Name above of all names

There is nothing that I can do.
There is nothing that I can say.
You are my one desire,
You are my one true love,
Name above all names.

days gone by

i forgot you
in the refuse of
busy and idle
and trite
i tempted you
in willful playful
ire and dischord'nt
melodies
from my lips
until we longed
for the days gone by

in the village

the quaint and lasting effects
of a quiet that fell
on deaf and dying ears
like a lightning bug fainting from the dark
like shifting sands after an earthquake
a thousand miles from a soul
and i wonder at that;
how you take words and turn them
in your hands
like spaghetti
like confusion
like an overfilled belly
followed by predictability.

in the village they have a
word for you
in the city they know you but
use no name.
they've called you by
buddy and chum
but your face is
flat like a billboard
masked like a dollar bill
like a one act play
without the curtain
drawn.

the tiresome effects
of this quieted namelessness
disquiets me
like a stillborn gazelle
like a stale and unwanted pastry
left on the door step for
a starving girl
who cannot get out of bed.

Quantum

left under the bed

in shapes of atomic

chance,

with dust mites and

trifles of forgottenesses

you are still

boxless and free.

Quantum in nature

leaping the edgeless

formless voids of 

supernatualimaginantions

playing supertonic 

symphonies

in halls of dark matter...

and i wonder

from my mind's confines 

the nebulous way

i forget you and your

gravity. your

atomic fury.

your permanent 

relativity,

which shines a

defining light that

I have never known 

before.

dreaming in latin

some nights
you haunt my dreams
unblemished and golden
like all the things
you cannot become again
like all the days
we could not hold,
like all the nights
we could not share.
yet in beauty we
became,
ever the more,
never the less;
with stealth and force
and longing.

some nights
i lie awake
dreaming
in latin.

of sickness and health and middling

i am living in
short bursts
of edge-less entertainments
like a cloud casting her weight
ground-ward
without choice her lots
cast by matter's chances;
both a pure and confusing
calculus

i am sick in
long drawn periods
such as week's end
that found me
couch-ward like
a potato resting
in the cool ground
waiting for the the rain
and a fast and
purposed pull from
iron tines

and as i sick and health
the days asunder;
i am middling with
the least of these.
as a monk
out of cloister,
as a nun without
habit,
to be sans a right nor a left

north of it

drifted into form 

a pile of thought like snowflakes

that the cold crafted

with her hard fists
further and further 

into our minds

like blood 

like a golden glove

like a thing that we were given and never wanted.

here 

on the wings of the western

winds 

she wanders into visions;

rusty old vehicles

in vast heaps,
the wastelands of 

a field north of the river's bending.

those tired and retired tools

left behind from forgotten works 

done by dry and calloused hands

with weary faces 

on bitter and miserable days

like this one.

mercenary soul

you believe fodder
and garbage
and deadpan.

you eat life upon
exit
as an actor
cloy and off
of stage.

you spit the bones
and shards
of tomorrow's scenes,
on venal thoughts
as a mallet
to the gong.

you drink sorrows
past those lips
like a player,
as a creature
nearest to
it's haunt.

you cast doubt
and dirt
of yesterday's disdain
over walls of conviction
as a cage born
child.

Oh, my mercenary soul!

i believe it still;
Redemption.

threadbare

i
wear
threads
of
patterned
ideation
and
childish
preposition;
warm
hand
stitches
handed
down
worn

the some things that happen

i wan't to wear deep blue
denim overalls like you daddy
big and wide and cool
i want to wear a beard as big like yours
and be big too

some things that happen
like my shadow on the floor
hide my trying to be bigger
like you daddy.
some things that happen
make me cry
like a sore toe
and a big brother

when i'm biggest like you daddy
i'll be bigger than the
some things that happen,
like brothers and toes
and shadows,

won't i daddy?

won't i?

wait i while

we walk an ancient paths,
being-under spruce and birch and air
and a conversations we cannot
hear

we sleep an ancient dreamings,
of glacier and iceberg and reflection
a substances beneath we will not
feel

we yearn for an ancient languages,
spoken in softly; as spice and song
and a Spirits that we did not
know

similies for lost boys

"like me," he said shrill,
as the shards of yesterday

baked into a pumpkin pie

leftover from Halloween Jack

seen in the dim light

you left behind with your

face-book-friends and Isabella.

i can't remember the

last time we were this lost,

like the being found 

on the curb

clenching brown bag

white knuckles telling tales
with blood for you and your two faces.

in a heartbeat all their own.

