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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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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 .
still. words smudged. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you.for Aaron Greenreich. Pages blank and torn. 7 . because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors. crossed out. promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn.
Soprano 8 .
no stolid masques enacted. naked and real— shared: "We shall meet at the horizon. Parallel they held near each other and shared imaginings of a time eonic in its stasis.Bond Two share the bond of separation. horizons know terra and ﬁrmament ﬁssure. As she. all is memory. Two share the bond of separation." Friendship should be so binding as vows repeat their memories. a lone silent empathy. They stretch now their arms toward an embrace that is not felt. quiet words exchanged for silent thoughts— her beauty was never a question. no assuage for them. where heaven meets the plain. no love. his youth (so youthless) no obstacle. their words its sole motion: there. warm with the blush of blood. solemn upon their hearts. forever. invisible to mortality. he recalls how in a touch the world would seem again: darkened gloams at riverside. Time cloven hearts. no numerals mar its eternal concomitance. Serene communications. 9 . No sadness.
10 . In blackness sink in mute reﬂection. the stench. this soul infuses ecstasy. In this still solitude there is nothing. Still minutes drown inside my blood. I lose myself within the why Encircles my scarred isolation. Your apparition. and staring see the silence. I want your touch illume the beauty Sleeps entombed in jade memory. still. The dust. you offer no resolution. Escape—into the luminous: Your evanescent vision warms With life. Within the dampened caesura I wish The touch to synchronize our souls. I long to leave my desert chamber. But you are silent and withhold from me Your purifying word and touch. To feel your nearness. recurs. feel your pulse— Is that love?—awake within the dream. Footfall rain resounds within The vacuum of my silent room. I wake. I want to rest within your realm. Murmur broken words in fading haze And try to touch your speechless image As it ﬁnally dies away. I dream deposed on tinctured shroud. Still. the hermitage.Hermitage The cold gray sunshine light that pierces Through the shadow drapes' shimmer ﬁlls The air that clings my ﬂesh with emptiness.
I cannot leave this dream to die alone. A single shadow conjoin us: I hold my hand to you through darkness. Trembling in your light I whisper. I close my eyes: hesitation. 11 .
Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber. 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. now free ﬂy away 12 .
Love. strands of hair. ﬁngerprints in talcum. perfumerie. But yours are the prints impressed upon my barren environ where I am dying there is no other. where all about is nothing. cold in the light and begging warmth only your body could provide. now I am bitten where frost turns hoary and blue my ﬂesh.. cast like demon out. all is ice and dust. and. I am rendered as a waning man.Prints I ﬁnd still your spoors about my den. I ﬁnd no passion remains. still could prey on those. I wonder as my misery turns to the numb of dying and crimson trickles life away—if I had not loved. for love that gnaws vapidly within. all as broken branches from my life's tree where you have trespassed. one as I would give to you.. old traces of blood where we loved. I killed a hunter I had become. my ﬂuid and your ﬂuid in pattern of a voluptuous ﬂower. 13 . I cannot here live nor feed. This wilderness engulfs me. instinct to kill now bound.
A cyclone spiral.Spiral Alone staring into the dark above: no moonbeams. recoiling attack. And like still night. seeing no razing. no subtle brilliance crack stark helix shell where frightened curls this idiot spirit. destroys all. the vortex pitch swirls about the eye glowers at me. preserving alone the I of the whorl. listens no noise. shadows former love. stars interrupt the black jejune. cold soul. 14 .
The shadows of our souls are mute In glow of holy light. 15 . A silent covenant To sanctify our unity.Sub Rosa I hold to you a rainbow blossom. Alone we bind our solitude.
are such. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. no poet to fashion and from your truth ﬁgure metaphors and prostitutions.The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing. sensuous. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. I am but a lone human being as you. tender with ineffable emotions. this moment between us. and I. These imaginings are squander. No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now. 16 .
Vibration Your voice reverberates upon my ﬂesh. lost within the damp air that surrounds us and bears to each the other hesitant shiver. returning to you the palpitation of my heart. These vibrations pass silently away. 17 .
