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Polyphony

Polyphony

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Published by Omar Willey
Jazz-inspired poems by Omar Willey. Creative Commons licensed
Jazz-inspired poems by Omar Willey. Creative Commons licensed

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Published by: Omar Willey on Oct 09, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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01/18/2014

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Sections

  • Soprano
  • Bond
  • Hermitage
  • Amber
  • Prints
  • Spiral
  • Sub Rosa
  • The sun now rising
  • Vibration
  • Recognition (In a Bookstore)
  • The progress of my scars
  • Unpublished
  • Caesura
  • Twilight Muse
  • Tenor
  • Stigmata
  • Changes
  • After youth is
  • Disparate ideologies in the rain
  • Humble origins
  • Snowfall
  • 11 by 14
  • A poem for Henry Grimes
  • A Void
  • Moire
  • Aleph Null
  • Compound
  • Work For Hire
  • Utterance
  • What passes is not time
  • Blonde antipode
  • Alto
  • Nine Crows
  • Tintinnabulation
  • Photo Op
  • Eschatology
  • The Subject Was Motörhead
  • Post-ironic non-detachment
  • Trochaic monologue
  • Sarcophagus
  • Elephant talk
  • Broken limbs
  • The reformed hippiesʼ children
  • Before the condos are planted
  • As so often you leave
  • Walking Rauschenberg,
  • Unseen hunter
  • Scrabbles
  • Baritone
  • Myriad metaphors
  • Silent Night
  • Splendour
  • Ribbon
  • Voice of the Brahma
  • If
  • Intangible
  • Solstice
  • London
  • Midnight moonlight
  • Connection

Polyphony

poems by Omar Willey

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Polyphony
poems by Omar Willey

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This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/ or send a letter to: Creative Commons 171 Second Street, Suite 300 San Francisco, California, 94105 USA

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Soprano
Bond Hermitage Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse

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9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 25

Tenor
Stigmata Changes After youth is Disparate ideologies in the rain Humble origins Snowfall 11 by 14

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27 29 30 31 32 33 34

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A poem for Henry Grimes A Void Moire Aleph Null Compound Work For Hire Utterance What passes is not time Blonde antipode 35 37 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 Alto Nine Crows Tintinnabulation Photo Op Eschatology The Subject Was Motörhead Post-ironic non-detachment Trochaic monologue Sarcophagus Elephant talk Broken limbs The reformed hippies’ children Before the condos are planted As so often you leave Walking Rauschenberg. 48 49 50 51 53 54 57 58 59 60 61 62 66 67 68 5 .

Unseen hunter Scrabbles 69 70 Baritone Myriad metaphors Silent Night Splendour Ribbon Voice of the Brahma If Intangible Solstice London Midnight moonlight Connection Eve Reminiscence 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 80 81 83 85 83 83 6 .

still. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you.for Aaron Greenreich. words smudged. promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. Pages blank and torn. 7 . crossed out. because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors.

Soprano 8 .

" Friendship should be so binding as vows repeat their memories. his youth (so youthless) no obstacle. Two share the bond of separation. invisible to mortality. naked and real— shared: "We shall meet at the horizon. As she. horizons know terra and firmament fissure. Serene communications. Parallel they held near each other and shared imaginings of a time eonic in its stasis. no love. forever.Bond Two share the bond of separation. where heaven meets the plain. warm with the blush of blood. Time cloven hearts. no assuage for them. he recalls how in a touch the world would seem again: darkened gloams at riverside. all is memory. solemn upon their hearts. quiet words exchanged for silent thoughts— her beauty was never a question. They stretch now their arms toward an embrace that is not felt. no numerals mar its eternal concomitance. No sadness. a lone silent empathy. their words its sole motion: there. 9 . no stolid masques enacted.

I wake. Still. The dust. the hermitage. I want your touch illume the beauty Sleeps entombed in jade memory. this soul infuses ecstasy. To feel your nearness. and staring see the silence. feel your pulse— Is that love?—awake within the dream. Escape—into the luminous: Your evanescent vision warms With life. In blackness sink in mute reflection. Footfall rain resounds within The vacuum of my silent room. you offer no resolution. But you are silent and withhold from me Your purifying word and touch. Still minutes drown inside my blood.Hermitage The cold gray sunshine light that pierces Through the shadow drapes' shimmer fills The air that clings my flesh with emptiness. still. I dream deposed on tinctured shroud. In this still solitude there is nothing. I lose myself within the why Encircles my scarred isolation. Murmur broken words in fading haze And try to touch your speechless image As it finally dies away. 10 . I want to rest within your realm. Your apparition. recurs. Within the dampened caesura I wish The touch to synchronize our souls. the stench. I long to leave my desert chamber.

