Falling Hair

Body, Soul, Word

In my days I have lived in Samson
and Samson has often lived in me.

Can an altar be made from shedded hair, 
shredded from the scalp of a covenant?

I saw Samson's hair falling like soft September
flaring down to the tombs of October.

Amidst them I am in each falling strand,
broken in every turn and second yet still I saw

suns drained of their juices like shrivelled grapes
that poured no pious wine, those were the fruits

of our days tried, dried then maimed and the rivers 
of our orison's monologues flowing with the salt of tones

raised in need of forgiveness,
and the tired palms we clenched in search of repentance.

These I saw all through the stained windows
purified of sand and time ingrained

immortal in the hill of dreams,
in this hill of hair follicles, 

each strand a blessing of weightlesness,
a reminder that the gifts of God are without mass.

Now Phillistine pillars imprison us bald
and naked and fountains of blood streaming

from our eyes gouged and scourged, 
the sun saying Never Again Will You Know Peace,

Where You Are, I Am And My Heat Is 
To Boil You Alive, Rinse You Of Your Flesh.

This body which will be broken into crumbs,
I give to alien pillars the foundations of 

my blindness who in kindness grants me
vision of a mirage slit into the clouds as an incision,

the dream to be a phoenix re-animated awakens us
to the nakedness of a bird without sound no longer earthbound.

Then let every birds' shadow fissure my reverie, 
for the crucifixion's weight enlightens me, is it too late?

I am without hair to bless or to be blessed,
the jawbone of an ass is mine to ask

for the breaking of all temples stone and flesh,
the blood pump turned solid, turned to blessed brass,

like hair slain from the brain still the rain
of God may move this pain away for it was I who

ran to the eigth house seeking to rouse rebith
yet only finding myself refracted as false fallen shepherd 

clothed in the sun bearing the geology 
of the night skies where every bright star was a rock

to raise, a rock to slay the Abel within myself,
for every rebirth starts with murder.

Now again rain is birthed,
in soft-spoken bountiful oaths resonating

and resounding through pillars I am tied to,
blood tinted thunder smokestacks toking 

lexical lightning to scatter my eye's skies,
the voice from Sinai breeze my body's seal,

from the heavens hair is falling,
the manna of my head's barren midbar,

as I decimate all the temples that bind
the flesh to the masonry of ivory bone and nerve,

three temples are rebuilt in my wake,
Body, Soul, Word,

these which exist within all mortal shells,
trespassing through time's wormhole,

the naked dead body once hairless is
made bald, spread in ash whispers yet the soul

is jewelled with baptismal blood stones
that sprinkle and flood from a heavenly fist 

never closed, eternally open as wounded palm
forever in the breeze's mysticism, in paradise.