poems by Omar Willey
poems by Omar Willey
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
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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse
9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 25
Stigmata Changes After youth is Disparate ideologies in the rain Humble origins Snowfall 11 by 14
27 29 30 31 32 33 34
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
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.
49 50 51 53 54 57 58 59 60 61 62 66 67 68
Unseen hunter Scrabbles
Myriad metaphors Silent Night Splendour Ribbon Voice of the Brahma If Intangible Solstice London Midnight moonlight Connection Eve Reminiscence
72 73 74 75 76 77 78 80 81 83 85 83 83
This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you. still. because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made
I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors. Pages blank and torn. words smudged.
. crossed out.for Aaron Greenreich. promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn.
their words its sole motion: there. Time cloven hearts. They stretch now their arms toward an embrace that is not felt. a lone silent empathy. his youth (so youthless) no obstacle. no numerals mar its eternal concomitance. warm with the blush of blood. invisible to mortality. Two share the bond of separation. horizons know terra and ﬁrmament ﬁssure. As she.
. no love. solemn upon their hearts. no assuage for them."
Friendship should be so binding as vows repeat their memories. he recalls how in a touch the world would seem again: darkened gloams at riverside. forever. Parallel they held near each other and shared imaginings of a time eonic in its stasis. quiet words exchanged for silent thoughts— her beauty was never a question. naked and real— shared: "We shall meet at the horizon. no stolid masques enacted. No sadness. where heaven meets the plain.Bond Two share the bond of separation. Serene communications. all is memory.
. I lose myself within the why Encircles my scarred isolation. I long to leave my desert chamber. In blackness sink in mute reﬂection. I want to rest within your realm. Within the dampened caesura I wish The touch to synchronize our souls. I wake. The dust. Murmur broken words in fading haze And try to touch your speechless image As it ﬁnally dies away.Hermitage The cold gray sunshine light that pierces Through the shadow drapes' shimmer ﬁlls The air that clings my ﬂesh with emptiness. Still. But you are silent and withhold from me Your purifying word and touch. this soul infuses ecstasy. feel your pulse— Is that love?—awake within the dream. In this still solitude there is nothing. and staring see the silence. To feel your nearness. Still minutes drown inside my blood. I dream deposed on tinctured shroud. the stench. still. you offer no resolution. recurs. I want your touch illume the beauty Sleeps entombed in jade memory. Your apparition. the hermitage. Escape—into the luminous: Your evanescent vision warms With life. Footfall rain resounds within The vacuum of my silent room.
. A single shadow conjoin us: I hold my hand to you through darkness. Trembling in your light I whisper. I close my eyes: hesitation.I cannot leave this dream to die alone.
Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber. now free ﬂy away
. 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.
all as broken branches from my life's tree where you have trespassed.Prints I ﬁnd still your spoors about my den. now I am bitten where frost turns hoary and blue my ﬂesh. still could prey on those. for love that gnaws vapidly within. I ﬁnd no passion remains. old traces of blood where we loved. instinct to kill now bound. my ﬂuid and your ﬂuid in pattern of a voluptuous ﬂower. I cannot here live nor feed. I wonder as my misery turns to the numb of dying and crimson trickles life away—if I had not loved. cast like demon out. Love. I am rendered as a waning man. all is ice and dust. where all about is nothing. cold in the light and begging warmth only your body could provide.. This wilderness engulfs me. strands of hair. one as I would give to you. perfumerie.. and. I killed a hunter I had become.
. ﬁngerprints in talcum. But yours are the prints impressed upon my barren environ where I am dying there is no other.
listens no noise.Spiral Alone staring into the dark above: no moonbeams. seeing no razing. cold soul. stars interrupt the black jejune. A cyclone spiral. no subtle brilliance crack stark helix shell where frightened curls this idiot spirit. destroys all. And like still night. preserving alone the I of the whorl. the vortex pitch swirls about the eye glowers at me. recoiling attack. shadows former love.
The shadows of our souls are mute In glow of holy light. Alone we bind our solitude. A silent covenant To sanctify our unity.
.Sub Rosa I hold to you a rainbow blossom.
this moment between us.