11 . I close my eyes: hesitation. A single shadow conjoin us: I hold my hand to you through darkness.I cannot leave this dream to die alone. Trembling in your light I whisper.

coolly sealed in time's preserve poetic metaphor for eternality i think of the beauty of seeing the amber slowly melt away as dew recedes from petals and watching the bee unenthralled.Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber. now free fly away 12 .

fingerprints in talcum. perfumerie. all as broken branches from my life's tree where you have trespassed. for love that gnaws vapidly within. I cannot here live nor feed. where all about is nothing. cast like demon out. now I am bitten where frost turns hoary and blue my flesh.Prints I find still your spoors about my den. I killed a hunter I had become... one as I would give to you. and. all is ice and dust. I wonder as my misery turns to the numb of dying and crimson trickles life away—if I had not loved. But yours are the prints impressed upon my barren environ where I am dying there is no other. cold in the light and begging warmth only your body could provide. Love. still could prey on those. This wilderness engulfs me. instinct to kill now bound. 13 . old traces of blood where we loved. my fluid and your fluid in pattern of a voluptuous flower. I find no passion remains. strands of hair. I am rendered as a waning man.

listens no noise. 14 .Spiral Alone staring into the dark above: no moonbeams. preserving alone the I of the whorl. recoiling attack. stars interrupt the black jejune. A cyclone spiral. seeing no razing. no subtle brilliance crack stark helix shell where frightened curls this idiot spirit. the vortex pitch swirls about the eye glowers at me. cold soul. destroys all. shadows former love. And like still night.

15 .Sub Rosa I hold to you a rainbow blossom. Alone we bind our solitude. A silent covenant To sanctify our unity. The shadows of our souls are mute In glow of holy light.

I am but a lone human being as you. tender with ineffable emotions. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. and I. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. no poet to fashion and from your truth figure metaphors and prostitutions. sensuous. 16 . this moment between us. No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now.The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing. These imaginings are squander. are such.

returning to you the palpitation of my heart. lost within the damp air that surrounds us and bears to each the other hesitant shiver.Vibration Your voice reverberates upon my flesh. 17 . These vibrations pass silently away.

we smiled to turn away with civilized politeness and potential death where there would have been. but all of my breath trembling with excitement and the know. The slight blush behind your smile and apology.Recognition (In a Bookstore) It was an accident. I think. and merge me into you. but had come together for an instant. I wished our careless touch would go forever on and into both of us. 18 . Instead. the way you brushed against me so gently that I stopped. We knew nothing of each other. All these things felt. I would tell you in some otherwhere world how the thoughtless touch you gave me awareness of what I am missing my body a little. exchanged electricity.

all sigils on its palimpsest. as lines within our palmistry (these. underneath the old. as certainly as we are life the hands of time shall notate us. new wounds: each time more shallow. there is only healing. memories of hurt that tell me quietly that my travails show consequence where I have grown. an index not of suffering. what my flesh shall not know again without pain and grim reflection—perhaps this is the knowledge never hid.The progress of my scars I watch the progress of my scars. One more milestone on the path of myriad. are markers of our future). yet still at root a scar. I shed this scab and keep a scar. too. it writes all human destiny. No way to bind this. Open wounds ooze and bleed to form upon my rend an armor cold— this dries and cracks and tears away revealing. One cannot forget the claw that blazons history into soft skin and bone the character of all mortality. with scrawl and scratch and deep impression that we may always recollect. but unity 19 . closer to a whole.

a cleaving—present. my earthly thread. these insignia recall for me. past in continuity. future. when I lose sight of who and where I am.with all that lives within and out. *** 20 . for life.

but this makes numbers. hands into a pleasant haze while there is still time. this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. silent.Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. most certainly. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. is always time. 21 . stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. small joys. this parting. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. refuses to be stirred. There will be more. So it begins. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. and broken red chaise draped with camisole— The tousle of vacant clothes bedside slowly takes your form and figure full of life and recent love still etched upon your breast.

Caesura branches rustle panes rattle carpet forms impressions of feet anticipation of you wind a shiver on skin grown cold stiff flesh shuddering erratic pulsations benediction of you 22 .

Head gently bowed (hide the eyes from sidelong glance). truth. but for your quiet weary meditation. maquillage and dishes: daily glamour.Bow Another day begins. from you a subtle emanation—all the sound is silent. you would think me mad. This seeking shiver 23 . unguarded—without artifice. to hear me speak. as if these minute observations were a truth—yes. The dull awakening. your eyelids close. to hide how my quietude longs for feeling breast to breast our heartbeats' rhythm. your blue folds in blue. you stand in light. and see. I am quiet in the dim banality. and the light is gone: from me. flowing iridescent swirls upon perspiring fingers. untold to you. Trivialities. to stifle my yearning to be held— but I am beyond words. you dissolve in private rhapsody. your hair a sable veil whose threads protect your beauty. to call poetry. I watch. unknown to me. truth: Truth. some phrase not trite. Alone. You would find it mundane. and I am dumb to let this moment (as so many) die. I search my pitiful mute vocabulary for brilliant wit. as any other. The dawn illuminates me as it reflects your delicate flesh.

in presence of your beauty. in still reflection wonder. where I dwell. void aspect of a warm alienation.of my empty hands will force a paper to record by token and quill this lapse and that will be all: this unspeaking becomes a vacuum. waititing still for the fastening of your last button. 24 .

