The Mourning of the Flour Man

As I held him there,

Nothing but lumps,

My heart, my heartstone cracked,

To be reduced to clumps,

I had loved him as a nightingale loves the smell that the warm breeze fills her wings,

as the Tiger loves the mud beneath his feet as he bows down to the whooshing tide,

As the boy loves the song that his mother sings,

As the girl loves her diary to confide,

The sun broke, shattered the sky,

A thousand pieces asunder,

Sharp glass, slicing through fleshy feet,

I never had seen such a sun, so bloody, so beautiful, so perfect in its tranquility and violence

I have never dreamed of a day when all that man has brought with him shall tumble upon him

My bloody feet, so torn and trashed aside by the ravages of a misbegotten honey drop.

I have never and will never see this sun again for every man that sees the sun,

Break and Tear

The gaping wound, tears flowing, so much blood, so much agony,

Please make me into flour so that I may join

So that I may live as he lived. As I imagined him to live.

He never spoke, Only wept. Wept wept.

So much sorrow, so much pain, never to see the sun

Time we do borrow, Understanding we do not have,

Passion, passion, passion.

I never have seen the sun as this, the sun on fire, flaming, brimstone. Blood.

1-30-06

10:19 pm