14.6.11

Light

As If Thighs Were Parentheses
by Saul Williams

What my fame affords me
I will use to spread the light
that is caused by the book
that burns to clean the air
at night.

There are some
that would save
the book and others
that would write.

There are those
who would die
for it and soldiers
who would fight.

I have learned
of this book that burns
that it cannot be helped.

There are words
that will catch aflame
as others tend to melt.

There are phrases
soft turns of speech
that shake flesh to the bone.

There are ways
of our saying things
that shape truth into poems.

Or perhaps
they outline a shape
that is already there

like the face
of my sweet beloved
framed by unruly hair.

And these strands
are just words combined
to comb through with
your eyes.

They are wigs
over mountaintops

-the snow
that draws
the eyes.

They are there
when you see them not.

What man sees
his own heart?

He is drugged
and then put asleep
before he's cut apart.

And procedures
like this only done
when arteries are clogged.

Spills and waste
down the mountainside
with forests cut and logged.

All the trees
now shaped
into books
and building-
blocks designed
will take shape
from the mountainside-

the forest of the mind.

And the mind is an active place
where climate will control
means of growth and the greenery
that springs up from the soul.

And the soul
it is like the soil
-as i am into u.

What begins
as a seed of thought
now manifests as true.

It takes time
for a rock to melt
-to decompose a corpse.

And the soil
is full rich with time
like mountains rich with quartz.

Full of charge.
Full of energy.

Full of nutrients and life
sucked from death
which is overturned
and risen to new heights.

Over time
life repeats itself-
the cycle of the wheel.

And the will
is a driving force
to feed, defend, and kill.

What it kills
takes a different shape
as consciousness transforms.

Laws emerge
to defend new life
and thus new crimes are born.

And what's born
from a spinning wheel
is willed and welled
into shape.

Forms emerge
from the sculptors hand
nuanced by love and hate.

And the hate
is grown out of love
of comfort and control

and is shaped by the overgrowth
of fear/hope decomposed.

We compose
with creators hands
the music of the mind.

We choose words
like piano keys
to ease thought to chime.

And we chime upon everything
and every sound we hear.

We diffuse
all times ticking bombs
to distill hope from fear.

And the hope
that we plant we tend.
We water, trim, and cut.

Like the grape
on its path to wine-
we smash beneath our strut.

And we strike chords with expertise.
We lean into each note.
We give time a new signature.
Small hand on big throat.

All the gun barrels
placed in mouths
all the tongues
fingers
parts

can account
for the silent times
where words
play no part.

Love is art
of the give and take
the build and break
the bends.

It is found in
a simple kiss

the laughing bliss
of friends.

And our friends
and our enemies
are much more
than they seem.

They are tall
booming beams
of light with their own
hopes and dreams.

We form teams-
nationalities-
taking sides
with our own.

We commit
to our fantasies
our prayers
and our poems.

And these poems
how they turn to dust
how they blossom with time.

They are like seeds
the farmer plants
with bare hands
in the mind.

And my mind
feels the brush of wind
takes strangers in
notes signs.

It is coaxed
by the pretty face
Egyptian lace
the kind.

And it broods
in it's silent place.

And stirs
when she calls.

And it prays
for a peaceful space.

And answers to Saul.

But it knows
it knows none of it.

And it blurs
by the feed.

It prefers
all the gentler things
and cyclically bleeds.

And it bleeds
flowing streams of words
through the silence of night.

Softest page
of her inner thigh.

She asks
“What would You write?"

I would write
of a burning book.

How each thought stood alone.
How the words had formed families
sheltered from the unknown.

How the unknown would come again
for the words could not hide
truths and meanings
they held within

when the pen
took no sides.

And the pen
could be fingertips
softest tongue
against flesh
little toes
against calves
and necks
behind ear
with soft breaths.

And the writing
became the walls
and proposed new design

until silence took charge again
and disposed
of the mind.

How she laughed
when I told her that.

How she smiled
and she stirred.

How the room
took a different light.

How the lights
beamed and blurred.

All the lights
of the city gleamed
as if all burned at once.

All the thoughts
gently laid to rest-
the bequest of new Suns.

And the books
that would hold these thoughts
were the Suns that now burned
in small rooms that were
just like this
where we basked
and took turns.

And the spotlights
that shine on me
navigate every touch.

I am moved
to the darkest space
where small stanzas erupt.

And eruptions
they blind and quake
when too close
to the site.

As if thighs
were parentheses
holding silence
in light.

1 comment:

Matilda said...

This is so thought-provoking. My cousin Emily Teague (the music maestro) just linked me up to your blog, and I am very glad she did.

Matilda,
ohsokitsch.blogspot.com