Ruego a dios que no pase nada I prayed to God and nothing happened
poems and writings by patrick bisaillon
| March 10, 2003 A persona non grata a godless persona swears prayers no god hears for a brighter manana I roll through dark nights of the soul, you hear metaphors heaven sent and hell bent, true till the death I'm closer with every breath wonderin if theres any meth to this madness hard hatted hearts battered blood matted words mattered hood fated lives shattered high rated thought scatters well stated absurd verbs batter stacato consciousness of hollow haunted shit word ladders to holiness saints, prophets and presidents tao flows and is never spent through heaven and hells residents we live in the verbs said or sent to ex loves or old friends that aint present forgiveness out lives resent skys tinged bruised hues of blue news days end and ways bend from half truths and outlived sentiment the night is coming on it flies towards the dawn the heart sends out sacrificed pawns and wonders what has gone wrong flip scriptures and search psalms word pictures in broken backed songs sick angels slink home each mind finds itself all alone each mind finds itself all alone each mind finds itself all alone.
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The Holiest Minute It is 1:08 am according to the red figures that figure the world as a march of minutes, a stilted shuffle into unoccupied time. We have trained this clock to train us, to wait. Weighed down by the minutes we took too matter to little, we wait for meaning. Platform # 3 at the train station in Gaya India. Sweating bodies in belabored sleep crowd the living ground. A father, with legs as thin as his moustache pushes his boy away to give himself room to turn over. A mother, with ribs in rows like a shelf of holy books puts her brown breast with nipples the color of earth back against the hungry lips of a child not yet a month old, and then wanders back towards sleep. Waiting for the train I watch a large beetle crawl over the naked chest of a small girl under the dim flickering of a fluorescent bulb. The tracks are empty. The train is late as always. The holy number is sacrificed as the red numbers change to 1:09 am. |
Pupils In Circles Like Samsara If one dies in Varanasi it is said that they escape the laws of Karma and can at last cease the souls endless migration. the migratory soul, finally finding rest in the land beyond wind. These are the days that I remember those days that did not die in Varanasi and so keep wandering back like little souls. They come back as ache, hope, and hands screaming for holiness only to fall, falling broken backed to the ground. They come back as a collection of half lights, never whole enough to illuminate. Half lights with a half life of 180,000 years. My body a battery, dimly lit by the orbit of days that wander like mendicants who have left home to circle in search of it. There is a song, without words, that keeps coming back to me, a song sung in the key of shame, that keeps coming back to remind me to stop faking it, to stop pretending to sing along as if there were words to remember. A song that reminds me that harmony is movement. And so this day, born dying, joins the rest of the little souls in orbit, and pushes me towards Varanasi to swim in Indian rivers, to the Ganges to do the backstroke next to charred bodies and in the mixture of fire and water to find purgation and cleansing. An ablution in the polluted hairs of God that run down from heaven. Lets go to india and let go. Lets go to India and let go. Lets go to india and let go. |