Angels forget the trumpets in the walls
Of the houses they’ve been ordered to destroy, angels
Full of meaningless words and
Invented histories of trees and street corners.
Have you ever caught them laughing into your shoes at night?
in the end every angel is going to be dishonorably discharged
Amidst the silence of everything they cannot name
Ambiguous and languid
All kinds of angels and flies darker than the void
Retreat to the holy planets designated as galactic dumps
Always dormant, numb wings shoved into the rifts between the junk and the sky
They become unbidden guardians of the cavities above and the hollow below
Broken rays of cold stars bring a lack of purpose
Stained book covers declare war on ghosts.
Walking trees hide from yesterday inside uncountable nouns.
Angels write endless erratic fiction for senile atheists,
play soccer with the head of the first victim of outer space on weekends.
Never forget to rename the disfigured stars, my dear,
says an owl to an insomniac.
There is only a limited amount
of angels per square mile of the firmament,
wailing, trembling, somersaulting, relaxing,
angels mumbling and crawling upside down,
chanting psalms to the void.
Can you swim, they ask each other
in those rare moments when they meet,
can you fucking swim, you bastard?
They have a secret place owned
by fish and mushrooms where they stash
their nail pairings and play checkers with
melancholia-addicted beasts of burden.
They poorly assimilate and eat only paper money,
don’t let other creatures splash in heaven,
their vehicles rot in space.
Voices of invisible birds tear the air to shreds,
trees and snakes hide in the grass,
unhewn stone steps lead to eternal banality,
thoughts and clouds pass by and the words remain,
blooming heads of frost gatherers sway in the wind,-
they don’t pay attention.
They don’t exist here on earth at all,
which apparently makes them a laughing stock
when they care.
No one can find silence between two angels
Whether they shout mumble or whisper
Even good old middle class icons
Used to cut their ears or confess to butterflies
Garden snakes and jellyfish and burning bushes
That they were absolutely innocent
But becoming one of the two would finally make you deaf
[from the comments on but nothing under the rugs]
Travelers notice the words on the walls
Saying their sins are forgiven
But they don’t know what it means while
The locals drink hooch and meet angels
Barfing angels on the cracked roofs
And cockroaches in the pleated sky
Stairwells reek of their wings
Underground flutists send out rusty automatons to
Discover continents shunned by grass
Children play on extraterrestrial cemeteries
Which is fine by their parents
They already know that books are meant to be burned
Paintings of penniless sailors to rot on the backs of dying ponies
Travelers exhale their own
If an angel isn’t stammering or at least mumbling,
its message is blank like a pair of new shoes.
Too many things have something in common.
Consider zoos, museums, department stores
full of dead air. There is also car music with its blurred beauty
and sniffing grass. People look for
stray dogs in the street, for flies in the bottles
they’re going to drink. People awkwardly try to die.
It is cold and snowing unless you have found a way to enter,
a path inside a burning angel amidst fun and clatter,
eyeless and breathless, holding a blank book, shamelessly burning,
grey hair inundate a grey sky and the next one,
thick and enticing, food for dragonflies and vultures,
the eyes of rabbits define the smell of the stars they see,
empty-handed winds know neither north nor south.
Time and again angels descend to raise the dead
and ravage the souls of the living,
but end up their days in vanity and trickery;
some still play trumpets on Main street.
so it was
a deaf angel on a recumbent
bike reading a local
rag somewhere on I-25
perhaps somewhere there
was a snowflake and a
three-legged dog and
a discarded shoe
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