from Sky Graves Over The Rim of the Mesa

 

i sense vibrations emerging from the elsewhere of Maski

from the nameless darkness time can never reach

land of the dead beyond the illusions of the dream

there are words without meaning vibrating on the mesa-rim

against time, against the beginning, against the end—

this counter-time is music to the non-speaking world

that world that is the only true infans there has ever been

that world without prelude, without measure, without without;

from the rim of the mesa a child’s eye looks off into the sky

his other eye watches the chakmongwi, crier chief, his father

go down very slowly to where the dead were solemnly placed

only to ask: are you still there? i hear nothing. i see nothing.

the son persists in asking: do the ones in the ground still live there?

the crier says: the dead body buried in the ground is only a stalk

and the breath has moved  e l s e w h e r e  and lives on there;

e l s e w h e r e...  there is no more being born and yet there are still

vibrations without a beginning, not subservient to being or meaning,

free of memory, free of the language of silence and its demands for noise;

and long after the stalk of the son is planted another intractable child

will sit on the rim of the mesa and ask: do the ones in the ground still live there?

and only a tone too weak to be heard, a failing tone from  e l s e w h e r e   will

                                                                                            vibrate

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