"... When I was little I was a hieroglyph, "
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C.K. Tower reads "Finally" in Real Audio
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C.K. Tower Finally The sun turned black as a funeral pall and the moon all red as blood... These are they which came out of great tribulation They shall hunger no more... neither shall the sun light on them -Revelations 6:12, 7:14,16 Finally you will know the slivered thumb of God, an equine white-eyed and lunatic, the uneven feline gaze, and why once I tried to write you inside a Virgo moon. You thought I stopped looking at it that way, but when I leave that is where I will go. Far enough away so I can let loose my triple decade of silences. Tucked lotus and reacquainting myself with fetal dreams, I will spin new answers: A thin cord to connect belly to sea, syncopating my neoteric voice with tidal ease. There will be nothing to pick up, nothing to pack away. I will not leave any tracks, only a peculiar waiting, as the pale body fills with crimson-- you always argued it was more like orange. Take note, there will be an absence. It will take root, spreading inside of you like the trillium we planted along the edge of the pond; doubling each season, until so overgrown it choked itself out. Although I will be disinherited dawn to dusk, shifting from right to left, struggling with even rows and decaying roots, I'll bend my frame and temper my gaze within the glare of the moon; satisfy my craving for what you call deranged-- belly full of insanity every mid to late September. That is what I will leave you with: the lunatic mare, a cat's eye slanted, God thrumming stars in the background, everyone draped in orange, but finally you will know why I called it blood moon. Metamorphism He is beautiful and still, untouched within, a mountainside in December, an estuary at dawn. I sat in his cove knapping flint to ax, syllables to lead-- an assault on his granite-face. I stood on his embankment hurling stone after stone and did not break his surface. It will take a disaster, an excavation team, a dam-fissure, or a Judas-kiss to know, to show him, to see the shift in texture, or the trace footprints I've left behind. My body was white lotus once and Blue Nile reeds. My blood was honeyed wine and my hair a skein of black silken strands. I wanted to be a pyramid standing unadorned in the desert-- a millennia of secrets hidden in my stone belly, wrapped in balsam and linen. I wanted to stay seven years old forever, sink my roots in the mud, become papyrus making a scroll of myself-- never have children. When I was little I was a hieroglyph, now I am a whore for Caesar-- blasphemy carving sacred out of flesh. I wanted to be the longest river in the world, sweeping ancient cities closer to the Mediterranean in hundred year inches. Such small things are left for me this time: only to entertain the hostages of glamour, and invite the black snake back to my breast-- a final kindness.
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