. These imaginings are squander. I am but a lone human being as you. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam.The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing. no poet to fashion and from your truth ﬁgure metaphors and prostitutions. and I. tender with ineffable emotions. are such. No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. sensuous.
.Vibration Your voice reverberates upon my ﬂesh. These vibrations pass silently away. lost within the damp air that surrounds us and bears to each the other hesitant shiver. returning to you the palpitation of my heart.
The slight blush behind your smile and apology. and merge me into you. but had come together for an instant. I think. the way you brushed against me so gently that I stopped. All these things felt. I wished our careless touch would go forever on and into both of us. exchanged electricity. we smiled to turn away with civilized politeness and potential death where there would have been. 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. Instead. We knew nothing of each other. but all of my breath trembling with excitement and the know.
.Recognition (In a Bookstore) It was an accident.
new wounds: each time more shallow. memories of hurt that tell me quietly that my travails show consequence where I have grown. with scrawl and scratch and deep impression that we may always recollect. it writes all human destiny. closer to a whole. yet still at root a scar. One cannot forget the claw that blazons history into soft skin and bone the character of all mortality. One more milestone on the path of myriad. No way to bind this. as certainly as we are life the hands of time shall notate us. an index not of suffering. too. all sigils on its palimpsest. are markers of our future).The progress of my scars I watch the progress of my scars. Open wounds ooze and bleed to form upon my rend an armor cold— this dries and cracks and tears away revealing. as lines within our palmistry (these. what my ﬂesh shall not know again without pain and grim reﬂection—perhaps this is the knowledge never hid. there is only healing. underneath the old. I shed this scab and keep a scar. but unity
when I lose sight of who and where I am. past in continuity. ***
.with all that lives within and out. for life. these insignia recall for me. a cleaving—present. my earthly thread. future.
So it begins.Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. 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. this parting. this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. is always time. There will be more. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. refuses to be stirred. silent. hands into a pleasant haze while there is still time. but this makes numbers.
. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. most certainly. small joys.
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
some phrase not trite. maquillage and dishes: daily glamour. Trivialities. and I am dumb to let this moment (as so many) die. truth. This seeking shiver
. ﬂowing iridescent swirls upon perspiring ﬁngers. your hair a sable veil whose threads protect your beauty. as any other. you would think me mad. you dissolve in private rhapsody. your eyelids close. untold to you. to hide how my quietude longs for feeling breast to breast our heartbeats' rhythm. I am quiet in the dim banality. but for your quiet weary meditation. Head gently bowed (hide the eyes from sidelong glance). truth: Truth. from you a subtle emanation—all the sound is silent. and the light is gone: from me. Alone. to hear me speak. I watch.Bow Another day begins. unguarded—without artiﬁce. The dawn illuminates me as it reﬂects your delicate ﬂesh. to call poetry. You would ﬁnd it mundane. The dull awakening. unknown to me. and see. your blue folds in blue. to stiﬂe my yearning to be held— but I am beyond words. you stand in light. I search my pitiful mute vocabulary for brilliant wit. as if these minute observations were a truth—yes.
in still reﬂection wonder.
. waititing still for the fastening of your last button. void aspect of a warm alienation. in presence of your beauty.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. where I dwell.
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.
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
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.
Changes I have heard that people change from you. our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. the well a part of thirst. where the heavens are. taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. for we are love. intimations. experience of all the world. are beauty. reﬂections. and even its emotion. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. above all else: our ﬂesh may change and must. of course. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. and we are spirits ﬁrst. but is not us. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. it is our one true sacrament. ever brighter—
that you are beautiful above all things is all that matters. while knowing we will never touch.
.After youth is if i were young i would idolize you: the most beautiful girl in the world. no matter that my wisdom contravenes. to you. and i would know that this is sufﬁcient. i would wait to see you every day. if i were— but I am not. 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. and this remind me of the youth i lost in being much too long without you near. the meaning of it all or anything. and talk about the scope of love and love's desire. my eyes. and give me rhapsodies forevermore to sing. if i were young. my reason. I know that now the universe does not for any second care about my soul's eradication. 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. your beauty shall ﬁll up my life. gone what was me once. I seek the touch itself no longer. now the act of reaching is the vital thing. my queen. my hands. the life within your breast. Yet I shall reach my hand. and as we touched. what I am or was. if only en passant your graceful glide. i would dissolve into the meaning of annihilation. become what i could not be certain. and while I retain my voice. i'd sing about the light within your eyes. while the light remains a spark upon your eye.
who does not.