All these things felt. I wished our careless touch would go forever on and into both of us. exchanged electricity. The slight blush behind your smile and apology. We knew nothing of each other. Instead.Recognition (In a Bookstore) It was an accident. the way you brushed against me so gently that I stopped. 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. but all of my breath trembling with excitement and the know. I think. and merge me into you. but had come together for an instant. we smiled to turn away with civilized politeness and potential death where there would have been. 18 .
as certainly as we are life the hands of time shall notate us. yet still at root a scar. too. what my ﬂesh shall not know again without pain and grim reﬂection—perhaps this is the knowledge never hid. I shed this scab and keep a scar. closer to a whole. One more milestone on the path of myriad. it writes all human destiny. new wounds: each time more shallow. as lines within our palmistry (these. One cannot forget the claw that blazons history into soft skin and bone the character of all mortality. memories of hurt that tell me quietly that my travails show consequence where I have grown. all sigils on its palimpsest. but unity 19 . Open wounds ooze and bleed to form upon my rend an armor cold— this dries and cracks and tears away revealing. No way to bind this.The progress of my scars I watch the progress of my scars. with scrawl and scratch and deep impression that we may always recollect. are markers of our future). underneath the old. there is only healing. an index not of suffering.
for life. these insignia recall for me. my earthly thread. future. a cleaving—present. when I lose sight of who and where I am. past in continuity.with all that lives within and out. *** 20 .
this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. So it begins. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. 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. is always time. silent. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. most certainly.Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. 21 . hands into a pleasant haze while there is still time. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. There will be more. this parting. refuses to be stirred. but this makes numbers.
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 .
you dissolve in private rhapsody. from you a subtle emanation—all the sound is silent. some phrase not trite. I search my pitiful mute vocabulary for brilliant wit. Alone. truth. unknown to me. This seeking shiver 23 . your eyelids close. you would think me mad. to hear me speak. The dawn illuminates me as it reﬂects your delicate ﬂesh. and see. The dull awakening. and the light is gone: from me. Head gently bowed (hide the eyes from sidelong glance). as any other. as if these minute observations were a truth—yes. you stand in light. truth: Truth. Trivialities. your blue folds in blue. to hide how my quietude longs for feeling breast to breast our heartbeats' rhythm. to call poetry. untold to you. your hair a sable veil whose threads protect your beauty. maquillage and dishes: daily glamour.Bow Another day begins. to stiﬂe my yearning to be held— but I am beyond words. I am quiet in the dim banality. unguarded—without artiﬁce. ﬂowing iridescent swirls upon perspiring ﬁngers. and I am dumb to let this moment (as so many) die. but for your quiet weary meditation. You would ﬁnd it mundane. I watch.
in still reﬂection wonder.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. 24 . void aspect of a warm alienation. waititing still for the fastening of your last button. where I dwell. in presence of your beauty.
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.
but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. for we are love. the well a part of thirst. but is not us. where the heavens are. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others.Changes I have heard that people change from you. taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. above all else: our ﬂesh may change and must. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. reﬂections. and even its emotion. ever brighter— 29 . are beauty. it is our one true sacrament. and we are spirits ﬁrst. experience of all the world. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. of course. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. intimations.
I know that now the universe does not for any second care about my soul's eradication. my reason. and this remind me of the youth i lost in being much too long without you near. if only en passant your graceful glide. what I am or was. no matter that my wisdom contravenes. i would dissolve into the meaning of annihilation. gone what was me once. 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. Yet I shall reach my hand. your beauty shall ﬁll up my life. 30 . while the light remains a spark upon your eye. my queen. to you. and i would know that this is sufﬁcient. i'd sing about the light within your eyes. become what i could not be certain. the life within your breast. and while I retain my voice. my eyes. and as we touched. i would wait to see you every day. while knowing we will never touch.After youth is if i were young i would idolize you: the most beautiful girl in the world. if i were young. I seek the touch itself no longer. and i would take your hand and hold it to divine the pulse of universal force within that moves all things from form to soul. my hands. and talk about the scope of love and love's desire. if i were— but I am not. the meaning of it all or anything. now the act of reaching is the vital thing. that you are beautiful above all things is all that matters.
