the Moth


empowdered wings
in deadly orbit
moth to flame
as flame to fire
is the destiny of Moth
a burning question
answered in an all consuming flame

Kafka’s moth
fly’s through book dust
the embedded alien orange
festering beneath hard plates of exoskeleton
fire burns wings
flaming wings do fly
but they expire into carbon dust
rising to heaven
as powdered wings
as dark to light
as cold to warmth
as warmth to God

the moth is like a
kamikaze pilot, willing to trade Life
in exchange for a purpose
a journey, a migration
north of the Sun
from the east of Light
to the west of darkness

the moth is like
a confused traveler
circling endlessly until death’s demise
by way of the northern star
the words “Leroy” tattooed on her left
breast, each night I read his name from her
breast and think of him

things moving
as spirals out of dimension
from the corners of the perpendicular
to the length height and width
The Hercules Moth is a Saturniidae family, making it the largest moth found in Australia, and its wings have the largest documented surface area (300 square centimeters) of any living insect
if I asked for a sparrow
why would you bring me a moth?
stranded to live in the Atrium
among the tall trees
the flutter of wings sings a new song

dust wings
fine curtains
of fine linen and potpourri
carbon paper rubs off on
brown-gray dust coating finger tips
dancing to light
traversed by moon
like a flaming poltergeist

the moth is a suicide master
looking for the sun
by following an underground railroads conductor’s lamp
and finding that brightness
in every anonymous street lamp

bats have wings
webbed lined with silver veins
birds have wings
iridescent shimmering in the sunlight
angels have wings
each breath a living soul

hide n seek
closets smell like moth balls
chemical cloak rooms
the scent of hangars
between the folds of bakers cloth

we drank milky sugary tea
we talked about life love
and all the things that matter
until the night she was murdered in a Jeep Cherokee
on a residential street in North Seattle
I long for friendship
like the moth I encircle you,
feeding from your Light
the Internet as Holy Spirit

showering away the pain
water rinse away the hours
until all that remains
remains hidden
as running water
rinses the grief away
rinses the pain away
and if she could rinse herself away
she would try
around and around
swirling, as running waters
down the drain, and into
Puget Sound
running the shower
the water can wash away
all the dust that has gathered
between fleshly crevices
between finger and nail

What are the properties of dust
the final resting
of earthly remains
the fine particles of dirt
that choke and blind
the bunnies that swirl with hairballs
to rest in the vectored corners of
earthly clouds

& so they sit around the fountain
drinking malt liquor and cheap wine
telling well-worn stories as only old men
can tell

she runs the shower
till the paint bleeds
from the wall
the running water
hits the body
like bullets
rinses the body
rinses the pain
rinses the worry
rinses the spirit
circles towards
the Omega point
like gravity to the flame

the moth knows the pipe to God
the merging of human consciousness with machine
the running water
cast down, hitting the porcelain tub
like bullets
the running water

the moth knows wooden cloak rooms
where 1950’s school children
once played their names and signatures
recorded in backward shelved library books,
books with tattered cloth edges, darkened torn
pages, smoked brown with dust and time
the flame to the moth is like the universe of consciousness
circling as running water, issuing forth, rinsing away the pain
rinsing away the regret, rinsing away the worry, until all the remains,
remains as hidden, if she could rinse herself away, swirling into relief
hydrating as to the flame, knowing the knowsphere

at once dust was the earth
& out of the dust came man
& out of the man came woman,
& from woman a flame, then a circling
moth on cosmic journey
the moth shatters the dust
off it’s wings, because you could not
understand the vision and person of flame,
that burning passion, that awkward spirit…
as dust
the universe
as dust
the moth
as dust
dusting the moth wings with flame as Moses
looking upon the burning bush which burned but was not consumed
by the circling flame
dust as in the expanse of the universe
as pagan gods long for praise
the moth wants satisfaction
the moth wants to be whole
& yet the sum of it’s parts, are but dust and flame
this piloting alchemy, guided by the Northern star
the moth knows neon signs & University district street children
living in shop doorways on card board pallets waiting for a shard
party, waiting on hope, as a fallen angel
clothing like cloud
the moth
an insect
that believes he’s a bird
dreaming that he’s an angel
fallen from grace
upon dusty pillows
consuming clothing as he is himself
consumed by fire
the dust of hours
estate sales
the dust of carpets
abandon homes
with white sheets covering antique furniture
& dust hanging on cobwebs in greasy droplets
the dust beneath the church pews, upon holy altars,
upon artificial flowers, placed in dusty stale water
within dusty powdered glass vases, sitting on dusty shelves
the dust of Jesus
sifted through the veil of the cross
the dust of God
shaken from the feet
of intrepid sinners


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