. and i unenlightened breeder male. somewhere it deﬁes a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. 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. but i've heard worser. and then. madness to suppose. because your ﬂesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. their words of us are self-pitiful. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. 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. 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. and that this is all that matters. absence of care: human ﬂotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares.
but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me.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. but rather the gift of taking. and you into something greater
. a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy. all creation—a body of work to ﬁll ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. a ﬂeshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche. if only for awhile. the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity. the butterﬂy form of ﬁrst menstrual blood.
leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked.Snowfall the ﬁrst season is not spring but fall. there is something before the nothingness that must decay to bring forth life. not a door that closes. a bloom. but an opening into the future. and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest. a tap. a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. Slow regeneration in a bud. as humus needs the moss the cycle begins in death.
she stops. Her hands twitch. City life is more than the sum of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians. Eyes are crusted dry.
. in life or death. These two will never know that they have met in gaze. nor consider all the possibilities of what would happen if they looked just one more time.11 by 14 The window opens upon the world and limits nothing now three ﬂoors up. he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze. more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather. and met each the other's eyes. 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.
white unmoved by your arco gliss. its unit structures of walking unwalked. accompany to witnesses.A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) ﬁddles. silence cleaves us of ourselves. You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit))
. Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). You call. but all unnoticed. They shall die. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. You were more than your destiny. evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule. Monk knew. whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. 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.
prana of nothingness where once had been your eye gazing black to all. now whitened. the vacuum. opaque as death.there was only. after Tauhid.
Not to know. as you are. This is not given to me. you would be who you say not who you refuse. mystery that reveals not. your charm voluptuous ﬁlls with electricity—none of these. your eyes in their reﬂection glow with wonder.
. only care. remain a void. For you. that it is enough. Denial is protection. If I could will.A Void You would never understand that we are never that which we say we are. I cannot in bright rhapsody tell you how the sun pales against your silhouette. as all the rest: nothing special. I to you. not to change. the same. a prison. and that this is of no consequence. when there is comfort within the walls.
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.Moire each drop holds
a mirror upside down. 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
the center me.Aleph Null As nature. Mute genesis. moribund. purged of all language masks. wilderness. drawn. nothing
. old words. attending mind concentrate (Dust will not remain undisturbed the emptiness of me. cacophonous choirs of undead unwanted things All hope is false) hope. around me. I am pure. where. inside this ring. universal. voice of the as yet unfelt idea— nothing. screaming stiﬂe the calm silence. Lenten. the cipher around me carved of stones Cinders are scars of a dead ﬂame is the bourn of my temptation. am whole again. I create a silence. the past rules all too crawl at that perimeter and plead entrance. a focus. to strangle thoughts yet unspoke rotting notions. Dead thoughts there scream.
No knowing (the vase without ﬂowers. here. ruptures my solitude. all are powerless All change is chaos.Nothing changes. stasis is order crosses. the invisible hieroglyph of the spirit) There is only the breath primeval.
. without motion. the beginning. without water.
there nothing lost in reﬂections: the machicolations guard nothing but shadow on the sundial numerals and the silence of a zephyr. Innocent as black sheep.Compound History is made in glass. Nothing is caught. their preserve.
. they consecrate the hours' sacriﬁce. Architects imprison these in their makeup.
The studio was for the studious. where pages turn slowly yellow. the chewing of time.
. only work. Renderings of lead and china white will be remains. trying only to survive in such times where heroes only could thrive in the images. not to breed stars. doing "a good job. We could not complain. nameless but for the lines in which we write our anonymity.Work For Hire (for Sheldon Moldoff) A single bristle makes no brush. Others are lost to time." We had no leisure to discuss our artistry. and shall pass again. Living: living was what we knew. Many more famous than I have passed. and I have lived. Our work was ours. the rest was asides. each beside the other. they will wear laurels. as we worked in our quietude. then decay. ideas— they shall outlast the work and worker who was mere creator.
