+======== February 1995 ======================== Volume 3, Number 2 ========+ | | | | | *** *** ******** ******** ******** ******* ******* ***** *** | | * * * * * ****** ** *** * * **** * * *** * * ***** ** ** * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * *** * * * **** * * * * * **** * * *** * * ***** * * * * | | ***** * * * ** * * * * * * *** ** * *** * ***** * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * | | ***** * * **** * ** *** * * * * ** * * * * ***** * ** ** * ***** | | ******* ******** ******** *** **** *** *** ******* ***** ******* | | | | | | ************************************************************************* | | | | | | [ A JOURNAL OF THE POETIC ARTS ] | | | | | | Editor: Klaus J. Gerken | | Associate Editors: Paul Lauda | | : Pedro Sena | | Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy | | European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch | | | | | +===========================================================================+ *************************************************************************** [ TABLE OF CONTENTS ] *************************************************************************** INTRODUCTION..............................Klaus J. Gerken On Common Addiction.......................Evan Light AS I SLEPT................................Martin Zurla UNCLE SAM'S JIVE JUICE....................Martin Zurla SMILE AT ME...............................Martin Zurla I say.....................................David Cariddi Lonely man in the corner..................David Cariddi Hell, and other places....................David Cariddi A symphony I'll always hear...............David Cariddi Dark Angel................................David Cariddi Dirt......................................David Cariddi Never Forgotten...........................David Cariddi Walls.....................................Tim Whittemore mutterings................................Tim Whittemore Illusions.................................Tim Whittemore She Comes.................................Gay Bost Where The Eagles Soar.....................Gay Bost BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE......................Barbara Nesbit Diamonds..................................Jennifer Mulcahy Innocent..................................Jennifer Mulcahy Understood................................Jennifer Mulcahy Suicide...................................Jennifer Mulcahy Flower Without............................Jim Yagmin Slug......................................Jim Yagmin holistic nul..............................Igal Koshevoy intaglio..................................Igal Koshevoy Moment of Truth...........................Klaus J. Gerken Presentiment..............................Klaus J. Gerken POST SCRIPTUM With Still Lives.....................Martin Zurla ************************************************************************** [ INTRODUCTION ] ************************************************************************** In my younger years I came across this story, which may not quite follow the proper history of Marpa and Milarepa, but nonetheless has always stayed with me for its sheer fortitude and wisdom. Milarepa, the great Tibetan Saint (western concept - but it serves a purpose) and Poet (universal term - ultimately meaning only, 'talking in rhythms', depending on the context), when a young man, and out of remorse for exacting revenge for the slaughter of his family, he attached himself to the Great Guru Marpa to gain the self-enlightenment, which all good self-reliant souls must seek, to ultimately, through many life 'awareness' become a botthistatva, and therefore Buddha. Well, Milarepa, young and filled with pride, approached Marpa in his cave on a steep hill. 'What should I do to gain enlightenment?' he asked in youthful exuberance. 'Build me a house.' 'But there is nothing on this hill to build with.' 'There are rocks in the valley: gather them.' Marpa would have no other word with the young poet. Milarepa, did not lose faith, but went down to the valley and began gathering the rocks to build Marpa a house. For ten years he laboriously dragged rock after rock up the steep hill without complaint. After the ten year period, and after the house was built, Milarepa again approached the venerated guru and prostrated himself before him. 'Master, I have done what you requested; please emerge from your cave and see the house that I have built for you.' Marpa looked at the poet in disgust: 'It is an abomination. Tear it down immediately and replace every rock where you found it.' Milarepa, bowed and immediately began to tear down the house he had so laboriously built, and for the next ten years replaced every stone where he had found it. After his task was completed, Milarepa returned to the great and now aging Marpa, 'I have replaced every rock as you requested.' 'Fool!' Marpa cried aloud, 'No stone is returned to it's rightful place, and you have torn my home apart.' 