poems by Omar Willey


poems by Omar Willey


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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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


48 49 50 51 53 54 57 58 59 60 61 62 66 67 68 5 .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.

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 .

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

Soprano 8 .

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

the stench. The dust. Still minutes drown inside my blood. But you are silent and withhold from me Your purifying word and touch. To feel your nearness. feel your pulse— Is that love?—awake within the dream. I want to rest within your realm. Footfall rain resounds within The vacuum of my silent room. I want your touch illume the beauty Sleeps entombed in jade memory. still. Escape—into the luminous: Your evanescent vision warms With life. this soul infuses ecstasy. Within the dampened caesura I wish The touch to synchronize our souls. 10 . I long to leave my desert chamber. I wake. 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. I lose myself within the why Encircles my scarred isolation. and staring see the silence. you offer no resolution. Your apparition. I dream deposed on tinctured shroud. Still. In blackness sink in mute reflection. In this still solitude there is nothing. the hermitage. recurs.

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

now free fly away 12 . 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.

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

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

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

are such. sensuous. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. and I.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 thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now. no poet to fashion and from your truth figure metaphors and prostitutions. These imaginings are squander. tender with ineffable emotions. 16 . I am but a lone human being as you. this moment between us. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not.

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

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

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

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

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

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 .

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

void aspect of a warm alienation. where I dwell. in presence of your beauty. 24 .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. in still reflection wonder.

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.

it is our one true sacrament. where the heavens are. are beauty. and we are spirits first.Changes I have heard that people change from you. of course. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. but is not us. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. for we are love. experience of all the world. intimations. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. ever brighter— 29 . our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others. above all else: our flesh may change and must. the well a part of thirst. reflections. and even its emotion.

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

and i unenlightened breeder male. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. and then.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. because your flesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. madness to suppose. their words of us are self-pitiful. 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. 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. absence of care: human flotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. and that this is all that matters. 31 . 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. who does not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

cell phones. 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 sense of suffering. no listening. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. and the inanities of college students. 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. until silence once more has value there— 50 .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. eager for their first drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. and no one finds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola.

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

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

I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good. 53 . 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. legs where arms should be. and teeth scattered like dice— for you.Eschatology For all who have had their hearts lacerated by the flak of glass shard.

We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 .The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. 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. great. 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. no. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. Oh. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. 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. but not at all surprising. so full of wonderful. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. was scrawled.

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

That past is dead. The falling of a full moon night. beautiful to me. The breath of wind that blows through trees across. 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. I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead. and think. oblivious to all. 56 . whose eyes never saw me. Silent thoughts.on by. I look down at my well-lined palms.

the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe. The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others.Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. 57 . blinded by blood. there is only the emptiness it always hid. 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. The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail.

Nothing must be done to save the stupid. 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. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. 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. 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. Bring back natural selection's vengeance.Trochaic monologue Truly. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. 58 . when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. Everyone. Now. Jailtime. 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. too. lameness.

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

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

Broken limbs Eight officers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent flesh. 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. 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 61 . and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. blood veins with shrapnel islands. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills. 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.

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. 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.

espresso and glossy. the school where his two children toil daily. how in college kicked a television set down six flights. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. 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. now he returns to a suburban 63 . riddled Reaganʼs effigy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. Reflecting from the image of the SUV window. whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him firmly in his late afternoon ritual. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. cocaine potatoes.

and 64 . rate and time the measure of life for the children. 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. sure. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness.Dorian Grey reversal film now: old images of self beatified obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. 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. everyone should fight such resignations. principles are now thought with interests in mind. 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.

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

subdivided theirs. theirs and maybe some space we are absorbed.Before the condos are planted the croak of the lone tree frog reminds pastoral is dead. 66 . 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. theirs. some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel.

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 .

turned on sworld like a revolution that will not flush. thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. 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. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. by capture tranquilized.Walking Rauschenberg. such a mystery 68 . what makes you (for you are made. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. beneath glass and wire rim. of course. on lost costumanity. care) No. 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. wow. rape (all in sight. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you.

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

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

Baritone 71 .

heavy with your perfume. nor the lineament of the air that. cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life.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. 72 .

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

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

at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. as myriad strands of sunlight reflecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand. 75 . before all thought and perception. perfect.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. and. no future tense only present. in this in the moment.

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

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

Suspended moment: this vision. this picture memory. of eyes grown dusky with reflection as they avert. 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.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the flux of your diffracted symmetry. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. recall our sympathy. delineate your figure beneath the peignoir silk touched fluorescent green. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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