Each month, write a new collection.
A Rocky Glen (In the Shawangunks), Thomas Coleit’s the devilskick and rumble.infernal rock a jutting firesolidified underGod’s glory— the church’s answer to unseen movementproducts of pressure.a carbon-burnbreath,desperate pillars to eternity.the Fallen beg at the gates of heaven.forgotten as giant rocks,a story no longer carried.
That's fantastic man!
AAAHelloooo...I say, You there...Up here! Beg pardon...I seem to be stuck, Yooo-hooo...No, wait! Please... wait, Could you call someone? At least-Damn.
Ha! Okay, that's a great take and a different one too!!
NothingnessIn the massiveTurning the earthWas as it alwayshas beenMysteriousand bigger than lifeThe one pedestrianon top of the worldIs not as significantAs he once thought
No one can be as proud better than a rock—not even man. He stands surrounded by them—the subject of their cold gray mush pot. They look down and sneer as he holds his arms outstretched. He has forgotten how cold a rock can be. Hugging a rock gives no comfort at all. Perhaps he’s not aiming to hug them, but copying the tree—aiming his fingers at the sun for some kind of life. Several trees before this man have tried to do so, but the rocks have overshadowed the glow of the sun above, starving their leaves of the light except for a brief moment at sunset. Before the rocks can grow higher to shadow the man, he moves, but not further toward the sun as the struggling saplings. The man moves closer to the rocks, their shade and their loneliness.
On A Rocky Glen (In the Shawangunks)The man flings his hat in jubilationThe rocky ladder is conquered nowHis gasping breath finally calmsTo stillness hanging in the treesSunlight showers unabashedAs weary muscles screech complaintLong gone are his prideful climbing stepsAs smallness echoes back to distant crows.
The UpliftGranite wisdomteeth erupt stuck through our pulped gums these vorticalgrey-black planes one half of whichlittop the brim where the horse of bloodcuts the horseof milk as they run the circuit of your wide-lipped outstretchedhat tilted, welcome! Always twosee each other over distanceyouwith your lacquer-drunk pants, the color of mercury and wavingat some other Ireplaceablestand moments in this gallery before youpricelesseach an assemblage of toil but you, out there in some deeper perspective Icould touchif not for securitythe paint and not the personof you, with no ropes your calm ascentand meknowing some unclimbablehunger, rushedthis moment of erosion, I flint this stone, at the angle of vanishingstability made sheerwe have been here here together brutallydefaced for some great time--ask the treestheir toes wrapped intothe tightly bound fissures of yourvertiginous unsmilingwhy some surfaces are found by the sunwhile the vine climbs in its painfulshade, they know neitherwhy.
Spread your arms and wavetiny speck of a human wee soul lost in the landscape with a lone tree standing witness grounded in inhospitable rockbirds circle in flight overheadwhile the ridiculousness of alivenessSurges through the limbs of the most powerfully sentient beingwho ever posed to hug the world
birds float among thecrags within the purple skyintruder in the rocks