Twilight Muse Sunset sky stained amber silver: Thunderstorms, near the fractured horizon; Then all in a moment is still, serene. He sits gazing the mirror pond: The shuddering trees down cast their leaves, Gild gold its periphery. Silent spread peace like a veil adorned: A supplicant libation in the still; A waiting repose for the pulse. A breath wind gives life this animate world, Trees, glass reflection his wandering soul: The breath stirs her sacrament kiss: It alone inspires earth and sky.

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Tenor

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Stigmata
As words unspent are ineffable, mute the white light that refracts red, green, blue upon your eyes is, too, invisible; unseen would die starved of appreciation: I must tell it to you, your beauty. Pensive, you sit; darkness upon your mantle, you turn your eyes away in stillness, to tell me you have lived, with your beauty (I shiver with wonder to think of you then); how the darkness was your protector as it veiled you in its invisible pitch— beyond comment and reach of the blank stares, the murmur of dumb voices and the wounds that sunlight inflicts as your eyes reflect in the void of their gazing. You wished then your beauty die, and cut yourself from yourself, away, as though cursed leprotic; fresh scars now hide deeper scars so irremediable, your compromise: scars to displace thy stigma, concealed. Still they stare. I— could not, you say, I cannot be beautiful.

In the silences between our words our thoughts lurk
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easily. So much is knowledge we do not know—I thought this once. Thoughts, my thoughts: to show the world that sees only a calm smile and affable visage emotion would chill their marrow. I could have shown you then, before your eyes, the cut seldom heals. Diamonds, crystalline, beautiful as your limpid eyes in the mauve sunrise light—they show no scratches on their hardened faces then shatter completely. What gem scars easily yet never shattering—such beauty reveals always the flaws of its cuts, but cannot hide; this Platonic beauty has been glimpsed by same eyes, tongues have whispered it to tell how; but these glances vile, words been obscene, become my stigma, never quite dead. I cannot yet die, or would, perhaps, to kill pain. Light and silence are the curse of those disowned by their reflections, still beautiful beneath all veils. Our denial is a bond that draws us together as it chains us to our pasts if we choose to deny. No reparations now for these unnatural, no repeal of scars. I bear to you my hand, its stigma still bleeding— touch me.
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or wings the stuff of wind and sky. it is our one true sacrament. of course. experience of all the world. and we are spirits first. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. but is not us. taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. and even its emotion. are beauty.Changes I have heard that people change from you. for we are love. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. the well a part of thirst. reflections. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. intimations. ever brighter— 29 . where the heavens are. above all else: our flesh may change and must. our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others.

i would dissolve into the meaning of annihilation. and this remind me of the youth i lost in being much too long without you near. the meaning of it all or anything. if only en passant your graceful glide. no matter that my wisdom contravenes. and talk about the scope of love and love's desire. your beauty shall fill up my life. gone what was me once. my reason. to you. and give me rhapsodies forevermore to sing. the life within your breast. that you are beautiful above all things is all that matters.After youth is if i were young i would idolize you: the most beautiful girl in the world. become what i could not be certain. i'd sing about the light within your eyes. my hands. and i would know that this is sufficient. Yet I shall reach my hand. if i were young. I seek the touch itself no longer. what I am or was. and as we touched. my queen. i would wait to see you every day. and while I retain my voice. if i were still young i would sing to you a myriad of drunken rhapsodies and tell to you above all how gorgeous aurora is upon your azure eyes. while knowing we will never touch. and i would take your hand and hold it to divine the pulse of universal force within that moves all things from form to soul. my eyes. now the act of reaching is the vital thing. 30 . if i were— but I am not. while the light remains a spark upon your eye. I know that now the universe does not for any second care about my soul's eradication.

to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. and i unenlightened breeder male.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. their words of us are self-pitiful. who does not. and all i think is how very beautiful the curvature of your lips and the fullness of your form beneath the water speckling your hardened leather jacket. and then. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. 31 . and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. madness to suppose. absence of care: human flotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. because your flesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. and i probably the great-grandson of the slave of your pioneer kindred— matters nothing when the rain drives you to shelter next to me. and that this is all that matters. but i've heard worser. but the only way out is to tell you that you have come into my life and transfigured it without so much as knowing or try.

the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity. and you into something greater 32 . yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. if only for awhile.Humble origins A broken bone. a mis(sed) direction: the warmness radiant in your parted lips as you breathe first life is not a spiritual gift. all creation—a body of work to fill ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical. a fleshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche. but rather the gift of taking. the butterfly form of first menstrual blood. but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me.

