3. 11-29
Hartsblood flows on the forest floor
daily, and I step this way and that,
not smelling, not seeing, not hearing,
walking only, aimlessly, falsely turned
toward ten thousand pseudo-norths. Who
can teach, reach this frightened child?
Some days wet ferns spray tiny rainbows
of new dew colors, and I smile.
Some days old leaves crunch beneath
my bare feet, tickling, and I smile.
Some days a raven falls, dying, among
the distant daffodils, and I close my eyes and eat shit.
Video violence tears my soul,
and I let it. I let it.
For years, and digging through a
hundred million years of muscle
it at last gets to my heart, and
my heart weeps on the forest floor
it never forgets. And my closed eyes
and my closed ears want only more bytes
of bits from the tasty shell of the old
cracked cosmic egg. Ouruboros springs
out from the surprisingly vasty deep
within that once white oval, and uncoils
like gigamiles of Gilgamesh cable
loopity-looping my red-dripping earth
to make sure no one gets away.
No wonder the real Dutch Boy danced
his brush on the edge of black. Tulips
after all are only April's joke on us
all. No rainbow ever defeats this red.
The fabled distant clearing draws me on.
I skip, I smile, I sing. Oaks listen.
Oaks listen.
