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                                  The broom that sweeps the world

he sweeps the world the keeper of stone
sweeper of stone
deeper than the moans from the bottom of the world
sweeper of moans
stronger than the bedrock that sustains these babel towers
on this island of schemes this vast land of dreams
small dreams
shouldered by the bedrock that supports them
the dreams of a sweeper who never dreams
of dreaming of sweeping with his thin bristled broom
sorcerer of spirit dust the great whisp’ring stone
thin bristled broom
as delicate as the feathers of a sad dead bird
soft brown wings like the wicker of brooms
sweeping the sky no longer sweeper of song no longer
the broom it dreams of flying over stone
as it sweeps the world
rising from its bed of rock
rib cage of island birdcage left open like a window
& the sky a widow once more
as the keeper sweeps between the feathers of stone
the stone a bird now lost to war.
the stone some absurd honeycomb of flesh
keeper of secrets text of extinction
a prophecy within the rib cage of a smile
before the murder of the innocents
before the vow of silence was torn apart
before the corpses fell like newly
sheared sheep
into bone the stone keeper of groan
& text
pit of salvation before laid waste
the quarry from where deep secrets were mined
before the land became a factory of bones
rich moist stone behemoth hands
your wanting hands your giving hands your offering hands
jeweled in moss your flesh embroidered with dew
your placid smile providing haven to the guiltless
welcoming the soon-to-be outlaws

        those gangster police that uproot your love like a weed
& the sweeper no longer sweeps
but sits upon a pile of bones
where once a firm ledge of rock sat
he sits himself a pile of bones like broom bristle & feather
discarded & turning to dust
then he is quietly lifted by a soft sudden breeze
swept up like the ghost of a bird
swept up like the song from a ghost of a bird
pulled up from his unmarked grave
torn away from his common mass grave
swept up from this world of stone.
arise oh smiling shadow of stone
climb the restless wind oh selfless reflection
pieced together in a mammoth mass of shards
the wrinkles on your face give away your age
ageless cracks
only men & weather can produce
honeycombing upward a child’s castle of sand
child that plays with earth
fools that gods are to instruct us so.
this is the plasma of shirtless men
the skin crawling with an almost holy decay
this is the road that leads thru the cunt of the hereafter
here after centuries of men & weather
these are the weathered lips
the weathered tongues
the lighted maps of eyeless sight.
curl around me great sculptor of TIME
view me from every angle
embrace me as i embrace your complacent
compassionate lens sightless eyes
the doorway onto the doorway onto the doorway
always open

opening onto darkness space & sky
oh fish of fortune fish of heaven sweeper of fish
keeper of the gate i eat you
here i meet you in the bowels of my heart
neutral heart
near naked sister of pale washed stone
reflected in your reflection selfless reflection in stone
the writing on the wall so clear
but untranslatable
put away your hands look upon the ground no longer
catch the sweeper’s sad wisdom & mystery
before he’s swept into the pit
once more
you are an army of many
& the child who will never reach womanhood
smiles her last innocent smile
your crown your honeycombed head
oh great BEE giver of honey & tree
where the roots & branches are one
you are an army of damaged saints
soon to be buried in the deep deep woods
away from weeping & the river
away from knowledge & the streaming air
you will be borne back to nothing
& will vanish into where nothing first was born
you will not eat the fruits of the future
but will dine within the minds of murderers
themselves deceased.
but the hearts of a few will remain forever pure
& the games will again resume
innocent warlike playful games
of territory & stick.
i’ll relax beside the wall
& think outside this great domain
yes let’s relax just as the sweeper now does
legs crossed beside the steps that lead to
the entrance
of the entrance to the entrance
of the WORLD
the Sweeper of the world
the Fish that sweeps the stars
the Bird that sails the sky.
oh sweeper
i ask you only once
before you begin your task again
WHAT is that question that is etched into stone
behind your head?
don’t get up just yet
first i must place the smile back onto the massive godface
& not ask for simple truths.
the heart of another cruel war will out beat us
the souls of birds will evaporate
within the cold furnace of life.
the doorway leads to the passage
the passage leads to the center of a vast empty plate
that will hide us.
Free from death & devouring breath
let us celebrate
let us dine on our thoughts
let us not devour ourselves any longer.
the sweeper rises from the stone
warns the weary wind of his approach
grabs hold of his broom
& sweeps away...

Steve Dalachinsky , NYC 5/2001
Written to the photos taken by Yoko Toda of Angkor Wat.

Silence-Remained 2005-2011