'Quick, rebuild it!' Milarepa, bowed reverently, and slowly with illumination in his heart, set about his task. It was only after Milarepa had rebuilt the house that Marpa agreed to teach him. So what does this story tell us? Many will simply say that Milarepa was a fool, and wasted his life. It sure sounds that way on the surface. But when we look more closely, do we see anything different? I can't help thinking that this is a lesson for every person who aspires to being a poet. Not in the task as much as in the question, and especially the conviction of the answer. Did Milarepa waste his life? Milarepa didn't think so. Did Marpa waste his? Not at all. Because Milarepa did not think that either his own task was purposeless, nor the reason for Marpa requesting the task be done. So what did Milarepa learn? First he came to an understanding of what sacrifice for a cause is. One begins by being humble. To be humble one must sacrifice conceived notions of what one thinks one knows and needs. One must be open to a new experience, unprejudiced and prepared. Then through the task Marpa communicated, and Milarepa took on willingly, he learned first of all, discipline, for without discipline we cannot achieve a purpose we have set for ourselves; second, he learned perseverance, for without perseverance we cannot have hope of making a good ending, we must believe in ourselves and our purpose, otherwise there is nothing to strive for; and third, he learned the art of building a good foundation, without which, nothing that is built can survive. It is said that for every stone Milarepa lugged up and down that hill he wrote a poem, the poems of which became the 100 thousand songs of Milarepa. Which brings me to how many young people approach poetry; through a great desire to express themselves. And how do they express themselves? Through words and immediate emotions. This is raw, and this is good. But without discipline, these raw expressions of energy become only part of the moment, and they dissipate as quickly as they are read. Many are put off be the four truths I set out earlier: Sacrifice, Discipline, Perseverance and a good foundation. I have seen many potentially good poets give up because they are told to be something that will take them many years of apprenticeship to achieve. They are sent away and told to return when they have a 'product' and are no longer just a 'potential'. This is a sad situation and many continue writing 'poetry' when they are writing nothing at all of substance except for their own pleasure. Milarepa saw this immediacy in his own situation, and looked at the difference between his own self gratification and the gratification one gets when doing something on behalf of others. While I am not suggesting that anyone abandon their families and seek refuge in the Himalayas, I would say that if we take this as a metaphor and realize that a poem written for oneself may help oneself, it will also not survive oneself. A poem written to search for a universal discipline becomes an example. And therefore survives as the example, and spurns others to greater heights. What this tells us is that there is nothing to run away from. There is nothing in this world which does not exist on a strong foundation. Anyone who thinks they can be a poet simply by scribbling something on a piece of paper and chopping it into rhythmic lines, or even making it rhyme, is sadly mistaken. Poetry ultimately comes down to perseverance. It is not verbal ingenuity, and it is not pretty rhymes. It is back-breaking labour and a lot of soul searching. A lot. Ah, you might interject, but what about inspiration? Fine, but inspiration without discipline, is simply inspiration, a moment, a glow, a flash of light, or thought, a dream that fades as soon as one wakes; only comprehensible to self. Inspiration, as a great fire needs a spark to ignite, ignites the volatile elements which ultimately build a poem. But it is not the poem. Ultimately inspiration does not communicate other than to the recipient of the inspiration, to communicate this challenge (and it is a challenge), a vehicle is needed: for engineers, a bridge; for architects a building, for travellers, a destination, and for poets, a poem. A means to communicate the vision. And this is where Ygdrasil comes in. Ygdrasil is not as harsh on young poets as Marpa was to Milarepa. But it does aspire to a certain standard. And that standard is to try. To try and achieve the clearest possible development which communicates a poet's vision. What inspires is within each and every one of the poets contained herein, and it is also in each and every reader. Perhaps a merging will develop in this communication. Perhaps one who is inspired will inspire others; not just to write and read, but to live each moment in the knowledge that we all contribute. Milarepa bore great stones on his back, and through that labour achieved the enlightenment he so sorely sought. Sometimes it is others who show us the way, but never before we take the first step towards them. Ygdrasil