absence of care: human ﬂotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. 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. 31 . somewhere it deﬁes a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. 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 surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. and that this is all that matters. who does not. their words of us are self-pitiful. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. madness to suppose. because your ﬂesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. 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.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. and i unenlightened breeder male. and then. but i've heard worser.
a ﬂeshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche. all creation—a body of work to ﬁll ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity. if only for awhile. the butterﬂy form of ﬁrst menstrual blood.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 32 . a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy. the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me.
but an opening into the future. a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. as humus needs the moss the cycle begins in death. leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked. there is something before the nothingness that must decay to bring forth life. 33 . Slow regeneration in a bud. and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest. a bloom.Snowfall the ﬁrst season is not spring but fall. a tap. not a door that closes.
she stops. City life is more than the sum of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians. in life or death. 34 . These two will never know that they have met in gaze. Eyes are crusted dry.11 by 14 The window opens upon the world and limits nothing now three ﬂoors up. though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list. he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze. nor consider all the possibilities of what would happen if they looked just one more time. Her hands twitch. lifting his long hair into a moire before his eyes driving by. and met each the other's eyes. more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather.
Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us.A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) ﬁddles. accompany to witnesses. You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit)) 35 . whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. You were more than your destiny. Monk knew. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). but all unnoticed. its unit structures of walking unwalked. 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. silence cleaves us of ourselves. white unmoved by your arco gliss. They shall die. evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule. You call.
now whitened. the vacuum.there was only. prana of nothingness where once had been your eye gazing black to all. opaque as death. 36 . after Tauhid.
Denial is protection. mystery that reveals not. This is not given to me. remain a void. not to change. the same. your eyes in their reﬂection glow with wonder. For you. as all the rest: nothing special.A Void You would never understand that we are never that which we say we are. your charm voluptuous ﬁlls with electricity—none of these. a prison. when there is comfort within the walls. If I could will. I to you. that it is enough. only care. and that this is of no consequence. 37 . you would be who you say not who you refuse. I cannot in bright rhapsody tell you how the sun pales against your silhouette. as you are. Not to know.
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 . 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.
Dead thoughts there scream. Mute genesis. universal. around me. drawn. a focus. purged of all language masks. old words. am whole again. the center me. voice of the as yet unfelt idea— nothing. Lenten. moribund. screaming stiﬂe the calm silence. the cipher around me carved of stones Cinders are scars of a dead ﬂame is the bourn of my temptation. nothing 39 . attending mind concentrate (Dust will not remain undisturbed the emptiness of me. to strangle thoughts yet unspoke rotting notions. inside this ring.Aleph Null As nature. I am pure. where. cacophonous choirs of undead unwanted things All hope is false) hope. the past rules all too crawl at that perimeter and plead entrance. wilderness. I create a silence.
without motion. the beginning. here. No knowing (the vase without ﬂowers. 40 . all are powerless All change is chaos. without water. the invisible hieroglyph of the spirit) There is only the breath primeval.Nothing changes. stasis is order crosses. ruptures my solitude.
their preserve. there nothing lost in reﬂections: the machicolations guard nothing but shadow on the sundial numerals and the silence of a zephyr. they consecrate the hours' sacriﬁce. Architects imprison these in their makeup. 41 . Nothing is caught. Innocent as black sheep.Compound History is made in glass.
and I have lived." We had no leisure to discuss our artistry. Our work was ours. We could not complain. the chewing of time. The studio was for the studious. not to breed stars. only work. trying only to survive in such times where heroes only could thrive in the images. nameless but for the lines in which we write our anonymity. Many more famous than I have passed. the rest was asides. as we worked in our quietude. doing "a good job. then decay. and shall pass again. Others are lost to time. each beside the other. 42 . where pages turn slowly yellow. ideas— they shall outlast the work and worker who was mere creator.Work For Hire (for Sheldon Moldoff) A single bristle makes no brush. they will wear laurels. Renderings of lead and china white will be remains. Living: living was what we knew.