"like them," i replied dull,
as life in a suburban town
faked into minted coins

leftover from pity's politic
so as now to this day;
i cannot reply 

to lost boys.
I have confounded

the word for that love;

like a summer picnic,
in the plaid and rain.

like a weekend revival,
and a tent torn wind.

like a majestic bird of prey,
being struck by a truck at the crossroads.

four for Saturn's hours

i would rather golf
than paint for you
a clue
like a Haitian street
artist in sole-less
shoes.

i would rather shop
than fight for it
hard
like GSP with a sharp
ax kick to the solar
plexus.

i would rather shift
into the grey twilight
unaware
like a free spirited
nymph in a over dramatic
playonwords.

i would rather hate
a poem of mine
own
as Eeyore on
holiday in
Muscatine.

yet
(here i am and
not inspired.)

day of sun

the north flows
west and east
in my arteries
as i lie by
in this waiting

as a nursemaid
puffing on smokes
in the parlor

i am an addict
for affections
wherever they can
be found

the south burns
east then west
in my veins
as i try my-
self to weeping

as a Sunday dress
flowing down a
perfect shape

i am an addict
of affections
whenever they may
be found.

Thor's Day in the batey (for Francisco)

i watched you work
in dark skin
under a warmer sun

they may never hear
your voice brother
in those frosty veins

so many days passed
in short breaths
back facing south winds

but i swear,

i saw your heart
in your eyes
under hurried good byes

los robles (the oaks) casting shadows
on the hillside
as a watch man

you waved to me
with calloused hands
i cannot forget it

the cane burning fast
like the moment
when we heard Him

speaking with us.


(This poem has incredible personal significance and meaning to me.  I spent the last 8 days with friends in the southwest region of the Dominican Republic. If you have never been to or heard of a batey (Creole for 'village') you may not quite understand it. I encourage you to make an attempt to know. The only way to live is to grow.)

Wednesday last and the feast of St. Basil

You revealed words
like an exotic dancer
exposing flesh.

You uncovered mysteries
like a flasher in
the moonlight.

But men were fat
and farsighted in those days,
the women common
and complacent.

Bright words fell flat
over ages,
while we ignored them.
Like pangs
from dreaming,
silent screams
translated to
distraction.

A Collection of Mondays

Dark fragments of the winter
grow upon my face
like the winds of
a fierce Nor'easter
blowing hard down
steep Atlantic banks.

I wish hard that
I had seen you then,
during our winter,
under garland & glass
ever dressed in black.
all-the-while-in
our rudimentary pleasantries
and awkward stares.

But I have since
fast collected the
fractures,
with a dull razor from
my broken skin.
I watch them wash
and swirl downward
in the tepid
crimson water,
then step aside.

tanka squared

Tanka toy in sand
child playing with friend
oxidize frame
as years upon faces
shadows on the playground.

i woke up at the end of the world

i woke up
at the end of the world.
arm in arm 
with my favorite girl.
lightening split the sky
and thunder shook the ground
i wasn't looking for the lost
they didn't want to be found.
Ooooo...

la la la la la

i once knew a man
who shot himself in the foot.
that sacramental limp
the holy oil of pain
its all by the book.
and i'm not looking for the lost
they don't want to be found...
Ooooo...

la la la la la

i woke up
at the world's end.
i was wrestling with angels...
He was wrestling with men.

la la la la la
(and i woke up at the end of the world.)

words &  music by Eric C Bervig
Demo recorded in his basement December 20, 2012
marking the eve of the end of the Mayan calendar.

an onion

fragments
from layers
of an onion
piled on the counter-top
you with your knife
and your tears.
i focus intently
on the curve of your
spine and how it reacts
as i sputter and whine
in curt response
to sour accusations
like the knife's edge.
the pungent air
has less to do now
with the onion,
our exchanges heavy
on our faces
as we turn to
more urgent affairs,
the smell of our fears
sharp and poignant.