attempts to recognize not only the accomplished poets, but also poets with potential, poets who might ultimately realize that they have a chance at it. And through this recognition, perhaps something of permanent value will emerge. That is also why Ygdrasil places the onus on the poem rather than the poet. If the poem can stand on its own without the poet's intervention, then the poet and others can learn from the poem. A good poem requires no explanation. This is the ultimate that Ygdrasil strives for. Those who read, be open minded; those who write, aware. -- KJ Gerken ============================================================================ On Common Addiction ~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ Hellbent on coffee the poor man's alcohol Feeling the breeze in my hair though I'm silently sitting indoors numb toes and burning nose I've awakened simply to lie again stuck in this sleepingrisingman my bellybuttons both mouldy But my feet are squeaky clean my nails freshly painted canvas still dripping Leaking through the ears of a nation embodied Humanities puddle on my solid cyprus floor wetting my pinky toes wrinkling them like old man's face -- Evan Light ============================================================================ AS I SLEPT ~~~~~~~~~~ Are you gonna cruse me too? say that I'm poisoned, rotted dead, curled up against my precious self? Are you gonna point a finger, laugh your silly head off behind my back? Nah, you is my lady, my woman-wife carin', sayin' sweetness to these, my silent ears. But that was once upon a time, wasn't it? Sure it was. It was before there was death on my hands, painted in my soul. So look, looking at me, through me your eyes. You are, yup, you are, killing me again and again as your words were warm and your soul was stiff. So where were you then, when the noise, the shattering tears ripped us apart, ripped us as I came home, landing nowhere as you walked away leaving me, my own tears for the dark to swallow. And I know you where there as I slept finally home, but you left as I slept went home making me wake to the nothingness. I screamed and screamed, again and again, Then I knew we would never make it, I would never be the same, never, ever again. -- Martin Zurla ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- UNCLE SAM'S JIVE JUICE ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ jumpin' jive juice 'cross my achin' head, throbbin, poundin' bouncin' in lead. just look at that stuff, man, all hell's splittin' up, like god don't give a good shit no more, anyhow. and the rain like grease fillin' a vat, a diddly-bop, be-bop, noise of killers and kids. I ain't -- no way -- walkin' no more, you metal-plated motherfuckin' sin-man. now look at that, it's all apart, I ain't -- no matter -- crawlin' no more so fuck your Aunt Fanny and Molly MaGee you sent me here, I died no more. -- Martin Zurla ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- SMILE AT ME ~~~~~~~~~~~ Smile at me constantly my most ... And in you is that one special, oh so ... Very, very come to me as in dreams, as on clouds, as Within you is a frailness most fragile about me, around me your presence permeates, Penetrates me now. When gold so frankincense tugs on gossamer tails of precious pristine basilicas and Byzantine pomegranates i see Pisces clinging tightly, so rightly roundly you and i, me and oh so you, truly ours. (and ever so permanently you surround, abound me And again it's your hands, those fingers gentle about me, searching me; discovering yourself in my pressed unconsciousness) But Saint Steven's Day was such An oh, so very long drawn time ago, Wasn't it. Your delicate reach that Never -- on that day -- enclosed, Wrapped me good, Whitely around me not once. Far away now (you are) Somewhere else as we never saw that Christ-like morning melting us Together, wedding us forever. -- Martin Zurla ============================================================================ I say ~~~~~ You say, "You don't have to feel like you owe anybody anything," But don't you owe everybody everything? I think so. I think so. You don't. That's ok- Sometimes I don't either. You say, "You always have to get us fighting!" But I think you're too excitable. Maybe you need a valium. You say, "You've wasted my time!" But I think that perhaps your time isn't so precious. I think you're a blowhard. You say, "You can't make the simplest decisions!" Oh? So make them yourself. Can't, can you. I find you so entertaining. You say, "What's your problem?" I'll tell you. You are the problem. You and you alone. You say, "You're too weak!" Weak? Perhaps. But the weakest of the weak Is so much more than you. You say, "You're wrong and you know it!" I laugh. He's tired, and so am I. Leave him alone. You say, "Don't talk to me like that!" Like what? In a mature and coherent manner? So sorry, so very sorry. Should I talk like you? Should I bitch and moan? You don't stop until we're mad, Though he shouts, And I write. You say, "Now you've gone