When Death Falls

What will we do, when Death falls down?

Will we crawl His shattered corpse,
maggots, writhing through
His marble laden bones
digesting old beliefs
and expelling new thoughts?

Will we make a monument,
a whitestone temple of His skull,
a Recollection,
a Persecution,
and let His hollow sockets loom
while generations come?

Will we build our new Death,
of iron, smoke, and coal,
of green, glass, and light,
wrought ribs of rebar
asphalt blood and concrete bone?

Will we build great machines,
and strip His time-pocked form
for meat and leather and cloth,
His great bones a frame,
His marrow, hydraulic fluid,
to forge our grand machine?

When Death falls,
I, too, will fly
and perch apon his heavy brow
with talons built for rending
meat from bone.

I will watch you work,
You crawl,
You worship,
You build,
You pick our Death apart
and pull Him tight around you,
warm your torpid body
with his rotting meat.

What will you do, when Death falls down?
I plan to watch.

The Dark

forward, forward,
always forward
into the whirling dark.
never, never,
always never,
towards the furling hearth.
coward, coward
another coward
scared to leave the dark

O Fire Bearer

Love Me, O Fire Bearer.
Exhalt me with your cleansing flame.
Singe me with your grace,
Burn small black marks down my arms,
and Bless me with you Heat.

Heal Me, O Smoke Breather
Wreath me with your cleansing dew.
Fill me with your acrid air,
Push your spirit into my lungs,
and Bless me with your Lips.

Be Rid of Me, O Paper Roller
Bend my crisp edges into something useful.
Use me to deliver your word,
Drag me until i'm old ashes,
and Bless me
with the Toe of your boot.

Introduction To Poetry

I beat a poem with a hose
and dust clouds fill the air.

I string it up to history
and watch where the light shines through,
catching on particles of meaning
on its long journey to the floor.

I marvel in the delicate work,
trace its maze, surf its weave,
press an ear against the poem
and listen to needles or a hook,
press my hand against it,
and feel its handmade lace.

I pull the poems weave
and thread by thread,
its image falls into loose strands,
and I tie them to my rubric
and the machine does the work
to weave dense muslin.

I drape a half finished essay ,
carefully following my dress form,
pin it hastily with so and thus,
fill the skirt with ruffled prose,
and tie the scraps into a thesis.

I let imagery walk it down the runway
with the high heeled click of keys,
flash opinions bathing it in light,
making its stolen sequins sparkle,
and ranking it out of 5.

notes: the billy collins poem isn't bad i just hate my teachers for not getting why it frustrates me.