The Coyote Poems: Collected, 2007-2009

Monday, September 13, 2010

You are at War with Yourself

img60 you have followed yourself into battle; you have answered the call, the clamour of armour and the rising mists.  You have perceived the enemy, the enemy is you outside of you, the enemy is a mirror pointed at the sky like a lake of still reason reflecting the concept of emptiness, that owned by all eyes that you cannot understand without hatred.  The conscience is for the conquered, lost in the cries of the wounded and the stories of the dead – common sense carries no political weight, fact no truth,  the future was yesterday.  You are a war with yourself, there is no time to deliberate.  There is only one truth and it falls like a gavel crushing fact beneath it’s strike.  The truth speaks only one word; yours.  There is only one tactic and it is cheap.  There is a deliberate one move checkmate too radical to be considered by most, and un-defendable by those of charity.  You are at war with yourself.   The hatred oozes from every pore.  Black tides that wash away streets, faces, memories as the favoured moment is right now; the place where you exist elbow deep in blood, swinging the axe of conviction without hesitation because you say where the truth is facts even in the face of facts and life is nothing but the next objective.  You are at war with yourself,  your fields turn to mud.  Whistling arrows whisper mortalities we write poetry with the dull thud of rent meat.  The last breadth of conjecture spells your name, bodies just fall to the ground.  The objective is ahead.  You are at war with yourself.  The dead wear your closed, resting eyes.  You are at war with yourself.  What if you are wrong?   What if the wall always stands?  Always was?  Was always supposed to be?  What is the truth cannot simply overcome fact one day?  What if there is a price for everything, and we pay in the end?  Has the flag grown heavy in your hand, or heavy with your hand?  You are at war with yourself.  You must learn to take prisoners, and salvage something for yourself.


*Commentary: “You are at War With Yourself”

Silly fool.  The Hawks live in the trees outside.  They commitJody genocide on the squirrels and rabbits every day.  I don’t see you waving a placard about that.  Do you protest outside city hall when skunks take over from the racoons?

Shut up and join the feast, or don’t complain about it.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Any Questions?


And were I to create any question of you

Would I create a tomorrow for it? Would I,

Haunting these long corridors and short mausoleums

Threadbare in my rags of reason;

And If I haven't held worlds in thrall

I've at least held moments

In any embrace which lets them slip away – perhaps,

That leaves me often shallow and breathless,

On a cusp of words I could never quite build up to

Over, under, by, years and tumbling towers

I can no longer quite replace

Across ages I haven't yet explained

Except to say that

We are, they are

There is no question

Any question would have long since moved on

Spreading out over the water like a ripple

From the moment we survive in a center.


Saturday, July 18, 2009

Ages (In Two Parts)

Drop Quivering, strung precariously to edges of leaves

In the mists of the mornings when

Frost claims these faces; upturned

Lying frozen under an icy breath now,

Eyes hollowed

Remainders, somehow centuries behind

But looking forward to

What was and is no longer there-


Worlds confederate back into blackness;

Buildings whistle tunes in the windowsills

Statues continue doing what they do, crumbling,

Gardens hold a breathless vigil-


A dewdrop refracts light back into universes,

sharp and incisive as a knife blade-

This ice-age is over;

Then, freed, rolls back into the Earth

To rest there once more...


Your memory is a mirage in these mists-

You, fallen like an angel onto twisted rocks

You, fallen like tears onto damp pillows

You, fallen like stately rain among the willows

Me, felled like winter over my grave

Me, the unbroken virgin snow for miles around

Me the epitaph no one forgot about,

Buried until springtime comes again.


Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Coyote Predicts His Own Death

Bones will speak longer than the years

I live and yet I am not dust so

speak to me in this place, but whisper, I

I’m the undeniable event

That haunts every dream

and I'll remember you;


When everything that does end

doesn’t end, in this hitched moment

Is all as it should have been?


I'd become that question,

or no, perhaps the words of obscure requiem

wherein my name might be the metaphor

for all I wasn't;


Quiet, sudden in sentimentality,

as I whisper this last breath of my meaning

to you ear from a long ago moment when

we shared in a conspiracy against inevitability, when

I never saw the armies move in Murals

that suggested they were there-

I never believed this

and this continues to contain no echo

where wisdom remains unlearned;

I never saw the gun.

I never saw the bullet.

I never believed in the entrails in the branches...

(From:  The Coyote Poems)









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Monday, July 13, 2009

This Night Is Not Sad


What's passing passed as a footprint in the sand

even if I watch

always changing, filled then refilled

with accidental mythologies

and our legends

until unrecognized

in the restless oasis of our nature

lain flat, only to be broken again.