a tap. a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked. 33 . and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest. there is something before the nothingness that must decay to bring forth life.Snowfall the first season is not spring but fall. Slow regeneration in a bud. a bloom. not a door that closes. but an opening into the future. as humus needs the moss the cycle begins in death.

nor consider all the possibilities of what would happen if they looked just one more time. in life or death. lifting his long hair into a moire before his eyes driving by. though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list. more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather. These two will never know that they have met in gaze.11 by 14 The window opens upon the world and limits nothing now three floors up. City life is more than the sum of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians. she stops. Eyes are crusted dry. and met each the other's eyes. 34 . Her hands twitch. he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze.

whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. and I shall only with these murmur words dance about your painting (upper Egyptian hieroglyphs of sostenuto with sounds all alone yours against the silence shadowing your life and death. Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us.A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) fiddles. accompany to witnesses. white unmoved by your arco gliss. silence cleaves us of ourselves. You call. but all unnoticed. its unit structures of walking unwalked. You were more than your destiny. evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit)) 35 . They shall die. Monk knew.

prana of nothingness where once had been your eye gazing black to all. 36 . after Tauhid. opaque as death.there was only. the vacuum. now whitened.

that it is enough. you would be who you say not who you refuse. I to you. not to change. For you. Not to know. only care. mystery that reveals not. a prison. as you are. This is not given to me. remain a void. your eyes in their reflection glow with wonder.A Void You would never understand that we are never that which we say we are. and that this is of no consequence. If I could will. the same. when there is comfort within the walls. your charm voluptuous fills with electricity—none of these. Denial is protection. 37 . as all the rest: nothing special. I cannot in bright rhapsody tell you how the sun pales against your silhouette.

broken city itself reflecting rows of Ezra Pound petals pass swiftly by and by to others I am one such strange passenger: without so much as root wherever my feet pause—or stop 38 .Moire each drop holds a mirror upside down. turvy-topsy bent incidences streak across the glass bent incidences sparkle where reflections freeze— inverted miniatures of mirror beads eyes glass and rain beyond this moire.

nothing 39 . the past rules all too crawl at that perimeter and plead entrance. purged of all language masks. a focus.Aleph Null As nature. to strangle thoughts yet unspoke rotting notions. old words. Dead thoughts there scream. Mute genesis. inside this ring. screaming stifle the calm silence. cacophonous choirs of undead unwanted things All hope is false) hope. I create a silence. around me. drawn. am whole again. where. the cipher around me carved of stones Cinders are scars of a dead flame is the bourn of my temptation. the center me. universal. voice of the as yet unfelt idea— nothing. moribund. attending mind concentrate (Dust will not remain undisturbed the emptiness of me. Lenten. I am pure. wilderness.

without water. all are powerless All change is chaos. here. the beginning. stasis is order crosses. No knowing (the vase without flowers. ruptures my solitude. without motion.Nothing changes. the invisible hieroglyph of the spirit) There is only the breath primeval. 40 .

Nothing is caught. 41 .Compound History is made in glass. they consecrate the hours' sacrifice. there nothing lost in reflections: the machicolations guard nothing but shadow on the sundial numerals and the silence of a zephyr. their preserve. Innocent as black sheep. Architects imprison these in their makeup.

the chewing of time. each beside the other. and shall pass again. The studio was for the studious. where pages turn slowly yellow." We had no leisure to discuss our artistry. nameless but for the lines in which we write our anonymity. 42 . and I have lived. Our work was ours. We could not complain. Many more famous than I have passed. trying only to survive in such times where heroes only could thrive in the images. Others are lost to time. they will wear laurels. ideas— they shall outlast the work and worker who was mere creator. doing "a good job. then decay. Renderings of lead and china white will be remains. Living: living was what we knew. only work. as we worked in our quietude. the rest was asides. not to breed stars.Work For Hire (for Sheldon Moldoff) A single bristle makes no brush.

accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang. the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns. eyes that do not blink. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread.Utterance Wheels grind. Could she feel this if I touched her? Would she regain her innocence? And transform me into electricity? Thought— 43 . and there are clouds. wrought hands.

evasive mystery.What passes is not time Ten thousand nights since you caught the light and scattered it with dance. and if you asked he'd say. If he could sit and gently gaze through wisps of winter coffee into your eyes. You could tell him things. if he could find them: some rhapsody of how in trance he held you—this would not do. just part of the routine—not so for him: that bit bore deeply in his grain... with you. No poetry.he could listen. No outstanding day for you. Mostly it was words he wanted. no prose but simple conversation. all would blur senseless in the fog: it would be kind to see your beauty through the haze so much like his mind years past. No way to reverse that flow of time. echoing in the hollow: too many memories unmade of you now. His rapt attention would be enough to let you know him harmlessly. incomplete in history and form. "I wish we could be friends 44 . if they could talk—no. you would talk.

