The Petition of Sparrows

Thepetitionofthesparrowsisdone
The Petition Of the Sparrows

 

In Memorandum Flight

To the God Space.

 

Please be of the will.

The Savoy of Spells.

 

The opening is perennial.

 

The lonely lonely Postal Box drop.

A hallowing owl in the dark skies

 

Babes in the nest have all died.

A rainbow is a tremendous catcher of horror.

 

I wash my morning hands

3 times.

 

A white bowl from the assembled.

A chin. A sweet chin.

 

Appears like horses’ breath.

And their chilling wills.

 

The categories.

I made no want.

 

I scampered across the village square.

What I walk across

 

Barefoot.

An Oval.

 

A rectangle.

A circle.

 

A love in the grain.

We so dearly

 

Wash ourselves

In the Burial Fountains of Mahina.

 

(I have loved only men who were mountains and I am pure. As Pine.)

 

The men in the stairwells of hope

To be Lords.

 

Carry butterfly leaves in their cupped hands.

With rosaries

 

Made of

Moss.

 

I laid down nothing not

Even an acorn

 

At the dying

Of

 

Heather.

 

A woman in a caravan.

A woman in a coma.

 

A woman under the shimmering James.

Biting his lip

 

In Pennsylvania

To defend

 

The right

Of Proper action.

 

James.

The petitions of the Sparrows

 

In memorandum’s flight suit

To the God Space.

 

Between James and Misha.

God counts their hair and is in the hair.

 

Notice nothing if nothing wants to be noticed.

The heart opening the journeyman’s laboured teeth.

 

Snow flakes

In the hands

 

Of the red headed James.

In the planetarium

 

Of boys.

In Philadelphia.

 

It seems the conditions were so rich

At the wrong time.

 

I said “How will it be

In the snow show

 

On the balcony of the sudden Poconos.

I am ardent there.

 

I have come to know

We shall be frail and frail and frai.

 

The Times of Demons.

And

 

The Times of Angels.

The peach is clenched shut.

 

Sea Horse in

A bottle

 

With a

Nail.

 

Wood reproduction

Mating.

 

The sound of Victoria’s heart beat

As the machines were silenced.

 

And her beats went on for five more minutes.

The heart

 

In the sound machine.

Anise Star.

 

Armoire  filled.

Do not fall with in.

 

The petitions of the Sparrows

In memorandum’s flight

 

To the God Space

Between Victoria and her

 

Four children.

The bone of Victoria I took to France with me.

 

(After her death I drove passed her vacant home.

And the man that loved her

Was mowing the lawn.

In the mountains.

Where our lives met.

I am a poet but I lost the mountains. To idolaters.)

 

My God if only I had Irises.

On this plate.

 

I eat from.

I opened a turquoise

 

Package.

Inside a purple envelope.

 

A lavender wax seal.

Amid the sachet (cloud)

 

Of

Leaf

 

Berry

Shell

 

Pyrite

Stone

 

Oil

Flower

 

Was written the petition of Sparrows

In memorandum’s dusk

 

When dawn

Paste itself

 

In my aunt’s eyes

Forever

 

Closing

The path to Florence.

 

My love. And my love.

Will be strong and he will pierce through.

 

And the nest of newborn Sparrows.

Tucked in the clover.

 

There is my love.

Wearing a necklace of red ants.

 

I cannot fight him.

He is the predicted.

 

(This is not my native lands- the doors of my native lands

Will never be closed.)

What in fight

Rose for me

When I could not.

And what laid to

Rest at night

Slept

When I could not.

And the sky of

My nation.

Torn itself open

And

From

My

Palms

The Oil of God.

And all that come came to the native lands.

The cousin

The girl

The boy

The gotten

The shoulder

The prayers

I have made

For my life.

 

(The task of the man in the word is the taste in the bean. Tough work.)

 

Oceanic sleep.

The coral heads

 

My remaining family.

We have slept in rivers

 

And

Otters were our warmth.

 

I woke with a mouse

Listening to the vein in my neck.

 

If I fall into the animal world

Please do not defy my choice.

 

I have emerged from servitude.

Ridiculed.

 

Aimless in my mother’s polio.

Deers worried.

 

All men crushed in unison.

Noospheriic's song.

 

I feel into the pond

I made and then re-made.

 

Remaking is living.

Death is toothless with cement sealed over the asshole.

 

And. There are either more

Rich

 

Or more

Poor.

 

I do not know about the fantasy

Of Great Dreams.

 

There was salt in her Liver.

Her insanity put that there.

 

I smelt her as soon as I reached the shoreline.

She is spying on me.

 

If I could medicate her burning forehead.

What Great

 

Will not survive the shadow.

You think you actually could have survived me.

 

The men were sent.

In the petition of the sparrows

 

In memorandum’s flight

To the God space

 

Her ill fated ride.

And all that harms me.

 

They gave her into the second death.

Even a dead

 

Jew

Would never save you.

 

A plough in the brainfield.

Our homeless

 

Or

Small children.

 

What the roadways

School doors

 

Hallways

The new tarp lands

 

The slipping wings

Falling from

 

A scalded chalcedony

Trembles on the cliffs where it broke off the necklace

 

Given as a gift

From my father.