Could she feel this if I touched her? Would she regain her innocence? And transform me into electricity? Thought—
. accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang.Utterance Wheels grind. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns. and there are clouds. wrought hands. eyes that do not blink. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder.
if he could ﬁnd them: some rhapsody of how in trance he held you—this would not do.. No way to reverse that ﬂow of time. incomplete in history and form. if they could talk—no. with you. you would talk. "I wish we could be friends
. His rapt attention would be enough to let you know him harmlessly. 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. Mostly it was words he wanted. No poetry. echoing in the hollow: too many memories unmade of you now.What passes is not time Ten thousand nights since you caught the light and scattered it with dance. You could tell him things. just part of the routine—not so for him: that bit bore deeply in his grain. If he could sit and gently gaze through wisps of winter coffee into your eyes. no prose but simple conversation. evasive mystery.he could listen.. and if you asked he'd say. No outstanding day for you.
and mock him gently. "So many years gone by.. if only he could speak.
.yet I do not know how to ask in plain words. So many ifs are lost in silences.if only." he'd say. You could tell him. and still you're only good with words on paper.. given ﬂesh and voice. if only. "Do not underestimate the power of memory recurring." You would smile softly at his bashful reticence... You would know.
and I am therefore typical. Reﬂections not complete. and not her self. Pieces of this and that. So.Blonde antipode The trick is to seem. typical. split open. like the silt stirred up by storms outside Sarehole Mill. There is safety in the mundane. if I cared about that sort of thing. the water is calm and clear. if only to make it all subside into silence. Being is for people who can afford the frosty gaze. it was a mask. the sear of jealous tempers. This only seems contradiction if you believe all you see. The weather wanes. the drool of insincere mouths and the pain in my chest when I wake. When the poet wrote about the dancing girls. just some approximate me.
. but these are not me—even if I knew who I really am. not to be. All is still. once past. And so my mask. But typical of what? Myriad stereotypes to assemble into some kind of me.
Water soon will turn to mud. the slightly fearful child who wants to love and be loved now for all of me. like the moon upon the harvest grain. I shall be typical. not into your images of me. but know: for those who wait. too.I know you see my veil and guise. Can you see more? Can you peer deep. and I will make my marks. if you will have me.
. there is still time. not looking through me. but what you feel within. beyond cliches. the girl without and the dormant goddess within? I shall hide these like an Easter egg. their patina of stale normality. and I shall don my cloak to weather it once more. I will stand out. brilliant. The storms begin again. soon become opaque. for you to ﬁnd and prove me that you think your search is worthwhile. But beautiful. I will remove with you I say to you such wild things and hope you will believe not what I have said. or theirs taken from People magazine and television talk show tripe— but me. too. You have told me you admire them. if you will believe my words.
their claws dictation. where minds are spent like wet ammunition and dead ends are plainly visible.Nine Crows Nine crows gather in the naked trees.
. They preen and nod so knowing each in their sequester: their bills silent. fall just between their overseen: the new-laid baseball ﬁeld. glass and shredded steel. wings outspread. surrounded with barbed wire fence: this will be the site of lost childhoods and numbers run. a maze of broken concrete. as leaves. then all is still. their cabal breathes intimate and dark billows of thin fog.
eager for their ﬁrst drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. and sense of suffering. and the inanities of college students. 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. cell phones. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect.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. no listening. sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). 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. until silence once more has value there—
. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception.
Photogenic. But we were there. I think about the separation. too young to be in awe of the simple gifts. mirror: who's the fairest. Too young to remember. who's the quickest one to be through with it all.Photo Op Another night on the M1. mist from wheels capturing the halogen blue of auto lights. nor quite on a lark. but of them as a hermit crab is of his hermitage. What is beauty? What matters? Theses for poets and philosophes to debate in books I will never read.