too far." But I say, "No. No, I've got quite a bit farther to travel." -- David Cariddi ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lonely man in the corner ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I tried. I truly did try. Now I am done. And what can I say? Everything's been said. Yet, we've said nothing. How ironic. How sad. Go. Please. I ask only one thing of you. Remember me. Oh, remember me. For that which is, will never be. And that which isn't? Always. -- David Cariddi ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Hell, and other places ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "You'll burn the house down One of these days." And that will be the day when I Laugh and laugh and laugh and cry. At you. For you. With you. You don't like it? Fool. It's all for you. It always was, and your failure To see that will be (is) your tragedy. Your own personal slice of Hell. And other places. You'll never read this. What a waste. -- David Cariddi ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- A symphony I'll always hear ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Is there one for whom the angels weep, For whom the souls of heroes seek? For whom the birds of air do fly, For whom; the turn of every eye? I think I do know such a one, And, Ah! Her beauty, bright as sun! Her smile is my saving grace, Captured in her shining face. When she speaks, it's like a song, Sweet harmony, it makes me strong! Her voice like music to my ear, A symphony I'll always hear. Such caring I have never seen, Compassionate; so like a dream! And in her eyes there's so much light! So deep and calling, like the night. And in all this, there's something else, I cannot describe it, but yet it's felt. It is her soul, so very strong, and with it, she can do no wrong. -- David Cariddi ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dark Angel ~~~~~~~~~~ Ah, to be one with the night! To be free and beautiful. To be a reaper of spirit, And a seeker of beauty. If only I could be! If only I could be... But can I? Can I be the Dark Angel, The eternal learner? Could I be he who is married to the darkness, And all her silent children? I want to know. I must know. I want the bittersweet Water of Life To flow down my white throat, Into my veins. I need to be the fiend! I need to feel the thirst! I need to touch the pale skin, And feel the fangs deep in my neck. I need to be the Vampire. -- David Cariddi ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dirt ~~~~ So, I see you've dug yourself a corpse. Well, what's a girl to do? Bury it- Burn it- Ask it to leave. Wouldn't want anyone to think it was yours. Oh, no. Don't forget, now! Here, take my spade. Cover it well! Don't let an inch of skin show! There, there, now hurry away, Can't be seen here, no! Good enough, now, good enou- Say... Is that a finger? Oh dear. I suppose I should bury it... But I rather think I won't. -- David Cariddi ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Never Forgotten ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ So what, If I decide, That my killing need, Is so, Much stronger, Than our sacred creed? And what, If I need, To go away? To fade, To the Darkness, Like Blood to my veins. Never Forgotten. And there, If I want, The taste of Blood, Who's there To tell me, It must not be done? Please now, come and hold me, I soon will leave. I'll take With me only, My need to greave. Never Forgotten- The first little taste... Never Forgotten- The warm-cold embrace... Never Forgotten- All of my kind... Never Forgotten- The words in the rhyme... Never Forgotten. -- David Anthony Cariddi ============================================================================ Walls ~~~~~ Builders, Creators: Carpenters all. Each building our individual wall. What magnitude we achieve as shapes, complexities we conceive. Each grander than before to hide, shelter, contain and no more. Variety, spice of life, is plentiful as each strives for his/her grand design. For some, building many small sections, to dive into in the midst of the fray. They often are hit, running to and fro, the little ducks all in a row; still they come. Others build one wall. Resplendent in height and depth. Brightly lit windows, doors bound and secure, they mat look upon, even enter, the world. Taste all it offers then; when burdens become wearisome to bear becomes a place to retreat, bind the wounds, so they never cease to care. A few seem never to know. Fearful of hearts desires, beyond reason they go. Domes, massive and brittle, they create. Chipping at the mortar frantically they seek. An obvious,elusive key. When found-again they run entombing themselves in the dark loneliness of the soul. Oh!; for the courage. To tear down each massive block set in anger and fear. To use the key open doors long closed. Restore the vitality to laughter once mine. -- Tim Whittemore ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- mutterings ~~~~~~~~~~ O heart drenched in sorrow, O wreckage of a fallen