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 . wrought hands. and there are clouds. accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution.Utterance Wheels grind. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns.
just part of the routine—not so for him: that bit bore deeply in his grain. you would talk. You could tell him things. Mostly it was words he wanted. incomplete in history and form.he could listen. No outstanding day for you.. with you. "I wish we could be friends 44 .. if he could ﬁnd them: some rhapsody of how in trance he held you—this would not do. evasive mystery. and if you asked he'd say. echoing in the hollow: too many memories unmade of you now. His rapt attention would be enough to let you know him harmlessly. No way to reverse that ﬂow of time. 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.What passes is not time Ten thousand nights since you caught the light and scattered it with dance. if they could talk—no. no prose but simple conversation. If he could sit and gently gaze through wisps of winter coffee into your eyes. No poetry.
"Do not underestimate the power of memory recurring.. and still you're only good with words on paper. given ﬂesh and voice.yet I do not know how to ask in plain words. if only.." he'd say.if only. if only he could speak. "So many years gone by. You could tell him.. and mock him gently. 45 .. You would know." You would smile softly at his bashful reticence. So many ifs are lost in silences.
just some approximate me. And so my mask. Being is for people who can afford the frosty gaze. 46 . but these are not me—even if I knew who I really am. the water is calm and clear. the sear of jealous tempers. But typical of what? Myriad stereotypes to assemble into some kind of me. like the silt stirred up by storms outside Sarehole Mill. So. it was a mask. once past. This only seems contradiction if you believe all you see. not to be. There is safety in the mundane. split open. and I am therefore typical. and not her self. When the poet wrote about the dancing girls. if only to make it all subside into silence.Blonde antipode The trick is to seem. Reﬂections not complete. the drool of insincere mouths and the pain in my chest when I wake. typical. Pieces of this and that. The weather wanes. if I cared about that sort of thing. All is still.
I will stand out. too. the girl without and the dormant goddess within? I shall hide these like an Easter egg. the slightly fearful child who wants to love and be loved now for all of me. or theirs taken from People magazine and television talk show tripe— but me. but what you feel within. but know: for those who wait. not looking through me. not into your images of me. and I shall don my cloak to weather it once more. beyond cliches. too. 47 . their patina of stale normality. if you will believe my words. soon become opaque. and I will make my marks. You have told me you admire them. Can you see more? Can you peer deep. like the moon upon the harvest grain. But beautiful. Water soon will turn to mud. The storms begin again. if you will have me. brilliant. for you to ﬁnd and prove me that you think your search is worthwhile. I shall be typical. I will remove with you I say to you such wild things and hope you will believe not what I have said.I know you see my veil and guise. there is still time.
Alto 48 .
glass and shredded steel. as leaves. 49 . fall just between their overseen: the new-laid baseball ﬁeld. a maze of broken concrete. where minds are spent like wet ammunition and dead ends are plainly visible.Nine Crows Nine crows gather in the naked trees. their cabal breathes intimate and dark billows of thin fog. wings outspread. They preen and nod so knowing each in their sequester: their bills silent. their claws dictation. surrounded with barbed wire fence: this will be the site of lost childhoods and numbers run. then all is still.
weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak.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. and the inanities of college students. and sense of suffering. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). until silence once more has value there— 50 . no listening. 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. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. eager for their ﬁrst drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. cell phones. and no one ﬁnds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola.
holding ourselves for all to see. nor quite on a lark. Mirror. It was just clariﬁcation. I too lose myself in the haze. 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. Likely they would drift from me with jealous words and petty notions of security. and my sense the world has gone quite mad? Could they take this loneliness and soften it with love and random kindnesses? Probably not. Even this one you remind me: I recall. the naive contestants in the people pageantry. But we were there. a not-so beauty contest. not in the pictures somehow. but of them as a hermit crab is of his hermitage. mist from wheels capturing the halogen blue of auto lights. always. I was never there to be famous. Would they have shared my causes. but not entirely there. I think about the separation. 51 . and slowly spraying spring rainbows that decay into the wind.Photo Op Another night on the M1. mirror: who's the fairest. Photogenic. so it is said. together. who's the quickest one to be through with it all. What is beauty? What matters? Theses for poets and philosophes to debate in books I will never read. too young to be in awe of the simple gifts. Too young to remember. who's the biggest.