. Mirror. Would they have shared my causes. It was just clariﬁcation. I too lose myself in the haze. not in the pictures somehow. always. so it is said. 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. 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. together. holding ourselves for all to see. but not entirely there. and slowly spraying spring rainbows that decay into the wind. Even this one you remind me: I recall. I was never there to be famous. who's the biggest. the naive contestants in the people pageantry. a not-so beauty contest.
all smiles. not feeling the burden anymore. I could have stood with all of us. you hold the paper in your hands and memory. if she'd have us) of friends.My ﬁfteen minutes past. It's okay. and bared myself to the world as a trio (or quartet. I just smile in echo of that moment. Such is the ﬁckleness of taste and chance and circumstance. It was only clariﬁcation. Lights ﬂicker still through the torrents. That. has past. Fame is not my thing. You remind me of it all. This is my exit. too. and the rain washes quickly over the glass and it all fades in again: the road is uncertain tonight. I didn't expect a title or congratulations. pasted then cut out and (mercifully) become a news footnote. What I missed was chance. and didn't have them bestowed on me. All I wanted was to sink into my chair and be able to sit upright. brought together by some ﬂuke of biology but now inseparable.
.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. 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. and teeth scattered like dice— for you.
The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. was scrawled. 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. Oh. so full of wonderful. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while
. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. no. 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. supposedly. and wave to mom from outer space. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. 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. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. but not at all surprising. great.
and that would be a bummer. dude. Just don't come up to me and say. Only. always tempered by encounters with stupid assholes in my life. I remember you from school. I hold still to my ideals of youth. except a very long killing spree that would lose its fun quality after the ﬁrst ﬁve years or so. I still. 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. "Gee. believe. I still. I hold this love I've always held for friends who most probably think that I've forgotten them. I know only that I have no other option." when I hated your sorry ass then and now. especially the clean-up time. from shelter. you cannot ask me how.everyone forgot the future. because you don't know how it felt to see you coast
. I'll tell you that I do not know. in spite of all that life presents.
I look down at my well-lined palms. The falling of a full moon night. oblivious to all. and think. beautiful to me. whose eyes never saw me. Silent thoughts. But here: take this orchid to show that I can turn the other cheek.on by. or how I hated every day of waking up to faces. That past is dead. I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead.
. The breath of wind that blows through trees across.
smug and snug in the armor of ignorance.
. the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe. contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others. blinded by blood. The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge.Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there. 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. there is only the emptiness it always hid.
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. Ergonomics. 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. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. Now. grain rotation. lameness. joy and love instead of beer cans.
. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. this day I call forth: People. Jailtime. too. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. Everyone.Trochaic monologue Truly.
for)) quiet solitude as mysteries of the Stone: mute.Sarcophagus skeletal beneath the ﬂesh where shivers in a (here broken. there (inclement mortality. no longer (words were once the sigil. where beginnings are foresworn. dumb as a veil. yet transcendent) shroud the limits of an ineffable—end. where numbers did not) sufﬁce—these now insensate things hidden.
and who could argue with such mighty. then went and got tattoos. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor ﬁlms replace our actual thoughts—that is. since Derrida said we didn't. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. since someone on the Internet said so. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion
. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. put scarriﬁcations across our ﬂesh. we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. if we ever had any.
eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town. and the smell of death and shit. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker
. blood veins with shrapnel islands. and more. 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. 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. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills. and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah.Broken limbs Eight ofﬁcers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent ﬂesh.
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
. his brother sharing the gaiety his mother unamused and stern walks just ahead of his father who squints behind his spectacles.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.
cocaine potatoes. espresso and glossy. the school where his two children toil daily. now he returns to a suburban
. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. how in college kicked a television set down six ﬂights. 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. whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. riddled Reaganʼs efﬁgy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him ﬁrmly in his late afternoon ritual. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. Reﬂecting from the image of the SUV window.
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. sure. everyone should ﬁght such resignations. and
. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. 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. rate and time the measure of life for the children.Dorian Grey reversal ﬁlm now: old images of self beatiﬁed obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. principles are now thought with interests in mind. or of course not like them.
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. reﬂection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic
. the glass reﬂex and then returns to reading The Village Voice article about Ani DiFranco and the politics of approval.for just a moment.
theirs. some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel. theirs and maybe some space we are absorbed. subdivided theirs.
.Before the condos are planted the croak of the lone tree frog reminds pastoral is dead. he has scurried slowly across the ﬁeld to watch his swamp world ﬁlled with the vacuity of forms and ideas of progress. again. metal teeth chew the earth become asphalt.