love. Pitiless and fearsome, The Nons mutter over this soul. Where deep love, as life, has perished. Treading currents of emotion, from deepest shadow, I hear the mutterings of the nons. Tracing first, ascent from chaos. Watching the spark fanned into flame. Listen, as it gathers about the elements of life upon this plane. Becoming a creature of blood and dust. Revel in the strange ecstasy called life. Experiencing all bright, and well travelled. Striving to explore the dark unknown... blazing paths for others to follow. Reaching beyond the bounds, touching another. Grasping that which is beyond oneself. Soaring to depths hither unplumbed as the flames of passion fill all horizons. The wheel spins, cycles turn, that which has grown and flowered begins to drop petals. Sorrows shared, ties which bind. Joys remembered, as each fragment screams toward the final end. With each passing petal the abyss opens, earth swallowing maw, life destroying... soul-crusher. Invites deeper visitation. In a moment of frailty, which is great strength, lashing out in love and anger. try to stop the descent into the maelstrom. Burning out the life it cannot keep. Leaving behind only the ruin, of a dried, withered,husk. Where deep love, as life, has perished. pitiless and fearsome, the nons mutter over this soul. -- Tim Whittemore ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Illusions ~~~~~~~~~ Illusions. Realities we call life. Shadows play before my eyes. Collocating then dispersing. Focusing, but never clear. Often waiting for words we will never hear. The past rises from the mire. Bringing the feelings and the pain. Rising as specters haunting the soul. Each step taken changes unforeseen. Withholding knowledge of destiny's dream. Allowing belief we are plotters of our fate... into the mists we march. Good little morons all in a row. Following our brother, the lemming, over the cliff we go.... into the swirls and eddies of life's uncertain flow. -- Tim Whittemore ============================================================================ She Comes ~~~~~~~~~ She rises from the earth in stretching straining branch's sway She walks upon the surface of the lake, in mists, in sunlit day She comes, with greening heart, and blooming fingertips into the air. She hears as called by torment's child pounding on the church door She comes, I say, unscheduled walker growing from a distant moor She wakes at Winter's ingress, as she will, and where she may, a care. She listens to lost daughters wailing 'neath the basement stair She wonders how the Father's twisted love has brought them there She comes, her hand extended through the cracks, and weeps, alone. She sees the child of visions tossed into a culture's refuse pile She wanders through 'enlighted' days of love and all the while She watches each desert the crying child within to build a throne. And who is She that comes without an invocation circled tight? Without the Season's behest giving Her moon worship's right Without the Sun to guide her steps and light her willful way? She Is faceless, perhaps, and nameless, perchance. Just as well She Is, and that is all I've come so far, through much, to tell She Is and was and will be, born, yesterday tomorrow and today. -- Gay Bost ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Where The Eagles Soar ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When I missed the Eagle's call And took that first most painful fall Some bright sea creature reached within And brought me from the madding din A blue, a grey, come from the deeps To show me that my spirit keeps A way, a path, a conduit's note Whether by chance, by plan, or rote A map, in lines, writ on the stars A diagram between the bars Of Music sweet and song so deadly A heartbeat felt within the medley When I touched Grey Eagle's feather I drew a flight within harsh weather Dim and deep that spoke of loss When sea and wave the sailor toss Upon an ocean far and dear That in my dreaming brought me near To albatross, that fate marked bird The mariner's lament, but not the word For in the flight is cast the fate For such as I who comes but late From nature's work onto the field Whereby nature's writ I yield. And with the Black I saw my ire Long waked anger my best attire Just lament toward which I lean Of blooded metal, cruelly keen A match for red's most ancient sword A writhing repast for the board Of justice called upon a god Whose heavy hand would wound the sod And cage within the fitful bird In-flights of spirit newly heard A child's awakening, a hopeful tale Sent in winds from inland gale. Aquila, Golden Bird of Prey Laid eggs of love upon the tray Of wounded silver dreams in flight I sailed the day and kissed the night Anew, regrown, another leg Another view within the egg Becoming green took back the day Sorrow touched where anger lay Migrant wanderer again I knew The soaring freedom of the blue The flowing river rushing by And she who ever walks the sky. A White tailed Eagle crossed my path And brought to me my