Drums on the Far Shore

pooled ink pulses by tripped fountain pen
where in the air was that thud
heavy, laden almost with- and there pulses again
and almost rhythm almost tomorrow wrenched
through sound and siphoned to taut ear skin stretched

another word scratched, even etched, a heiroglyph to
distraction with each line a glance away and a slip
streamed from empty consciousness and not as Buddha would
in form, perhaps, this:

Thorns thrash. ash lips lift over brush fire tips
Tracked another outfit flutter with
wind expanding. Sound, slow to meet, now slips
lark tongues tremble now bowed. sound slashed myth

No? annotations tell of, well, crafthands marching over
pages, pulsing pressures on key and cranium and drumming
skulls and there it is again that creak sneaking over
water that wracks and warps with wind, waves on seabirds
to their nests, above the waterline. A scrawl of claw
marks, etchings submerged and blurred under ocean encroach
marred markings:

Thunders torn. taught and longing in measure
Hammers sweep the air and flatten sand shapes
orbits on longitude, birds cry pleasure
and fish glisten like live silicon apes 

Candid and yet sly a balanced polit
Backing bluster and cracking chestnut jaw
thorns sucked thumb by bloody thumb, the dole it
cart by carted now wear and tear gun-law

no? clash another color, purple green and orange admixed
on the tide and is that ash the wind carries as far as
an unfinished poem
wired through bit breezes and lapped on each digit shore