Divine Inifinity
These mortal sketches of God
portray dusty shadows.
What infinitude could be embodied
in the shape of a man?
Jesus, I suppose.
But earth-Jesus was formed in the dust;
what figs deserve wrath?
We may see the clear sky
and name it God
just as we may see dust
and claim that it exists.
As resident and commander of everything
He appears in every heart and toenail.
Let us call Her anything
and speak partial truth.
Let us call Him everything
and speak partial truth.
Nothing contains energy
because there is no such thing
as nothing.
Let us call Him nothing
and speak of the infinitude of Her power
The silence of the dead
speaks more fluently
than the gibberish of youth.
Thunder Hammers and Rebirth
play magical in our eyes
showing little of divinity.
Those who confess a clear vision
of the immeasurable universe
are liars and psychopaths.
What arrogance
this attempt at God-knowledge
to repeat the brilliance of Her infinity
to render the kindness of His time.
What combination of mortality could speak like God?
MGB
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Carving Bliss
Carving Bliss
Little crumbs, the perfect words never said.
Bliss carves text, if the meaning is right.
How impermanent are the tappings we make?
Better to reave our breath into stone.
Delicate thoughts shatter against the canvas
crying out; fleeting and beautiful.
MGB
Little crumbs, the perfect words never said.
Bliss carves text, if the meaning is right.
How impermanent are the tappings we make?
Better to reave our breath into stone.
Delicate thoughts shatter against the canvas
crying out; fleeting and beautiful.
MGB
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Favoured Love
Tended Love
The source of our love
is buried in our bones.
How much of us
will become a menagerie of favours?
Tiny gift-actions endearing
our love, tangling it through our hair
and our habits.
Each kiss, eventually repaid.
I wake to wash the cutlery
before you get home.
Money and monotony
are our only enemies.
You quietly wash the whites
as I sleep through the morning.
Let us give like this,
returning and returning,
tangling and tangling,
So that if we forget
of bones and blood
nothing
could untie
our inelegant knots.
MGB
The source of our love
is buried in our bones.
How much of us
will become a menagerie of favours?
Tiny gift-actions endearing
our love, tangling it through our hair
and our habits.
Each kiss, eventually repaid.
I wake to wash the cutlery
before you get home.
Money and monotony
are our only enemies.
You quietly wash the whites
as I sleep through the morning.
Let us give like this,
returning and returning,
tangling and tangling,
So that if we forget
of bones and blood
nothing
could untie
our inelegant knots.
MGB
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
The Beast
The Beast that Jack Killed
Peter's arm hung tattered,
sickly slapping
like a wet blanket.
They'd mourned a father
in his piece of nature
but mountains reject
such ghosts.
Jack screamed and shot,
9 to go.
The massive hide turned from Peter
towards the pain.
Peter stumbled.
Jack told it to die
and shot
and shot,
7 to go.
The paws clawed
earth and raged towards
Peter closed his eyes.
Jack cursed and shot
and shot
and shot
4 to go.
It stopped bewildered
as it bled
and bled.
Peter bled into the dirt
Jack ran,
the snarls followed
with a shaking movement.
It roared and swiped
Jack fell and shot and shot
exploding its lolling eyes.
No shots to go.
Peter was dead
And Jack wept
as the beast's lungs
heaved and tumbled.
Bits of fur and shrapnel littered the ground.
Jack picked up Peter
and carried his bones home.
MGB
Peter's arm hung tattered,
sickly slapping
like a wet blanket.
They'd mourned a father
in his piece of nature
but mountains reject
such ghosts.
Jack screamed and shot,
9 to go.
The massive hide turned from Peter
towards the pain.
Peter stumbled.
Jack told it to die
and shot
and shot,
7 to go.
The paws clawed
earth and raged towards
Peter closed his eyes.
Jack cursed and shot
and shot
and shot
4 to go.
It stopped bewildered
as it bled
and bled.
Peter bled into the dirt
Jack ran,
the snarls followed
with a shaking movement.
It roared and swiped
Jack fell and shot and shot
exploding its lolling eyes.
No shots to go.