So many ifs are lost in silences. "Do not underestimate the power of memory recurring.. You could tell him. You would know.yet I do not know how to ask in plain words.if only." You would smile softly at his bashful reticence. and mock him gently.." he'd say. if only.. and still you're only good with words on paper. "So many years gone by. 45 .. if only he could speak. given flesh and voice.

not to be. once past. the drool of insincere mouths and the pain in my chest when I wake. if I cared about that sort of thing. 46 . and I am therefore typical. Being is for people who can afford the frosty gaze.Blonde antipode The trick is to seem. but these are not me—even if I knew who I really am. the sear of jealous tempers. just some approximate me. All is still. typical. When the poet wrote about the dancing girls. if only to make it all subside into silence. The weather wanes. Reflections not complete. it was a mask. Pieces of this and that. like the silt stirred up by storms outside Sarehole Mill. But typical of what? Myriad stereotypes to assemble into some kind of me. This only seems contradiction if you believe all you see. And so my mask. So. There is safety in the mundane. split open. and not her self. the water is calm and clear.

or theirs taken from People magazine and television talk show tripe— but me. for you to find and prove me that you think your search is worthwhile. not looking through me. soon become opaque. and I will make my marks. I shall be typical. beyond cliches. 47 . You have told me you admire them. Water soon will turn to mud. like the moon upon the harvest grain. too. there is still time. The storms begin again.I know you see my veil and guise. Can you see more? Can you peer deep. the slightly fearful child who wants to love and be loved now for all of me. I will remove with you I say to you such wild things and hope you will believe not what I have said. too. their patina of stale normality. brilliant. and I shall don my cloak to weather it once more. but know: for those who wait. I will stand out. if you will believe my words. not into your images of me. if you will have me. but what you feel within. But beautiful. the girl without and the dormant goddess within? I shall hide these like an Easter egg.

Alto 48 .

as leaves. their claws dictation.Nine Crows Nine crows gather in the naked trees. then all is still. a maze of broken concrete. fall just between their overseen: the new-laid baseball field. They preen and nod so knowing each in their sequester: their bills silent. 49 . their cabal breathes intimate and dark billows of thin fog. glass and shredded steel. wings outspread. where minds are spent like wet ammunition and dead ends are plainly visible. surrounded with barbed wire fence: this will be the site of lost childhoods and numbers run.

two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues).Tintinnabulation he wears a cell phone hands free (in the other ear an iPod bud) pretending vapidly to listen to his own bullshit blather and the trite screamings of the dumbass on the other end the bus drives into darkness wizened. sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola. dying in nostalgia for a time that sucked his dreams down like a toilet sucks urine neon lights barely flickering the oldest corner of marble and cobblestone in the city. and the inanities of college students. no listening. cell phones. weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak. and no one finds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. eager for their first drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. and sense of suffering. until silence once more has value there— 50 . idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception.

mirror: who's the fairest. mist from wheels capturing the halogen blue of auto lights. so it is said. I too lose myself in the haze. nor quite on a lark. It was just clarification.Photo Op Another night on the M1. Mirror. Even this one you remind me: I recall. I was never there to be famous. not in the pictures somehow. who's the quickest one to be through with it all. In the reflection of the reflections I see a gallery of images surround me: pictures to mark the moments of my life where I could smile. but not entirely there. and my sense the world has gone quite mad? Could they take this loneliness and soften it with love and random kindnesses? Probably not. Likely they would drift from me with jealous words and petty notions of security. but of them as a hermit crab is of his hermitage. together. I think about the separation. But we were there. Photogenic. the naive contestants in the people pageantry. always. a not-so beauty contest. 51 . too young to be in awe of the simple gifts. and slowly spraying spring rainbows that decay into the wind. holding ourselves for all to see. Too young to remember. What is beauty? What matters? Theses for poets and philosophes to debate in books I will never read. who's the biggest. Would they have shared my causes.

What I missed was chance. You remind me of it all. 52 . you hold the paper in your hands and memory. I could have stood with all of us. All I wanted was to sink into my chair and be able to sit upright. Fame is not my thing. That. pasted then cut out and (mercifully) become a news footnote. and the rain washes quickly over the glass and it all fades in again: the road is uncertain tonight. It's okay. has past. if she'd have us) of friends. and didn't have them bestowed on me. too. brought together by some fluke of biology but now inseparable. It was only clarification. Such is the fickleness of taste and chance and circumstance. all smiles. not feeling the burden anymore. I didn't expect a title or congratulations. I just smile in echo of that moment.My fifteen minutes past. and bared myself to the world as a trio (or quartet. This is my exit. Lights flicker still through the torrents.

and teeth scattered like dice— for you. flesh pierced through by iridescent shards of steel to bleed out vitriol the snap of bone against aluminum and the lifelessness of muscle revealing ghastly mortality. 53 .Eschatology For all who have had their hearts lacerated by the flak of glass shard. legs where arms should be. I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good.

