
become the simple
the significant
the only relevance
the point of it all
without us
there is no world

intertwined

pretending to be sole proprietors

of selves

that ought not to be 

out voted
commanded by fate and logic
to connect the mixed messages

worse deeds have never been done

i kneel before the  vice
the terse tyrant  an heir apparent
a  page ripped out of Lives Book 

a sinner that is the only hope

layers in a fossilized likeness 

an existence
who is there to pity we
who are the last
philosophies abound
that we can not live
we assemble
we try to put together
the soul that has gone on
automatic

out of all theses parts
you can see
what  one could

never before.
There is no beginning and no end. 

© 2011
Stephen John Kalinich

Photo by L. K. Thayer

All Rights Reserved