Peter was dead
And Jack wept
as the beast's lungs
heaved and tumbled.
Bits of fur and shrapnel littered the ground.
Jack picked up Peter
and carried his bones home.
MGB
A Cybernetic Graveyard
Perhaps the title of the book could be The Cybernetic Graveyard?
What book you ask? Well one that I might write one day. Lots of doom saying and sci-fi consumption has got my brain glued to the future. I get pretty frustrated thinking about the potential we have and how long it will take to reach it. Like tidal energy: Why the shit have we not figured this out yet? Until the moon blows up, lets hope this doesn't happen, tidal energy would be an incredible solution to our energy problems. For a moment lets just think about the tides and how they're pretty damn constant.
But anyways. People seem to long for the end of the world. And that is pretty messed up. We would way rather everything just blow up and restart in some weird tribal system than fix our broken world. That is messed up, for serious. So a lot of my poems will be about that.
But also I've an idea for a way way distant future where humans are on a planet and have lost most of their tech. Except there are some rare heirlooms that have been passed down from the original settlers. The knowledge to reproduce the settler's tech is suppressed by an unknown entity. So tech is precious.
I also want to tell a story where an everyday guy is the protagonist and his friend is a hero on the quest. So mostly we're hanging out with Jack the baker but the quest he is on is the Prince's quest. Maybe the prince has a dog, I don't know, now I'm just spit balling.
Anyways, I started writing this story future, baker story out as prose and then realized what I'd written was terrible. And then I remembered that I like writing poetry. So I decided to write it as a series of poems instead. Which is still a new thing for me. Not many of my poems have been narrative ones. So anyways. The poem The Prince is the first entry and probably a little spoilerific, so I don't think I'd have it at the beginning.
Anyways the next posts will be the beginning (I think) of The Cybernetic Graveyard.
What book you ask? Well one that I might write one day. Lots of doom saying and sci-fi consumption has got my brain glued to the future. I get pretty frustrated thinking about the potential we have and how long it will take to reach it. Like tidal energy: Why the shit have we not figured this out yet? Until the moon blows up, lets hope this doesn't happen, tidal energy would be an incredible solution to our energy problems. For a moment lets just think about the tides and how they're pretty damn constant.
But anyways. People seem to long for the end of the world. And that is pretty messed up. We would way rather everything just blow up and restart in some weird tribal system than fix our broken world. That is messed up, for serious. So a lot of my poems will be about that.
But also I've an idea for a way way distant future where humans are on a planet and have lost most of their tech. Except there are some rare heirlooms that have been passed down from the original settlers. The knowledge to reproduce the settler's tech is suppressed by an unknown entity. So tech is precious.
I also want to tell a story where an everyday guy is the protagonist and his friend is a hero on the quest. So mostly we're hanging out with Jack the baker but the quest he is on is the Prince's quest. Maybe the prince has a dog, I don't know, now I'm just spit balling.
Anyways, I started writing this story future, baker story out as prose and then realized what I'd written was terrible. And then I remembered that I like writing poetry. So I decided to write it as a series of poems instead. Which is still a new thing for me. Not many of my poems have been narrative ones. So anyways. The poem The Prince is the first entry and probably a little spoilerific, so I don't think I'd have it at the beginning.
Anyways the next posts will be the beginning (I think) of The Cybernetic Graveyard.
The Mended
The Mended
Mother never knew
Lakeside or seaside.
The birds trilled.
Jerusalem sank.
I would kiss your archetypal self
but the masks taste like plastic.
Bandages, hidden wound scars.
What pear prickles if
it is the beginning of things?
Spark dark light roar.
Father knew it happened.
Which sons and daughters
were the first to sing of ice?
MGB
Mother never knew
Lakeside or seaside.
The birds trilled.
Jerusalem sank.
I would kiss your archetypal self
but the masks taste like plastic.
Bandages, hidden wound scars.
What pear prickles if
it is the beginning of things?
Spark dark light roar.
Father knew it happened.
Which sons and daughters
were the first to sing of ice?
MGB
Torched Days
Torched days
The Earth trembles
and men are lost.