own sweet laugh An aviator's tail, sea salted A wing of fogged in joy, unhalted A wide flung span from other lands A fisher from another's hands And herein is my story told Of flights diverse in nature's hold Of varieties the Earth holds dear If Humanity can but see and hear For of the Eagles in the heavens Of species there are fifty seven! -- Gay Bost ============================================================================ BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Black and Blue house under your ownership; under your care, and your attention. Black and blue house- A Wrecking Ball stands poised at the Mouth opening to demolish Please do not strike me again. This black and blue house is on the verge of collapse. This morning I was a frequent victim of a hit-and-run hello. COLD, CRUEL, WORD WHIPPING BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE ENCUMBERED BY STIFLED CRIES, AND SUPPRESSED LONGINGS. STRUCTURED WITHOUT WATERPROOFING..STRUCTURED WITHOUT PROTECTION- AGAINST DOWNFALLS OF SOFT TEARS. BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE OWNED, SOLELY BY YOU. YOU WHO ARE OBLIVIOUS TO NEEDED REPAIRS. BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE BLACK AND BLUE HOUSE SLOWLY SUFFOCATING IN SNOWDRIFTS. -- Barbara Nesbit 1971-1992 ============================================================================ -------- The coldness hits me like a stone Too round, too smooth, too grey I struggle to rewrap myself Yet I, too exposed, agape- I turn my back against the wind Only to feel it anew Upon my breast at every turn Fatal gems of frozen dew -- Jennifer Mulcahy ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Innocent ~~~~~~~~ The loss of innocence and an innocent Death steams on snow as I repent Memory shallow, distorted: bent Limping, a hollow cry- regret. -- Jennifer Mulcahy ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Understood ~~~~~~~~~~ So red, the blood at dawn Yet blacker than the night Of fields and furrows, evil's pawn Lies uncaptured, frozen flight- The hollow sound of rotting wood Surrounds thy fragile ear The death of being understood... And the raw deceit of fear. -- Jennifer Mulcahy ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Suicide ~~~~~~~ Thunder rolled when she opened her eyes White clouds as dark as a raven Fear grew cold in her eyes while he watched For he knew, and so- she fled. Denial of love, shoved aside in importance Never a crime greater e'er stood Bury truth, attempt at creation- The suicide of the soul. -- Jennifer Mulcahy ============================================================================ Flower Without ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A flower grew without a soul Beneath a blueberry bush- As white as love, as long as death: My tender fluttering crush. -- Jim Yagmin ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Slug ~~~~ The master's words are read But once- Then put away. Understanding: yes or no Has no reason in the day- But when the night surrounds you The smell of fear is rancid- The Icy Snail of Death creeps Under the half-closed eyelid. -- Jim Yagmin ============================================================================ holistic nul ~~~~~~~~~~~~ chimes on the wind ringing angry furious banging uncontrolled loud and brutal hot air washing past black night wrapped around and flowing a torrent senselessness getting louder so loud i can feel it it's not here though i can see it not there too real unreal broken illusion melted solution alien protrusion not there but i can see it not real though i can taste it not possible but its breathing against my cheek can't be but it is go away it's only me stay away don't need more pressure leave me alone don't want to hear the knocking ringing crashing crying crying crying crying on the floor and it stomps on me in angst GO AWAY you aren't real GO AWAY i'm hurt enough already tap on shoulder bloodied cry bells on the wind chimes in the night angry droning violent thuds not here it can't be real i can't believe it i can't believe anything GO AWAY nothing is real not even me -Igal Koshevoy (tbdop) February 14, 1994; 5:32am ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- intaglio ~~~~~~~~ throbbing fills this empty space held back and holding lid's too tight these bleeding stubs can't do much . . . expected undelivery doesn't come this way no more worn worn out and wearing it's been so long so very long indeed . . . unfraying around me inside me pale vines growing loose to wait in rotting rest it's just a moment all things pass i'm antiquity praying for indifference . . . i want to hold you hold you . . . over the buzzing of the insects and someone's screaming feels like a box . . . formality and duty God's dragging footprints in the sand . . . i miss you you know that nothing's right no more maybe i feel like moving other pastures other cares anchors and not's hold me captive to your vacancy its been so very long small wishes, bubbling truths . . . i want so much to hold you