did i eat

to those who would
feed on me
I ask only
that you feast on
living flesh
there is no taste
among the dead and
dreaming
there before a moonless night
I close my eyes
and walk
burning my
hut to the ground
where is reflection?
where are the ripples that
become children
on a moonless
deathless
dreamless
night?

now a weaver of patience

moon nectar
slows me to a gentle song
stirring the pinestraw in my bath
a cool water constellation
rippling triumphantly at dawn
yes at dawn the hunter eats moss
and dims himself
dims the snake's breath
dancing on mountains behind the sun
now the foundlings of magick
with stone-tipped beaks
and lunches still warm in sacks
ripen along the reaching path
their bushy wisps and
fragrant trolling
chant in the rhythm
of pine pine pine
at dawn I am sleeping
hunting slow and clean
I am finding earth
emerging from its own wilderness
my foot slips
and I am comforted by falling
arrows of precious heat
scattering across time

Dylan's Last Dream

how many old souls
must a man make into roads
before he's no longer a man?
and how many times
must the lights go out
before the darkness is a friend?
here I stand
at answer's end
the answer is standing
at its end

I dreamt of Dylan
a humorless old man
purring at heaven's door
3 or 4 neon paper hits
and he told me why gods
must also bow

before his solemn drunk mirror
my youth was warm and elastic
reaching out towards cosmic whispers
over the edge and then snapping back
driven into the sand
firm hardy roots branching out
into the comfort of light
where we both stood
patiently at answer's end

how many old souls
must a man make into roads
before he's no longer a man?
and how many times
must the lights go out
before the darkness is a friend?
here I stand
at answer's end
the answer is standing
at its end


Love,
Rev. MoonPie