How finite
are your fearful eyes,
how much love
does it take
to overcome
a splintered sun
spitting fire
and moon-bits
at a pale blueness?
Were the sacred tomes
mistaken? Or does God
hate man
for the sin of writing
truth into the bone-light?
MGB
The Earth trembles
and men are lost.
How finite
are your fearful eyes,
how much love
does it take
to overcome
a splintered sun
spitting fire
and moon-bits
at a pale blueness?
Were the sacred tomes
mistaken? Or does God
hate man
for the sin of writing
truth into the bone-light?
MGB
The Smell of Yellowed Paper
The Smell of Yellowed Paper
How often do we begin
with the death of things?
Don't the authors know?
It is simpler to begin
newly from dust.
Puzzles of starvation
tangled knots of war and tattered luxury
and universal suffering.
Starting a fire is the simpler answer,
to rid the world
of the tragedies contained
within the yellow-papered smell.
MGB
How often do we begin
with the death of things?
Don't the authors know?
It is simpler to begin
newly from dust.
Puzzles of starvation
tangled knots of war and tattered luxury
and universal suffering.
Starting a fire is the simpler answer,
to rid the world
of the tragedies contained
within the yellow-papered smell.
MGB
Rough Beasts
Insignificant Rough Beasts
The centre held
as it always will.
Our tragedy is in the beauty of tiny fingernails,
a boy's first gurgle,
his inability to alter the earth.
Our tragedy is that the ant in my kitchen
will not be mourned.
Murders tumble, drop of blood
by drop of blood
while complacent bodies
slouch toward inconsequential homes.
Our tragedy is that our comedies
play for only seconds
And that our bones
eternally grind to dust.
We are the disgraceful rough beast
yearning for fire
so that each red splash
would drown the earth.
MGB
The centre held
as it always will.
Our tragedy is in the beauty of tiny fingernails,
a boy's first gurgle,
his inability to alter the earth.
Our tragedy is that the ant in my kitchen
will not be mourned.
Murders tumble, drop of blood
by drop of blood
while complacent bodies
slouch toward inconsequential homes.
Our tragedy is that our comedies
play for only seconds
And that our bones
eternally grind to dust.
We are the disgraceful rough beast
yearning for fire
so that each red splash
would drown the earth.
MGB
Sadness
Grandmother's Sadness
When his cancer
wins, and we mourn him
what will Grandmother do?
I have love fresh and new
with a marriage months from now.
If I fell
If my love fell
How incomprehensible
to love for a lifetime
with suffering for a final reward.
What could we tell
Grandmother in her sadness?
When we bury him
will she poke and joke
in that accent of oklahoma
or will she be silent
like that beautiful cliche
of an old lover's death?
MGB
Father's Sadness
He could barely tell us
and I couldn't reply.
To see a father
facing his father's death
and feel the sad recognition
of an end.
Grandfather's hands shake
and he smells like comfort.
a voice of gruff sweetness.
This shaky sign of disease,
how odd that it should comfort.
A hug to memorialize a man.
How odd
that when it ends
I will miss his tremors.
I wonder
if father
will miss them too.
MGB
When his cancer
wins, and we mourn him
what will Grandmother do?
I have love fresh and new
with a marriage months from now.
If I fell
If my love fell
How incomprehensible
to love for a lifetime
with suffering for a final reward.
What could we tell
Grandmother in her sadness?
When we bury him
will she poke and joke
in that accent of oklahoma
or will she be silent
like that beautiful cliche
of an old lover's death?
MGB
Father's Sadness
He could barely tell us
and I couldn't reply.
To see a father
facing his father's death
and feel the sad recognition
of an end.
Grandfather's hands shake
and he smells like comfort.
a voice of gruff sweetness.
This shaky sign of disease,
how odd that it should comfort.
A hug to memorialize a man.
How odd
that when it ends
I will miss his tremors.
I wonder
if father
will miss them too.
MGB
Sunday, April 1, 2012
The Prince
The Prince
The simple body
is a miraculous thing
Yet we craft improvement
forging synthesis
between brains and transistors.
We call him the hidden prince:
this flesh and silicon body.
The beast he blasted:
does the boy know
how to control such fire?
