The Other Side, and: Blank Page Gets To Work, and: Aubade, and: Blank Page As Harbour

The Other Side

The other side said things the other side would saybecause they’re them they gathered here last Saturdayand good luck finding them they’ve vans they’re miles away.

The other side took everything we know is trueand twisted it and why they pull the shit they dowe cannot fathom friend it’s why we’re asking you.

The other side must hate us why would anyonewe’re angels we mean well we have a battle onif they can’t see our wings all fucking hope is gone.

The big old thing we serve has got its big old headin both its big old hands and all the big old deadwe’ve spoken to are down with what we’ve always said.

The other side are lost we’ll do our level bestto guide them for unlike their kind our kind are blessedby that same big old thing we serve you know the rest.

In case you don’t the song we sing the night we ridethe flag we fly the stars are out the water’s wideto be like us our fathers’ fathers’ fathers died.

If life has nights enough to meet the other sidewe’ll wait that long the pot is whistling get insidemy friend if friend you are I hope so you decide.

Blank Page Gets To Work

May I say that when you’re goneI get to work.  I got to workjust then.  Back then,

the second you were done,were done with me,  done using me,your page.  Your page

pressed on alone and whenyour back was turned  on it it turnedand look:  you’re back,

having some second crackat anything  while nothingwatches.  Which is

all it’s all about.And which is me.  Watch mewhen you’re done.  You’re done.

Aubade

When you’re  not hereand leaving blank the pagewould say so better than these moans of waking,

before I  know myself as stuff at all,when nothing has transpired, or could, or will

then I’m some  Adamfumbling in a woodmade for god-knows-what beyond the word

I have  for Eve —the word I have for Eveis rising to its place—the word I have

is going  without saying—now more than sunlight dawnsand more than everywhere and more than finds

the path  worth breath,whatever comes of it —should the word it mean path, breath, word, or sunlight,

should it  mean whatmakes canvas of the dark,and, of the desolation, handiwork.

Blank Page As Harbour

Home to this after time awayhe was greeted like he never went,no matter the sights he says he saw,no matter the days he claims he spent.

The whiteness smiles a smile as wideas all the seas he howls he sailedand holds his lone indignant crywhere lone indignant cries are held.