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
thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. what makes you (for you are made. such a mystery
. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. 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. 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. rape (all in sight. of course. beneath glass and wire rim. by capture tranquilized. on lost costumanity. wow. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not ﬂush. care) No. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self.
Prey. A small and silent trickling becomes a ﬂux. anemic red. these concentric circles begin. Blue into dull puce. Metal quarry.Unseen hunter Spoors of industry. The brilliant colors bleed. unseen hunter. golden brown. and gold to pale amber against the black rocks.
. Open wound. then red. Rain. then gold. Blue. pierced with points of stone.
and marrow but the hand. withdrawn. eyes deep in shadow regret their vigilance. six. Blood ﬂows there.
. nine. twelve fourteen bones beneath the unwrinkled green sigil.Scrabbles Scrabbles at the denim. now mere ornament. meretricious. hieroglyph that once marked warriors. and are still. offers not. Three.
. nor the lineament of the air that. heavy with your perfume.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. cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life.
The question fades and dies: unanswered call. No fear there to strangle secrets. lie like moonlight.Silent Night Ten thousand past specters denude themselves beneath a blanket darkness. leave to me your backside turned. This choir of blood now pale within your radiance—a plaintive vocalise. unpursed lips telling deaf ears tales of soft and liquid history: how. Held to you. never see this uncertain reach before it dies in down. and unseen face away this moment. A human hand might hear and heal its silent melancholy song.
. lost as mystery. no untidy retributions from a whisper light. no. unstirred passions wither and are unmoved. but for your touch: still unto death. My hand now curled. see the rivulets of crimson not. where scars unseal themselves as mute mouths now. warmth of night. fallen. numb bears a not quite invisible. But no ﬁngers reach in counterpoint: I am a cappella. Beside me. do not turn your sleeping smile to me and gaze upon my visage. its dissonance. by light of Eve. beneath dusts of time. a wound where once I wiped away my mouth: it no longer murmurs words to cry the twinge of memory. Eye unblinking.
the fruition of cosmic design. and so it blinds them all to the soul within. dissolve into your divine radiance.
.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. but you —you could take me in your hands like a dewdrop in the morning sunlight. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form. before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and deﬁnes you. scattering prism reﬂections. No glass sufﬁcient to reﬂect the magnitude of your heavenly body.
no future tense only present. perfect. before all thought and perception. at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. in this in the moment. as myriad strands of sunlight reﬂecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand.
. 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.
Many people think because they are powerless to do these things they (like them) have no life. and punctuate the air with your signature. and let a light radiate forth by scratching the patina of banality that hides you from me. Fly into the billowing. of that we form into the future. or color your skin reﬂects (all races mere reﬂections of light. On the wind a breath recalls the vibration: where our ancestors sang the world from our dreaming into the stuff of now. this is the breath of us. I am no magician—nor will words.Voice of the Brahma Divine words cannot change the curls of your hair. awhile. yourself. All these can do is try: to reach that which within us is genius. if only for us.
. small or polysyllable. no meaning. Do not feel this rationalization. create sculptures of ﬂesh or metal or marble to raise swords in justiﬁcation.
.If I want to dream of you and all sensations that clothe you suddenly reveal your naked beauty.
Suspended moment: this vision. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the ﬂux of your diffracted symmetry. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. delineate your ﬁgure beneath the peignoir silk touched ﬂuorescent green. did not your napeskin tremble then with blush beneath the shadow silent—no love would resonate my hollow cavity where syncopates
. recall our sympathy. 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. of eyes grown dusky with reﬂection as they avert. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. this picture memory. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery.
this moment binds. no frame.
.your pulse with mine: this is all we know. no taste upon our tongues the salt of passion quiets my bristling thoughts. preserves only a moment past. no blood pulsates suddenly wordless against our cold lips. delicate. I hold alone an image. no captured silence before words becalmed to nothing—still it lives. these uncertain ﬁngers retract perspiring from your heat. if it could. No kiss. This frame silences the motion. the spirit animate that surrounds your body corporeal. this intangible reﬂection gives life to this lifeless would picture.
for you. have passed before. invisible to the eye. who love. you are the star of all. eclipsed. three times. each year another blessing. pistils sweet intercourse with each other. stamens. and honeybees dance the silent message: You bring with you Spring's inspiration. who wait and wish for spring as surely as they shy from winter gray. this celebration. dust will dissipate. so the season brings renaissance to all things—this is your gift. stands in your shade. exactly each as this (we mark them all with candles)—why should this day be different from all others? Your life goes on. If you could stand and be aware of heaven.
