Page 25 - the Noise March 2017 Edition

Empty Sky Sutra
Panic
Growing stack of unpayable bills, But still afford more sedative pills, A self-assured wrong-way car, Careens from the local bar,
An artery-clogged heart skips a beat, Only a slice of delicate meat, Instinctual desires feed,
Stalked by a desperate need,
The old lion’s blind carnivore eyes, Dull canines sunk into zebra thighs, Burgeon moment of crisis, Synthetic market prices,
Future disaster ever pending,
Swift hands irresponsible lending,
Unneeded ability,
Downward is mobility,
Executives feel no need to think,
Into sadness the laborers sink,
Assured it is a mere dream,
Hand over a muffled scream,
Neighbors should have heard the shrill blood cries, How and time of night the victim dies,
Homicide detectives ask,
Given their new gruesome task,
Burden on a convict’s furrowed brow,
Verdict of dying judgment is now.
— Jury S. Judge
Exit
Maybe it was because I thought I knew something about the lay of the land where I lived before
that I thought we would be granted exemption just this side of extinction
As though I could lift up a handful of dirt and say see here? let me show you around the place
we called this home
Where else would our bones be scattered
but across her ancient folds of skin
laid bare to an even older sky?
Did our weeping and roaring make it back into the night?
You see those stars we didn’t have time to name?
They still belong to themselves
even though they’re probably dead
they’re still traveling in search of an immortal eye to land in
You may say it is sad we are gone from here and didn’t make it to now
or to here for that matter
You could take comfort in gravity
a force weaker than love
that will hold on to our bones for awhile
For that which sends starlight around the bend might use our old frames to build something new
Invisible threads are woven by the swoop and turn of pigeon flocks. Those stupid birds
never learned to spell but they write anyway
in beautiful cursive tracing the wind
and all her leavings. It’s her job
you know, to always leave, to go away.
That’s the wind for you.
A teasing kiss to the uppermost branches
and now the rage and rape of storms
with the trees all just crazy dancers
pointing frantically at every star in heaven. And their motions writing that same language spelled just out of eye’s reach
If you could lay your hand on those invisible cords would a song play to an empty sky? Could you bind the wind and tie her to a single moment?
So what is left in the calm and silence
when the flock of thoughts have all grounded
and even the breeze is nowhere?
Invisible threads stranded on the shore of memory, tangled emptiness, heavy absence.
More like those tree roots pressing
against a casket full of bones
underneath. Beneath the sky, only deeper
and silent
— Patricia A. Uding
— Patricia A. Uding
www.thenoise.us | the NOISE arts & news | March 2017 • 25