It was only clariﬁcation. This is my exit. 52 . 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. Such is the ﬁckleness of taste and chance and circumstance. I could have stood with all of us. You remind me of it all. not feeling the burden anymore. brought together by some ﬂuke of biology but now inseparable. and bared myself to the world as a trio (or quartet. and didn't have them bestowed on me.My ﬁfteen minutes past. Lights ﬂicker still through the torrents. all smiles. I didn't expect a title or congratulations. pasted then cut out and (mercifully) become a news footnote. too. you hold the paper in your hands and memory. if she'd have us) of friends. What I missed was chance. and the rain washes quickly over the glass and it all fades in again: the road is uncertain tonight. Fame is not my thing. It's okay. That.
53 . and teeth scattered like dice— for you. I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good.Eschatology For all who have had their hearts lacerated by the ﬂak of glass shard. 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.
Oh. so full of wonderful. 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. was scrawled. 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. 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 one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. no. and wave to mom from outer space. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. great. but not at all surprising. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 .
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. "Gee. dude.everyone forgot the future. live and act as though my neighborhood and species are capable of something better than selling out to humanoid-formed demons' dreams of plush conformity—only. I 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. especially the clean-up time. Just don't come up to me and say. I know only that I have no other option. and that would be a bummer. in spite of all that life presents. I remember you from school. believe. because you don't know how it felt to see you coast 55 . Only. from shelter. I still. you cannot ask me how. always tempered by encounters with stupid assholes in my life." when I hated your sorry ass then and now.
I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead. oblivious to all. But here: take this orchid to show that I can turn the other cheek. beautiful to me. I look down at my well-lined palms. That past is dead.on by. whose eyes never saw me. 56 . and think. or how I hated every day of waking up to faces. Silent thoughts. The falling of a full moon night. The breath of wind that blows through trees across.
The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail. contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. there is only the emptiness it always hid.Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. blinded by blood. the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe. 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 cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. 57 .
I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. Ergonomics. joy and love instead of beer cans. Now. Jailtime. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. 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. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. too. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. Everyone. 58 . when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. 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.Trochaic monologue Truly. this day I call forth: People. lameness.
where beginnings are foresworn.Sarcophagus skeletal beneath the ﬂesh where shivers in a (here broken. there (inclement mortality. no longer (words were once the sigil. for)) quiet solitude as mysteries of the Stone: mute. where numbers did not) sufﬁce—these now insensate things hidden. 59 . dumb as a veil. yet transcendent) shroud the limits of an ineffable—end.
school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor ﬁlms replace our actual thoughts—that is. and who could argue with such mighty.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. since someone on the Internet said so. since Derrida said we didn't. we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. then went and got tattoos. if we ever had any. put scarriﬁcations across our ﬂesh. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion 60 .
and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills. blood veins with shrapnel islands. 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. eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town. and more.Broken limbs Eight ofﬁcers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent ﬂesh. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 . and the smell of death and shit.
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 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. his brother sharing the gaiety his mother unamused and stern walks just ahead of his father who squints behind his spectacles. fashionably red and modern 62 .
LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. riddled Reaganʼs efﬁgy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies. and ﬂoated garbage bags with hydrogen down its halls and the all night concerts that staved off the nights of wonder where the next meal came from and what would be left after nuclear winter and mutual assured destruction.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him ﬁrmly in his late afternoon ritual. how in college kicked a television set down six ﬂights. espresso and glossy. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. cocaine potatoes. now he returns to a suburban 63 . he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. the school where his two children toil daily. whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. 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. and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. 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.Dorian Grey reversal ﬁlm now: old images of self beatiﬁed obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. sure. or of course not like them. rate and time the measure of life for the children. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. principles are now thought with interests in mind. and 64 . everyone should ﬁght such resignations.
for just a moment. reﬂection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic 65 . What does it say for CSI Miami tonight… His mug perched on the teak. the glass reﬂex and then returns to reading The Village Voice article about Ani DiFranco and the politics of approval. the old embers in his night-brown eyes ﬂicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun. the light.
theirs. some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel. subdivided theirs. metal teeth chew the earth become asphalt. again. 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.
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 .
such a mystery 68 . wow. care) No. on lost costumanity. by capture tranquilized. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not ﬂush. thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. of course. 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. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. rape (all in sight. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. what makes you (for you are made. 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. beneath glass and wire rim.Walking Rauschenberg.