We were Legion;
It was foolish,
this attempt at a body.
A hive cannot abide
the pettiness of individuality.
MGB
The simple body
is a miraculous thing
Yet we craft improvement
forging synthesis
between brains and transistors.
We call him the hidden prince:
this flesh and silicon body.
The beast he blasted:
does the boy know
how to control such fire?
We were Legion;
It was foolish,
this attempt at a body.
A hive cannot abide
the pettiness of individuality.
MGB
Furnaces and Space Heaters
From a Furnace to a Space Heater
(In His Poems Anyway)
Temperatures and impetus to write
the madness of new ideas, the unwieldy
excitement of discovering Nietzsche.
That out of nothing
truth may be written
engenders brilliant blazes
of grey-matter overtime.
Fingers whittled away the markings
of keyboards with anxiety
to understand the universe and the self;
Now every love poem written
is torn apart for compost.
Love felt cannot
be mirrored by little words.
All is melodrama or illiterate scratchings
He wants to write of brilliance and stars
but finitude is the heart of his love
and he cannot make his words right.
MGB
(In His Poems Anyway)
Temperatures and impetus to write
the madness of new ideas, the unwieldy
excitement of discovering Nietzsche.
That out of nothing
truth may be written
engenders brilliant blazes
of grey-matter overtime.
Fingers whittled away the markings
of keyboards with anxiety
to understand the universe and the self;
Now every love poem written
is torn apart for compost.
Love felt cannot
be mirrored by little words.
All is melodrama or illiterate scratchings
He wants to write of brilliance and stars
but finitude is the heart of his love
and he cannot make his words right.
MGB
Words to Kill
Words to Kill
Heart
Love
Soul
Passion
Beauty
These words limp
far from their platonic selves
Oh to write in Spanish
where my love for a dog
is expertly distinguished
from the love of my wife.
MGB
Heart
Love
Soul
Passion
Beauty
These words limp
far from their platonic selves
Oh to write in Spanish
where my love for a dog
is expertly distinguished
from the love of my wife.
MGB
Beyond Our Technobabble
Beyond Our Technobabble
What new words
could measure the heaviness
of planets or gods?
What Spirituality,
what volcano,
what solemn beauty,
speaks from the metal-meshing speakers?
Our language lacks the umph
to articulate our catastrophe.
These wires
cannot hold spirits
within a machine;
Circuits will not bind
earthquakes or the wind;
no microphone
could record the final command of a God.
MGB
What new words
could measure the heaviness
of planets or gods?
What Spirituality,
what volcano,
what solemn beauty,
speaks from the metal-meshing speakers?
Our language lacks the umph
to articulate our catastrophe.
These wires
cannot hold spirits
within a machine;
Circuits will not bind
earthquakes or the wind;
no microphone
could record the final command of a God.
MGB
A beginning out of a void.
Ok, so what we are going to do is: include all my writing stuff here. Not just game reviews.
Give me a place to put stuff down.
K: so the following will be a smattering of writings. Some will be about a novel I want to read, some just poetry.
Of Void and Earth and Movement
When we recognize our personal cliches
our chirping redundancies:
Do we shatter them?
Should I carve an anvil
from the mountain and
hammer such familiar words
into dust?
Or is it better to forge
and bend and twist the cold ideas
into something fiery new?
Fire is where I
like to live
where I nurse brilliance
Yet without quenching
all would be dull and brittle
How long does a poet have
before his life is either a
cold and bitter sword
or a lump of warm soft metal.
-MGB
Give me a place to put stuff down.
K: so the following will be a smattering of writings. Some will be about a novel I want to read, some just poetry.
Of Void and Earth and Movement
When we recognize our personal cliches
our chirping redundancies:
Do we shatter them?
Should I carve an anvil
from the mountain and
hammer such familiar words
into dust?
Or is it better to forge
and bend and twist the cold ideas
into something fiery new?
Fire is where I
like to live
where I nurse brilliance
Yet without quenching
all would be dull and brittle
How long does a poet have
before his life is either a
cold and bitter sword
or a lump of warm soft metal.
-MGB
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