It's a little lonely in my age to look around and see the smiles of vapid yuppies who used to smoke pot and the Republicans with mohawks. great. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. so full of wonderful. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 . going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. No one ever read in my hands the years of sloth and pointless toil it took to get this much closer to the end of my life without so much as a single bit of fortune. no. The only fortune ever smiled upon me was that I grew up impervious to promise and kept a warm heart beneath all my bitten skeptic skin. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. but not at all surprising. supposedly. and wave to mom from outer space. Oh. was scrawled.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future.

I hold this love I've always held for friends who most probably think that I've forgotten them. Just don't come up to me and say. from shelter. because you don't know how it felt to see you coast 55 . especially the clean-up time. in spite of all that life presents. I still. I'll tell you that I do not know." when I hated your sorry ass then and now. I hold still to my ideals of youth. live and act as though my neighborhood and species are capable of something better than selling out to humanoid-formed demons' dreams of plush conformity—only. I remember you from school. I still. Only.everyone forgot the future. except a very long killing spree that would lose its fun quality after the first five years or so. believe. I know only that I have no other option. you cannot ask me how. dude. "Gee. and that would be a bummer. always tempered by encounters with stupid assholes in my life.

oblivious to all. I look down at my well-lined palms. The falling of a full moon night. beautiful to me. That past is dead. Silent thoughts. I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead. But here: take this orchid to show that I can turn the other cheek. or how I hated every day of waking up to faces. 56 .on by. whose eyes never saw me. and think. The breath of wind that blows through trees across.

57 . when all they show is the vacuum tube not only sucks but supplants an intellect that might be used for something other than garbage repository: maybe some existence in a world where there are leaves and conversations grow. blinded by blood. contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. there is only the emptiness it always hid.Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there. The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail. the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe.

too. lameness. Ergonomics. Any trailer park can spawn a brood of drooling Morons who will probably run for office While they fuck up all they touch in taking Places from the ones who actually might Make another's life worth living and spread Beauty. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. 58 . Everyone. Bring back natural selection's vengeance.Trochaic monologue Truly. Jailtime. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. wake the hell up! Let these assholes Do away with themselves and stop taking Up the precious air that's better spent on Plants with purpose: let these jack-offs die now. grain rotation. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. Now. this day I call forth: People. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. joy and love instead of beer cans. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy.

dumb as a veil. for)) quiet solitude as mysteries of the Stone: mute. yet transcendent) shroud the limits of an ineffable—end.Sarcophagus skeletal beneath the flesh where shivers in a (here broken. where numbers did not) suffice—these now insensate things hidden. no longer (words were once the sigil. there (inclement mortality. 59 . where beginnings are foresworn.

and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. then went and got tattoos. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. put scarrifications across our flesh. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor films replace our actual thoughts—that is. if we ever had any. since someone on the Internet said so. and who could argue with such mighty. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. since Derrida said we didn't.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion 60 .

enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 . and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. and the smell of death and shit. except that they work for a living seven death sentences and life imprisonment is the vengeance of blind law (thank god for the old testament enlightenment that demands death for more dead): their names lost. blood veins with shrapnel islands. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills.Broken limbs Eight officers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent flesh. and more. eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town. The cute police statue erected moves every ten years because no one can stand to be reminded of the depths of human idiocy and cruelty of so-called organizations— this.

his face has no memory of smiles a little-sized jacket with The Doors logo: he cannot be more than nine years old as they all climb back into the Volkswagen Eurovan. fashionably red and modern 62 .The reformed hippiesʼ children Their legs and arms in a constant bounce bounce as though they do not care about gravity His red hair lifted carefree by the quayʼs zephyr. his brother sharing the gaiety his mother unamused and stern walks just ahead of his father who squints behind his spectacles.

whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. espresso and glossy. riddled Reaganʼs effigy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies. and floated garbage bags with hydrogen down its halls and the all night concerts that staved off the nights of wonder where the next meal came from and what would be left after nuclear winter and mutual assured destruction. the school where his two children toil daily.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him firmly in his late afternoon ritual. cocaine potatoes. now he returns to a suburban 63 . Reflecting from the image of the SUV window. how in college kicked a television set down six flights.

everyone should fight such resignations.Dorian Grey reversal film now: old images of self beatified obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. sure. and wife one must sacrifice all sorts what was worth fighting for that he cannot recall the time his parents visited and left him with his childhood Holy Bible and a foul taste. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. or of course not like them. and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. bed bath and beyond… None of this was planned in marijuana haze and chats around the Poor Manʼs James Bond pipe bombs slipped into the neighborʼs Brand names and leather interiors. and 64 . rate and time the measure of life for the children. principles are now thought with interests in mind.

the light. What does it say for CSI Miami tonight… His mug perched on the teak. the old embers in his night-brown eyes flicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun. the glass reflex and then returns to reading The Village Voice article about Ani DiFranco and the politics of approval. reflection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic 65 .for just a moment.

metal teeth chew the earth become asphalt. 66 . theirs. he has scurried slowly across the field to watch his swamp world filled with the vacuity of forms and ideas of progress. some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel. again.Before the condos are planted the croak of the lone tree frog reminds pastoral is dead. subdivided theirs. theirs and maybe some space we are absorbed.