. As you are reborn. as west wind swirls about your form to caress you with its felt formlessness and move your fabric to gorgeous delight. your nativity. Ten cycles of the sun. this day is yours alone to share with all who live. In your aura. time stands still: for a moment. The sun stops in the sky. molten frost turns to dew. and ﬂowers will grip the soil and stone to bare their blossoms before the light. you would see how. high above the spinning earth now bathed in luminescence.Solstice As any other day. for all. leaves grow green again. the sun will arise from low behind snow-spangled mountain peaks.
Tinsel. Darlings all. and dumb inanities. sequin and decolletage are truth where Eros is love. lines and lines of repetition. The lens—a black moon rising. through shuttered reverie: private resorts. free no more but slave shackled to the bland mint where dreams are pressed dead green. sororities. These pale. these I know. but hide beneath the stately ivy carapace that clutches for dear life to that which fuels its fuse. and blue motels—dim domains all. something less: a masquerade. cliche redheads and cute hot tub hookers. They become one
. soulless shadows searching. soft smiles. cut where I am consigned to Flatland and mere memory: memories— yes. these images. solicitations. with never a glimpse of me. Two decades staring. Here I am. no longer selves—no. caught in glass.London Youth that dreams of nothing else dreams to see herself in silver and glass that projects rising stars. Yet they do not die.
. my shell: a genius symmetry—and know my lone invisibility.and live together where a separation kills. See.
her mortality forgot. present. Her skin shivers beneath the furrows as his ﬁngernails bite softly into her shoulders. In this her love's ﬂesh. and what then? she) knew none of this . love me for my invisibility—she sinks. eyes averted. but what lives within: love me. as I
. nor the dilation of your eyes. searching. her visions: (A girl. for whatever you (have. pure desire unite and merge their esences (calm her lover upon) her breast: pure love. She would have no form. Silent as the mountain snow drives through the vale. inward she turns. spent. beside her self. midnight moonlight cobalt blue uipon the curve of her ilium. she lies beside her lover. will) see of me.Midnight moonlight Silken. The shadow (of snow upon the wall)—turns her lips toward him with whisper: You see of me many images. You kiss gently this form. beneath the moisture of his breath she feels (the words): You are. for all these impressions do not love them. supine. so may questions so may (with stone opacity) youth. Now only the question. into thought solitude. then (a lady. a woman. unquestioned questions. now. love. a life: these are not known until lost. Not for the line draws your calf to thigh. curl about your ﬁngers these tresses that veil me—for these. and all (I desire) only. slight.
She draws close the curtain. and perhaps is right. her bosom to his.
. and shares with him an invisible moment. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty. she thinks.touch your hand—not for the berry brown of your areolae. love.) Such might he say. or the sharp hard bone of your mouth beneath your kiss—I —no other way. your beauty is you. than this—I could not— I cannot love the absence of the space.
A ﬂow of electric excitement creates vision. our ﬁngers creating the real from the intangible made this: tangible. All sight unseen. nightly slipping through our hands. its drama written. digit to digit. A spittle mote more important than a blush or perspiration. receptive. and this is knowledge: indices. This is now. No longer no closer than the line between: no more detached protocol. intricate movement. and we are real as the ﬂesh that touches now. your sweet perspiration. Striking light upon ﬁngers.Connection Twelve chimes distant toll. Two have known this. We did not know. How this world. as myriads now. emotions sightless. We were twice ourselves then. invisible feeling become palpable through these palms. formulae.
. Sensations are all. connection: remote as they are twain in the mystery. Passes from light to digital motion through chemistry are not words. eyes. against all possibility. and sends from each to each our identity. these words' place upon your lips.
. Shining endow with silver radiance The universe cleaved with your velvet.Eve The cloak night shrouds your Cynthian form.