Blue. and gold to pale amber against the black rocks. anemic red. golden brown. Rain. A small and silent trickling becomes a ﬂux. unseen hunter. Prey. Blue into dull puce. pierced with points of stone. these concentric circles begin. The brilliant colors bleed. Open wound. 69 . then red. then gold. Metal quarry.Unseen hunter Spoors of industry.
Scrabbles Scrabbles at the denim. and marrow but the hand. Blood ﬂows there. hieroglyph that once marked warriors. withdrawn. six. Three. and are still. nine. now mere ornament. offers not. meretricious. twelve fourteen bones beneath the unwrinkled green sigil. 70 . eyes deep in shadow regret their vigilance.
Baritone 71 .
cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life. nor the lineament of the air that.Myriad metaphors Myriad metaphors—all are mute: none describe the light that shimmers reﬂections of the mauve setting sun's light upon the darkness of your eyes. heavy with your perfume. 72 .
no. leave to me your backside turned. never see this uncertain reach before it dies in down. and unseen face away this moment. a wound where once I wiped away my mouth: it no longer murmurs words to cry the twinge of memory. where scars unseal themselves as mute mouths now. lie like moonlight. Held to you. no untidy retributions from a whisper light. its dissonance.Silent Night Ten thousand past specters denude themselves beneath a blanket darkness. My hand now curled. fallen. but for your touch: still unto death. But no ﬁngers reach in counterpoint: I am a cappella. Eye unblinking. beneath dusts of time. unstirred passions wither and are unmoved. The question fades and dies: unanswered call. A human hand might hear and heal its silent melancholy song. No fear there to strangle secrets. warmth of night. by light of Eve. unpursed lips telling deaf ears tales of soft and liquid history: how. lost as mystery. numb bears a not quite invisible. This choir of blood now pale within your radiance—a plaintive vocalise. Beside me. 73 . do not turn your sleeping smile to me and gaze upon my visage. see the rivulets of crimson not.
and so it blinds them all to the soul within. before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and deﬁnes you. No glass sufﬁcient to reﬂect the magnitude of your heavenly body. 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. the fruition of cosmic design.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. 74 . dissolve into your divine radiance. scattering prism reﬂections.
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. before all thought and perception. 75 . in this in the moment. no future tense only present. as myriad strands of sunlight reﬂecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand. perfect. at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. and.
I am no magician—nor will words. small or polysyllable. All these can do is try: to reach that which within us is genius. and let a light radiate forth by scratching the patina of banality that hides you from me. awhile. Many people think because they are powerless to do these things they (like them) have no life. if only for us. of that we form into the future. create sculptures of ﬂesh or metal or marble to raise swords in justiﬁcation. and punctuate the air with your signature. 76 . yourself. this is the breath of us. no meaning. On the wind a breath recalls the vibration: where our ancestors sang the world from our dreaming into the stuff of now. Do not feel this rationalization. Fly into the billowing. or color your skin reﬂects (all races mere reﬂections of light.Voice of the Brahma Divine words cannot change the curls of your hair.
77 .If I want to dream of you and all sensations that clothe you suddenly reveal your naked beauty.
delineate your ﬁgure beneath the peignoir silk touched ﬂuorescent green. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. Suspended moment: this vision. this picture memory. of eyes grown dusky with reﬂection as they avert. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. recall our sympathy. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the ﬂux of your diffracted symmetry.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. did not your napeskin tremble then with blush beneath the shadow silent—no love would resonate my hollow cavity where syncopates 78 . 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.
