The Mad Stylite

Bones
shivers in the night wind
and a heater
ticks relentlessly; the slow
burning
of dollar bills.

...silence, broken
by the staccato of gun
shots and Cantonese -
sounds
to assuage the mad solitude
of the sojourner
on the far western
shore - a heart floats
across a shattered
continent
and Bones, like the mad
stylites from the teachings
of childhood orthodoxies - ponders
his reality...

...birds sing
in the midnight sun,
his beauty
lies in the depths
of a grave while earth's foundations
are built
on the clouds - for him?

Truth
lives now in the shadow
of the raindrop, calm
in the raging voices
of thought.

These improbable
probabilities are become
the only reality
of the man
watching owls
and herons dance
under the nooning moon - reality
of a man's belief built
on the weakness of tree roots,
the wisdom
they hold - until
your return.

The reality
of a man who believes, reality
of a man who waits.

The reality
of Bones.

_{(For The One Who Knows :: 05-24-2010)}