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Sunday, May 3, 2009

why angels cry

to/for Christos (the poet)

let me touch your face. which encircles the stillness. of the whirling stars. which fall from our throats. like native rain. and nobody makes songs like we do. we fall on dry ground. & drop upon our knees. & turn our backs on the audience. & sing about our needs. & reread ancient books. we wrote (an eon ago) in our dreams. we shut up the birds and the trees bend away from us. & the dogs scream through their teeth. pretending to be terrible. but whimpering once we stare at them. they run away – their tail between their legs. and our song obliterates the wind.

everybody is practically here
where the angels are crying
their voices dry
bent over backward
to a sing a song
that is not their own
that God dictates
of majesty and power
& they want to be
like their father

musicians
& not instruments

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