As so often you leave mundane traps your vision does not see and my wishes are silent therefore you will not know how how a how long ing how timid how warm how much how I no you will not because you see clearly before you the press of your days dull routine and all that you or I would want is so much less than the duties of your imagining 67 .

rape (all in sight. self-stylish as if it were (grand creation to imbibe the dross of your dying world and forth spew from your mouth this shit once from assholes of corporations who shit it first on you. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not flush. of course. such a mystery 68 . resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. wow. pomade glazed goatee and wry (never vapid) self-satisfaction like the ankh that dangles emptily above upon your second-hand Nehru) flares digging Tony Bennett on designer headphones.Walking Rauschenberg. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. on lost costumanity. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. by capture tranquilized. what makes you (for you are made. thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. care) No. beneath glass and wire rim.

69 . Blue. The brilliant colors bleed. Prey. Metal quarry. these concentric circles begin. A small and silent trickling becomes a flux. golden brown. and gold to pale amber against the black rocks. unseen hunter. Open wound. anemic red. Blue into dull puce. then red. then gold.Unseen hunter Spoors of industry. pierced with points of stone. Rain.

nine.Scrabbles Scrabbles at the denim. and are still. offers not. twelve fourteen bones beneath the unwrinkled green sigil. and marrow but the hand. hieroglyph that once marked warriors. 70 . eyes deep in shadow regret their vigilance. Blood flows there. meretricious. withdrawn. now mere ornament. Three. six.

Baritone 71 .

72 . nor the lineament of the air that.Myriad metaphors Myriad metaphors—all are mute: none describe the light that shimmers reflections of the mauve setting sun's light upon the darkness of your eyes. heavy with your perfume. cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life.

Eye unblinking. a wound where once I wiped away my mouth: it no longer murmurs words to cry the twinge of memory. No fear there to strangle secrets. My hand now curled. and unseen face away this moment. lie like moonlight. but for your touch: still unto death. This choir of blood now pale within your radiance—a plaintive vocalise. see the rivulets of crimson not. warmth of night. unstirred passions wither and are unmoved. never see this uncertain reach before it dies in down. lost as mystery. its dissonance. no.Silent Night Ten thousand past specters denude themselves beneath a blanket darkness. 73 . fallen. A human hand might hear and heal its silent melancholy song. Held to you. leave to me your backside turned. beneath dusts of time. do not turn your sleeping smile to me and gaze upon my visage. where scars unseal themselves as mute mouths now. no untidy retributions from a whisper light. But no fingers reach in counterpoint: I am a cappella. Beside me. numb bears a not quite invisible. unpursed lips telling deaf ears tales of soft and liquid history: how. The question fades and dies: unanswered call. by light of Eve.

74 . before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and defines you. No glass sufficient to reflect the magnitude of your heavenly body. scattering prism reflections. but you —you could take me in your hands like a dewdrop in the morning sunlight. dissolve into your divine radiance. the fruition of cosmic design. and so it blinds them all to the soul within.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form.

and.Ribbon Time is a bright black ribbon in your hair unwinding the opposite of the clock— fingers slow extend to touching at the contact is all stasis: each impulse of electric apprehension alone. as myriad strands of sunlight reflecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand. before all thought and perception. at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. in this in the moment. perfect. 75 . no future tense only present.

no meaning. or color your skin reflects (all races mere reflections of light. I am no magician—nor will words. Many people think because they are powerless to do these things they (like them) have no life. if only for us. and punctuate the air with your signature. On the wind a breath recalls the vibration: where our ancestors sang the world from our dreaming into the stuff of now.Voice of the Brahma Divine words cannot change the curls of your hair. awhile. All these can do is try: to reach that which within us is genius. create sculptures of flesh or metal or marble to raise swords in justification. small or polysyllable. 76 . Do not feel this rationalization. of that we form into the future. this is the breath of us. and let a light radiate forth by scratching the patina of banality that hides you from me. Fly into the billowing. yourself.

