The Destroyer’s Song
the destroyer points
a question (always) on his lips
and the question
what is it in the flash of the eye that is dulled
what is it in the gesture restrained?
what is it in the blink that escapes time & memory
what is it in the voice that is quiet?
What?
Where cracks open the eye
and tears it loose from its moorings, and
can we ever live with the noise, or
the soul that seeks silence,
cold, dead, silence?
How is it the horizon, always approached,
always recedes? I walk the minefield,
the genesis of death, and there are no
windows, no doors, no corners.
The cartographer has gone mad;
the map swallows the city, the map
is the city.
I stand
a bitter enemy of memory, an assassin of logic,
a bringer of oblivion. I am the noise,
I am the destroyer. I will find the crack,
I will rob the dead of their comfort, I
will point and say “look,
there is no horizon,
or we are standing on it!”
I explode what I can, I
tear the charts away, I bury
the scraps in the desert,
I trip triggers and run.