 

When the cockroaches fly

Into the dark air.

 

And land

In

 

The

Hair

 

Of

My

 

Enemy.

My VooDoo.

 

The petition of the sparrows

In memorandum's  flight

 

To the God space

When picture frames

 

Were pulled from

The museums of our souls.

 

The soul.

So overrated.

 

In the ocean

On a rock rise.

 

In May

We were dropped

 

By helicopter

To tend the lighthouse.

 

And the waves were hounds.

The storm of Dec.

 

Driven the tender insane.

The swells broke through.

 

Swells will.

They will break through life.

 

When do swells stop?

When they stop.

 

Here is the hand

Must feel your fingers

 

Open in it

Like a moth.

 

Set free by fire.

Lay my eyes on you.

 

And see the interiors of your coat pockets.

The rain is lightly.

 

Falling on these windows

Slanting.

 

The ocean is a clock.

Writing you a letter.

 

And if the tide is running.

Maybe it will reach you.

 

God forbid it

Runs you.

 

These are to the lighthouse keepers.

Where in the eye rogue waves

 

Are born.

In mysticism.

 

Directed by the potion

Over the burning rocks

 

At

A

 

Distant my wisdom

Was born.

 

3.

 

O I have seemed to have trembled beyond.

As for comfort.

 

From

These false nations

 

And

These nuclear notebooks.

 

There is a blink

And we are all startled.

 

I would be a fool to prevent dying.

The molecular symbol.

 

I have no branches in the human tree.

Of what I have seen of hearts nothing is heard.

 

In the petition of Sparrows.

 

God be within the speech.

God be within the greedy throne holders.

 

We are sure you will get your wish. We are sure.

But all it is is alone.

 

You shall be cursed  said and done.

From all you had

 

To

None.

 

I stopped looking for you my love.

I stopped.

 

Live and be held.

Then make my way to you,

 

Then. Then.

Is How.

 

The mismanagement of hopes’ mail.

What is fair and what is just

 

Does not seem to

Float towards the specks that will lead to the light.

 

The sun that holds on breath.

That moment when I made it alright for you

 

And you dipped me

Into history.

 

What I cannot improve on.

No is the thought when a dish is clean.

Bluedressmaidinredtoon

 

 

4.

 

What eyes have been seen through.

The little pins of light under the door.

 

And the message was

My exceptional message.

 

A message not for little girls.

But for the woman I am to tell my way

 

Past the constant talk of life givers

One thing once.

 

I walked down the hall of the hotel.

Before the hedges outside blew and de-leafed.

 

The humiliation of victory.

Very lonely and dead.

 

Occupied.

To you door of death.

 

I do not know what is concise about winnings.

Or this is your defeat.

 

I do not know where the champions camp  but it is easily found.

Champions arrive through a lot of deception.

 

Once in the marketplace.

Ripped to shreds.

 

 

Dallas was on the radio listening to Dearborn.

And the leaves

 

From Dearborn

Are felled.

 

Surplur

On her Tomb.

 

And the bejeweled

Over dyed

 

Lucifer

Troubled by his inner peace.

 

Had not come to lay an

Apple in the gorge of his daughter’s dead face.

 

He said

Someone here must be mistaken.

 

This is not a daughter of anyone.

This is a joke.

 

Stop showing me hood ornaments.

I am a God who has to keep pretending.

 

Shh. Shh.  Demon.

I am running  and laughing and laughing and laughing

 

“Justice has something to do with being mean”.

It smelt.

 

I was in pain last week.

Writing with it

 

The petitions of Sparrows.

In memorandum’s

 

Pink light

Toward the God Space

 

Between the wave

And

 

The break wall.

Be careful what must be heard, said, told

 

Is easily purged.

Embrace God and Embrace All.

 

She could not stand

Her disqualifications.

 

The way they flowed to her

And refused her.

 

I never knew a day she was with human feelings.

Not the devil’s daughter but what gets buried alive.

 

Her damn dead soul

Landed in the Sparrows’ Stool.

 

And the tomb they are building for her in Michigan.

Go to them.

 

Memorandums cells.

Go to hell.

 

5.

 

The wheelers and the dealers

Keep winning.

 

The gold.

The seed of the dealer

 

Will turn the womb cold.

And the soul of a woman’s egg

 

Does not fall

From the egg grave

 

Another criminal

Is

 

Made

God sprays lilacs

 

Into the aerial gymnasts spreading of the legs smell.

And everything is justified.

 

People suffer and they suffer.

For our eyes.

 

And according to the Lady from the Gas Company

The homeless are free loaders.

 

You can have a black president

But a white mint.

 

(Shroud your sacredness if you know what is good for you.)

 

6.

 

I am bended. Art is disappointing.

Semen and egg.

 

Destructive.

 

(You have got to love love love love it baby to do it. To live.)

Carrying your gunny sack of muggy sparrows.

 

I have seen heads without faces.

Bodies without heads.

 

Legs without feet.

Bones without meat.

 

I have a high tolerance.

I was born in war. Many are.

 

God help us for the peace we will never feel.

The sorrow of the witness.

 

My power is in doubt. 


(A tiny selection from the piece. I am editing it on Facebook Notes which is really handy,) Satchel Tate Cornstalk.