If I want to dream of you and all sensations that clothe you suddenly reveal your naked beauty. 77 .

to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the flux of your diffracted symmetry.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. Suspended moment: this vision. this picture memory. Did not this wind hover about us and waft between us where the perfume of our bodies mingle surround with the other essence each of us. did not your napeskin tremble then with blush beneath the shadow silent—no love would resonate my hollow cavity where syncopates 78 . your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. recall our sympathy. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. of eyes grown dusky with reflection as they avert. delineate your figure beneath the peignoir silk touched fluorescent green.

this intangible reflection gives life to this lifeless would picture. no frame. these uncertain fingers retract perspiring from your heat. no blood pulsates suddenly wordless against our cold lips. delicate. this moment binds. 79 . This frame silences the motion. I hold alone an image.your pulse with mine: this is all we know. the spirit animate that surrounds your body corporeal. no taste upon our tongues the salt of passion quiets my bristling thoughts. No kiss. preserves only a moment past. no captured silence before words becalmed to nothing—still it lives. if it could.

this celebration. high above the spinning earth now bathed in luminescence. In your aura. who wait and wish for spring as surely as they shy from winter gray. who love. As you are reborn. stamens. each year another blessing. you are the star of all. you would see how.Solstice As any other day. dust will dissipate. If you could stand and be aware of heaven. leaves grow green again. Ten cycles of the sun. stands in your shade. The sun stops in the sky. the sun will arise from low behind snow-spangled mountain peaks. three times. exactly each as this (we mark them all with candles)—why should this day be different from all others? Your life goes on. for all. have passed before. 80 . for you. eclipsed. as west wind swirls about your form to caress you with its felt formlessness and move your fabric to gorgeous delight. this day is yours alone to share with all who live. so the season brings renaissance to all things—this is your gift. invisible to the eye. and honeybees dance the silent message: You bring with you Spring's inspiration. and flowers will grip the soil and stone to bare their blossoms before the light. pistils sweet intercourse with each other. molten frost turns to dew. time stands still: for a moment. your nativity.

something less: a masquerade. Darlings all. caught in glass. sequin and decolletage are truth where Eros is love. these images. Here I am. The lens—a black moon rising. solicitations. with never a glimpse of me. these I know. Two decades staring. cliche redheads and cute hot tub hookers. Tinsel. through shuttered reverie: private resorts. and blue motels—dim domains all. soft smiles. They become one 81 . sororities.London Youth that dreams of nothing else dreams to see herself in silver and glass that projects rising stars. These pale. Yet they do not die. cut where I am consigned to Flatland and mere memory: memories— yes. lines and lines of repetition. no longer selves—no. free no more but slave shackled to the bland mint where dreams are pressed dead green. but hide beneath the stately ivy carapace that clutches for dear life to that which fuels its fuse. and dumb inanities. soulless shadows searching.

and live together where a separation kills. See. 82 . my shell: a genius symmetry—and know my lone invisibility.

her visions: (A girl. but what lives within: love me. You kiss gently this form. Her skin shivers beneath the furrows as his fingernails bite softly into her shoulders. nor the dilation of your eyes. as I 83 . a woman. inward she turns. present. spent. her mortality forgot.Midnight moonlight Silken. unquestioned questions. She would have no form. In this her love's flesh. beside her self. for whatever you (have. searching. love me for my invisibility—she sinks. curl about your fingers these tresses that veil me—for these. midnight moonlight cobalt blue uipon the curve of her ilium. Silent as the mountain snow drives through the vale. now. love. Now only the question. beneath the moisture of his breath she feels (the words): You are. will) see of me. into thought solitude. The shadow (of snow upon the wall)—turns her lips toward him with whisper: You see of me many images. a life: these are not known until lost. she lies beside her lover. supine. slight. Not for the line draws your calf to thigh. and all (I desire) only. pure desire unite and merge their esences (calm her lover upon) her breast: pure love. then (a lady. eyes averted. so may questions so may (with stone opacity) youth. for all these impressions do not love them. and what then? she) knew none of this .

her bosom to his. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty. or the sharp hard bone of your mouth beneath your kiss—I —no other way.touch your hand—not for the berry brown of your areolae. your beauty is you. than this—I could not— I cannot love the absence of the space. love. she thinks. 84 . She draws close the curtain. and perhaps is right.) Such might he say. and shares with him an invisible moment.

85 . these words' place upon your lips. invisible feeling become palpable through these palms. as myriads now. Sensations are all. connection: remote as they are twain in the mystery. Striking light upon fingers. nightly slipping through our hands. and this is knowledge: indices. We did not know. and sends from each to each our identity. How this world. All sight unseen. digit to digit. Passes from light to digital motion through chemistry are not words. Two have known this. eyes. A spittle mote more important than a blush or perspiration. receptive. its drama written. emotions sightless. intricate movement. against all possibility. your sweet perspiration. No longer no closer than the line between: no more detached protocol. formulae. We were twice ourselves then.Connection Twelve chimes distant toll. our fingers creating the real from the intangible made this: tangible. A flow of electric excitement creates vision. and we are real as the flesh that touches now. This is now.

86 .Eve The cloak night shrouds your Cynthian form. Shining endow with silver radiance The universe cleaved with your velvet.

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