The Man with Joints of Stone

The man with joints of stone
Had shame on his mind,
And ache in his skull.
The poor vagabond fell
Ungracefully to his knees
In the local church
(He never went to one a second time),
The clergymen and church-goers looking
On with anxiety and suspicion.
He wept as the tortured, wooden
Christ statue looked pleadingly
Down upon him. The weight
Of the Son-of-God's stare
Added more to the man's
Already stone-heavy heft.
He rose to his feet, having
Relieved himself of
His shame, forcing it upon the
Others in the small church.
His joints ground, the sound of
Earthquakes and crumbling cities.
As his face dried, tears began to
Stream down the faces of
Every man, woman, and
Child in the church.

As many times as the stone-jointed
Man had done this very act,
He could never grow to feel
As if what he was doing
Could ever be right.
Yes, like a bottle, a jug,
He filled himself with
Shame, regret, sadness, anger,
Hatred.
He entered the local faith-house,
And he poured his elixir
Over every occupant of the building.
It was his duty, his
Solemn, single task.
Flesh was stretched over his
Stone skeleton for this purpose.
Eyes were placed in his stone skull
For this purpose. Every organ
In his body was created
For this purpose.
He rebels in the faintest of ways,
But, he may never stop.
O, the stone being is the
Bringer of Doubt, The Blade of Shame,
The Monument to Hate.

Now, he was forged to keep
The human spirit on its knees.
So what sick irony is this,
That the cause of this all,
The most vile invention,
Feels true shame
For what he has done?
Should you ever see this man,
(And you will know; those
Tired eyes can only belong to him)
Show him pity, for he is
Made not only of stone;
He is woven of grief.

Born then Born again to Die to be Born

Before I existed,
I was a beautiful, blue fog.
I covered villages, supplying an eerie calm.

Before you existed,
You were a sick, whimpering breeze.
You blew me away, despite your weakness.

Away, into the mountains,
To be born again,
As an infant, then boy, then man.

One day I will be a stone.
A small man will happen upon me,
Pick me up, and throw me into you,
The ocean. A wave. The salty,
Strong gusts.

TO: The Verb: To wonder why

I once wrote poems
about throwing away
the negative things in my life.

What do I write about now?
I just feel like I'm going insane
half of the time that I write.
You should see some of
the things in this little journal.
They are as putrid, gray-tinted,
and sick as vomit.
I worry about myself.
But this is what I love.
This is my exact purpose,
for now.
So I will write, and write some
more. And I will do so until my
mind's ink runs dry. I love it
all, and if you love it too,
then I love you.
I will write until I cannot.
OR
until everything both vile and beautiful
(both arrogant and humble)
(both sick and healthy)
(both old and new)
(both ending and starting)
is gone. Yes, I will do this until
tomorrow morning, and FOREVER.

Love,

Ben

The word "no"

Our languages
Started out with
One word: No.
To decline is so
Human; what other species
Is convinced that a simple
Utterance can achieve a goal?
We say "no" when we mean
"Yes", too. Of all the
Organisms, I like trees
Most. They do not need
Sound or excuses to
Prove their might.
And if they must be
Cut down, so be it.
They always die
With dignity.
You or me?
Well, wouldn't our
Last word be "no" ?

Math

It is basic arithmetic:
Rhythm
+ Stolen religions
+ Fake ideologies
- All the extra souls floating about
+ A balloon, free for the time being
- A negative hair color (black x brown -blonde)
All of that to the power of
"Lonely farming communities of the heart."
Then, divide that number
By the amount of trees within one mile
Of where you sit.

This will explain why you
Sometimes
Feel like you need a friend.

Silences

May I never again
Find the words to throw
At you. May I never
Force another imbecile sentence
Out of myself like an egg
(hard boiled before birth).
The nest I had become so
Proud of protecting and sharing
With you is now just a
Yolk-soaked pile of
Insults and then silences.
... and then silences,
Towers of nothing.
You are not a phoenix.
I am not a phoenix.
Neither of us
Will ever rise from the ash
Of this damp silence...
...and then silences
Towers of them--No!
A city. A city of Silences.
Not one citizen
(not you nor I)
Will ever be a phoenix.
Ashes
Ashes
Blown away.

Darkness...Oh, but then the lights.

Doesn't anyone think
This is BEAUTIFUL?
Doesn't
Anyone THINK
This is beautiful?
Am I the only man alive
To see this as it really
Should be seen?
I find fault in a place
That houses
Women and men
Who cannot see that
WATER
Should flow back the way
It has come.
Waterfalls should once again
Climb their cliffs.