I hold alone an image. no taste upon our tongues the salt of passion quiets my bristling thoughts. this intangible reﬂection gives life to this lifeless would picture. This frame silences the motion. no frame. 79 .your pulse with mine: this is all we know. preserves only a moment past. delicate. this moment binds. these uncertain ﬁngers retract perspiring from your heat. if it could. the spirit animate that surrounds your body corporeal. no captured silence before words becalmed to nothing—still it lives. no blood pulsates suddenly wordless against our cold lips. No kiss.
as west wind swirls about your form to caress you with its felt formlessness and move your fabric to gorgeous delight. exactly each as this (we mark them all with candles)—why should this day be different from all others? Your life goes on. time stands still: for a moment. each year another blessing. you would see how. you are the star of all. who wait and wish for spring as surely as they shy from winter gray. As you are reborn. invisible to the eye. stands in your shade. molten frost turns to dew. dust will dissipate. and honeybees dance the silent message: You bring with you Spring's inspiration. pistils sweet intercourse with each other. this celebration. the sun will arise from low behind snow-spangled mountain peaks. for you. The sun stops in the sky. Ten cycles of the sun. stamens. high above the spinning earth now bathed in luminescence. In your aura. three times. leaves grow green again. this day is yours alone to share with all who live. and ﬂowers will grip the soil and stone to bare their blossoms before the light. your nativity. who love. eclipsed.Solstice As any other day. for all. If you could stand and be aware of heaven. so the season brings renaissance to all things—this is your gift. 80 . have passed before.
sequin and decolletage are truth where Eros is love. These pale. and dumb inanities. soft smiles. free no more but slave shackled to the bland mint where dreams are pressed dead green. these images. soulless shadows searching. caught in glass. cliche redheads and cute hot tub hookers. no longer selves—no. Here I am. They become one 81 . solicitations. sororities. something less: a masquerade. with never a glimpse of me. lines and lines of repetition. and blue motels—dim domains all. Two decades staring. through shuttered reverie: private resorts. Darlings all. The lens—a black moon rising.London Youth that dreams of nothing else dreams to see herself in silver and glass that projects rising stars. cut where I am consigned to Flatland and mere memory: memories— yes. these I know. but hide beneath the stately ivy carapace that clutches for dear life to that which fuels its fuse. Yet they do not die. Tinsel.
and live together where a separation kills. my shell: a genius symmetry—and know my lone invisibility. 82 . See.
as I 83 . but what lives within: love me. love me for my invisibility—she sinks. and what then? she) knew none of this . Not for the line draws your calf to thigh. now. nor the dilation of your eyes. inward she turns.Midnight moonlight Silken. You kiss gently this form. will) see of me. beside her self. her mortality forgot. into thought solitude. so may questions so may (with stone opacity) youth. and all (I desire) only. The shadow (of snow upon the wall)—turns her lips toward him with whisper: You see of me many images. a woman. unquestioned questions. In this her love's ﬂesh. spent. her visions: (A girl. Now only the question. she lies beside her lover. Silent as the mountain snow drives through the vale. slight. searching. love. for whatever you (have. present. She would have no form. curl about your ﬁngers these tresses that veil me—for these. midnight moonlight cobalt blue uipon the curve of her ilium. beneath the moisture of his breath she feels (the words): You are. then (a lady. Her skin shivers beneath the furrows as his ﬁngernails bite softly into her shoulders. pure desire unite and merge their esences (calm her lover upon) her breast: pure love. eyes averted. a life: these are not known until lost. for all these impressions do not love them. supine.
) Such might he say. She draws close the curtain. love.touch your hand—not for the berry brown of your areolae. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty. and perhaps is right. and shares with him an invisible moment. she thinks. or the sharp hard bone of your mouth beneath your kiss—I —no other way. her bosom to his. than this—I could not— I cannot love the absence of the space. 84 . your beauty is you.
its drama written. We were twice ourselves then. as myriads now. and we are real as the ﬂesh that touches now. This is now. We did not know. Two have known this.Connection Twelve chimes distant toll. How this world. Passes from light to digital motion through chemistry are not words. your sweet perspiration. our ﬁngers creating the real from the intangible made this: tangible. receptive. No longer no closer than the line between: no more detached protocol. these words' place upon your lips. emotions sightless. All sight unseen. and this is knowledge: indices. eyes. Striking light upon ﬁngers. connection: remote as they are twain in the mystery. formulae. A spittle mote more important than a blush or perspiration. and sends from each to each our identity. intricate movement. digit to digit. nightly slipping through our hands. invisible feeling become palpable through these palms. Sensations are all. A ﬂow of electric excitement creates vision. against all possibility. 85 .
Shining endow with silver radiance The universe cleaved with your velvet.Eve The cloak night shrouds your Cynthian form. 86 .
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