In Honor of the Dead

I write in honor of the dead,

Proposing, as I do, to describe their wars,

For we who have abjured mere power

Descry in liberty of speech

Capabilities beyond the skills of genius.

Our prayer wheels twirl upon the mountain wind,


Poems are the ruins of experience,

the skeletons of meaning, but

What is said is seed.

I am the alpha and the beta,

The ensorcelling verb

And amid the clatter of those spinning prayers

I stand upon a mute titanic shoulder

Pretending I can lift the lustrous sky.


A billion years has shaped

The opening and the closing of an eye.

But how could fractured genes create

The answering mate?  Sex is the autograph of God.

Passion trembles on the page of worship.

Silence is quickened by the fertile word.


The pederasts have it all wrong.

The lesbians have it all wrong.

The Buddhists have it all wrong.

Pure spasm fails.  The genuine requires complement.

Dichotomies enfold the song

That opens for us the monstrous land of love.


Dr. Benjamin Michael Carter


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