Brian Townsley		discoursing an inner melody the blood tonight is a juke joint at full holler with the monk in the corner.  He is robed in solitude and diamond, prepared clearly for the ass/end of either possibility.  Simplify, simplify                                                 he thinks and chases the tea with bourbon.  Descent is easy, the tao is not, he muses though the black zodiac hovering                                                       like Braille from the infinite louder by half than the jump-blues craning its neck and shouting a whispered suffering from the stage. God is scattered about the syllables                                                         like a child’s jacks strewn across the bedroom too long unclean, the conscience unguarded. The tale is circular & perfect, the monk gleans           like darkness like a butterfly loosed from a cocoon like coffee ice cream like the breath of morning after the death of a dog. The sentence ends here.   The skin hangs & tightens according to the assemblage of care.                                          It is an unspendable thing, despite what the bar tab relates, despite the orchestra of time that numbs the listener.  I will not be numbed, the monk reasons, though                                          reasoning belongs to men of song & silence. He likens himself the latter though he is talking to himself now.  The walls are oak & resplendent in death.   The mind cannot hope to maintain the dry grey of duskfall, what starburst courses the heart.  The monk observes the dancefloor like the selected poems                                     of the tarantula interpreted on a Gretsch Electromatic Hollowbody on fire.  Each of us burning, the simple truth there. What we cannot hope to hold                                                 in the time elapsed. The teapot is empty like the bourbon bottle beside it.  Slow ripples of sightless illumination.  A view from a grain of sand.   The melody has taken hold & with it the declaration: I will not disappear,                                                                     this is really happening despite the edicts of judgment & sunrise. Despite the joker in the deck. The monk crushes the clamshells about    the parking lot and the juke joint shakes in volume for his return.   The bicycle leans against the No Parking pole like irony for the retarded.  He feels as much balancing upon the two wheels for the ride home, leaving everything that matters for the arriving of everything that matters.		while we kneel in revolution the sun blackened like the heart of sparrow feathers oilsoaked & without the white collar the habit looks only sinister like the executioners robes like your blind spot like judgment & Buddha is still laughing because chrisitanity gave him a face, while the rain calls him father & he collects hearts like confetti like rose petals strewn on the grave of our democracy while we kneel in revolution.   While we kneel in revolution the clocks create time for the bourgeouis to sic the carma dogs on the protestors, you & your mother the veteran with the plastic leg & the birthday boy burning in candles, the purple hearts numbed in badinifinity while the poets & priests stroke the truth raw until fantasy shoots forth from the minds eye like footprints backwards over the scrolls of the zero. I am still hiding roses in the rain & we kneel before the law & we kneel before the law & we kneel like Kafka but the gate is for you alone & Buddha is still laughing I don’t blame him while we kneel in revolution.   While we kneel in revolution & snort the white noise provided like so much innocence in dreams like hot water music for the deaf like car bombs blowing body parts like strewn rose petals on the grave of our conscience buried in the oil fields beneath the american flag.  The fall for each of us comes daily like judgment like infomercials & popup ads Fitzgerald said there were no second acts in American life but, oh, for second chances— what would you do to bring back that one moment, the one before the clarity? Buddha is still laughing while we kneel in revolution waiting for those in the luxury boxes to command us rise while they wait while we kneel in revolution.   While we kneel in revolution the carma dogs descend while we kneel in revolution there are principles to stand on staggering but standing while we kneel in revolution staggering the imagination with what simply standing could do.