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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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
A poem for Henry Grimes A Void Moire Aleph Null Compound Work For Hire Utterance What passes is not time Blonde antipode
35 37 38 39 41 42 43 44 46
Nine Crows Tintinnabulation Photo Op Eschatology The Subject Was Motörhead Post-ironic non-detachment Trochaic monologue Sarcophagus Elephant talk Broken limbs The reformed hippies’ children Before the condos are planted As so often you leave Walking Rauschenberg.
49 50 51 53 54 57 58 59 60 61 62 66 67 68
Unseen hunter Scrabbles
Myriad metaphors Silent Night Splendour Ribbon Voice of the Brahma If Intangible Solstice London Midnight moonlight Connection Eve Reminiscence
72 73 74 75 76 77 78 80 81 83 85 83 83
words smudged. still. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you.
.for Aaron Greenreich. because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made
I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors. promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. crossed out. Pages blank and torn.
forever. naked and real— shared: "We shall meet at the horizon. he recalls how in a touch the world would seem again: darkened gloams at riverside."
Friendship should be so binding as vows repeat their memories. solemn upon their hearts. no love. As she. Serene communications. their words its sole motion: there. Time cloven hearts. no numerals mar its eternal concomitance. all is memory. Parallel they held near each other and shared imaginings of a time eonic in its stasis. warm with the blush of blood. invisible to mortality. no stolid masques enacted. a lone silent empathy. his youth (so youthless) no obstacle. horizons know terra and ﬁrmament ﬁssure. They stretch now their arms toward an embrace that is not felt.
. no assuage for them. where heaven meets the plain. quiet words exchanged for silent thoughts— her beauty was never a question. No sadness. Two share the bond of separation.Bond Two share the bond of separation.
I want your touch illume the beauty Sleeps entombed in jade memory.
. The dust. I wake. In this still solitude there is nothing. Still minutes drown inside my blood. recurs. the stench. the hermitage. I long to leave my desert chamber. Footfall rain resounds within The vacuum of my silent room. feel your pulse— Is that love?—awake within the dream. and staring see the silence. To feel your nearness. you offer no resolution. Within the dampened caesura I wish The touch to synchronize our souls. 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. Your apparition. I dream deposed on tinctured shroud. Still. I lose myself within the why Encircles my scarred isolation. still. Escape—into the luminous: Your evanescent vision warms With life. this soul infuses ecstasy. But you are silent and withhold from me Your purifying word and touch. In blackness sink in mute reﬂection.Hermitage The cold gray sunshine light that pierces Through the shadow drapes' shimmer ﬁlls The air that clings my ﬂesh with emptiness.
Trembling in your light I whisper. I close my eyes: hesitation.
.I cannot leave this dream to die alone. A single shadow conjoin us: I hold my hand to you through darkness.
now free ﬂy away
.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.
all as broken branches from my life's tree where you have trespassed. But yours are the prints impressed upon my barren environ where I am dying there is no other. one as I would give to you. for love that gnaws vapidly within. I killed a hunter I had become. I am rendered as a waning man.. now I am bitten where frost turns hoary and blue my ﬂesh.. This wilderness engulfs me. ﬁngerprints in talcum. I wonder as my misery turns to the numb of dying and crimson trickles life away—if I had not loved.
. Love. old traces of blood where we loved. my ﬂuid and your ﬂuid in pattern of a voluptuous ﬂower. I cannot here live nor feed. where all about is nothing. I ﬁnd no passion remains. strands of hair. cold in the light and begging warmth only your body could provide. cast like demon out. all is ice and dust. and. instinct to kill now bound. still could prey on those.Prints I ﬁnd still your spoors about my den. perfumerie.
preserving alone the I of the whorl. recoiling attack. listens no noise. the vortex pitch swirls about the eye glowers at me. seeing no razing. destroys all. A cyclone spiral.
. And like still night.Spiral Alone staring into the dark above: no moonbeams. no subtle brilliance crack stark helix shell where frightened curls this idiot spirit. stars interrupt the black jejune. cold soul. shadows former love.
Alone we bind our solitude.Sub Rosa I hold to you a rainbow blossom.
. A silent covenant To sanctify our unity. The shadows of our souls are mute In glow of holy light.
No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now. sensuous. and I. no poet to fashion and from your truth ﬁgure metaphors and prostitutions. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. this moment between us. These imaginings are squander. are such. tender with ineffable emotions. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam.The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing.
. I am but a lone human being as you.
. These vibrations pass silently away. lost within the damp air that surrounds us and bears to each the other hesitant shiver.Vibration Your voice reverberates upon my ﬂesh. returning to you the palpitation of my heart.
Instead. I wished our careless touch would go forever on and into both of us. I think. but had come together for an instant. The slight blush behind your smile and apology. 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. and merge me into you.Recognition (In a Bookstore) It was an accident. but all of my breath trembling with excitement and the know. We knew nothing of each other. we smiled to turn away with civilized politeness and potential death where there would have been. All these things felt. the way you brushed against me so gently that I stopped. exchanged electricity.
what my ﬂesh shall not know again without pain and grim reﬂection—perhaps this is the knowledge never hid. One cannot forget the claw that blazons history into soft skin and bone the character of all mortality. yet still at root a scar. Open wounds ooze and bleed to form upon my rend an armor cold— this dries and cracks and tears away revealing. but unity
. I shed this scab and keep a scar. One more milestone on the path of myriad. all sigils on its palimpsest. underneath the old. an index not of suffering.The progress of my scars I watch the progress of my scars. there is only healing. closer to a whole. new wounds: each time more shallow. No way to bind this. it writes all human destiny. as certainly as we are life the hands of time shall notate us. as lines within our palmistry (these. are markers of our future). too. with scrawl and scratch and deep impression that we may always recollect. memories of hurt that tell me quietly that my travails show consequence where I have grown.
when I lose sight of who and where I am. my earthly thread. for life.with all that lives within and out. ***
. future. a cleaving—present. past in continuity. these insignia recall for me.
small joys. this parting. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. and broken red chaise draped with camisole— The tousle of vacant clothes bedside slowly takes your form and ﬁgure full of life and recent love still etched upon your breast. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. most certainly. but this makes numbers. So it begins. this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. is always time. hands into a pleasant haze while there is still time.
.Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. silent. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. There will be more. refuses to be stirred.
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
and I am dumb to let this moment (as so many) die.Bow Another day begins. your hair a sable veil whose threads protect your beauty. and the light is gone: from me. Trivialities. Head gently bowed (hide the eyes from sidelong glance). I search my pitiful mute vocabulary for brilliant wit. ﬂowing iridescent swirls upon perspiring ﬁngers. you dissolve in private rhapsody. to stiﬂe my yearning to be held— but I am beyond words. maquillage and dishes: daily glamour. unknown to me. from you a subtle emanation—all the sound is silent. some phrase not trite. but for your quiet weary meditation. I watch. The dawn illuminates me as it reﬂects your delicate ﬂesh. to hear me speak. I am quiet in the dim banality. your eyelids close. truth: Truth. and see. to hide how my quietude longs for feeling breast to breast our heartbeats' rhythm. you stand in light. to call poetry. you would think me mad. as any other. The dull awakening. unguarded—without artiﬁce. untold to you. truth. your blue folds in blue. You would ﬁnd it mundane. Alone. as if these minute observations were a truth—yes. This seeking shiver
where I dwell. waititing still for the fastening of your last button.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. in still reﬂection wonder.
. in presence of your beauty. void aspect of a warm alienation.
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.
and even its emotion. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. ever brighter—
. it is our one true sacrament. are beauty. reﬂections. experience of all the world. 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.Changes I have heard that people change from you. where the heavens are. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. and we are spirits ﬁrst. intimations. the well a part of thirst. of course. above all else: our ﬂesh may change and must. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. but is not us. our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others. for we are love. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow.
After youth is if i were young i would idolize you: the most beautiful girl in the world.
. and this remind me of the youth i lost in being much too long without you near. and give me rhapsodies forevermore to sing. and while I retain my voice. my queen. my reason. if only en passant your graceful glide. the meaning of it all or anything. while the light remains a spark upon your eye. the life within your breast. i would dissolve into the meaning of annihilation. 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. that you are beautiful above all things is all that matters. 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. i would wait to see you every day. to you. while knowing we will never touch. and as we touched. and i would know that this is sufﬁcient. and talk about the scope of love and love's desire. Yet I shall reach my hand. gone what was me once. if i were young. my eyes. my hands. now the act of reaching is the vital thing. I know that now the universe does not for any second care about my soul's eradication. become what i could not be certain. i'd sing about the light within your eyes. what I am or was. if i were— but I am not. I seek the touch itself no longer. no matter that my wisdom contravenes. your beauty shall ﬁll up my life.
because your ﬂesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. and that this is all that matters. and all i think is how very beautiful the curvature of your lips and the fullness of your form beneath the water speckling your hardened leather jacket. but 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 i unenlightened breeder male. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. and then. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. who does not. madness to suppose. somewhere it deﬁes a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. 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. their words of us are self-pitiful.
.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. absence of care: human ﬂotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. but i've heard worser.
a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy. a ﬂeshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche. if only for awhile.Humble origins A broken bone. the butterﬂy form of ﬁrst menstrual blood. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity. the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. 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. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. all creation—a body of work to ﬁll ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical. but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me. and you into something greater
Slow regeneration in a bud. leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked. and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest. a tap. there is something before the nothingness that must decay to bring forth life.
.Snowfall the ﬁrst season is not spring but fall. a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. but an opening into the future. as humus needs the moss the cycle begins in death. a bloom. not a door that closes.
. more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather. City life is more than the sum of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians. Eyes are crusted dry.11 by 14 The window opens upon the world and limits nothing now three ﬂoors up. he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze. Her hands twitch. and met each the other's eyes. she stops. These two will never know that they have met in gaze. lifting his long hair into a moire before his eyes driving by. in life or death. nor consider all the possibilities of what would happen if they looked just one more time. though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list.
its unit structures of walking unwalked. You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit))
. You call. accompany to witnesses.A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) ﬁddles. white unmoved by your arco gliss. evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. They shall die. Monk knew. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). 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. but all unnoticed. silence cleaves us of ourselves. Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us. whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. You were more than your destiny.
opaque as death.there was only. prana of nothingness where once had been your eye gazing black to all. after Tauhid. now whitened.
. the vacuum.
as you are. your charm voluptuous ﬁlls with electricity—none of these.
. that it is enough. If I could will. not to change. and that this is of no consequence. Not to know. I cannot in bright rhapsody tell you how the sun pales against your silhouette. as all the rest: nothing special. Denial is protection. the same. only care. remain a void. This is not given to me.A Void You would never understand that we are never that which we say we are. when there is comfort within the walls. you would be who you say not who you refuse. For you. mystery that reveals not. I to you. a prison. your eyes in their reﬂection glow with wonder.
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
. 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.
. where. I am pure. the center me. to strangle thoughts yet unspoke rotting notions. the cipher around me carved of stones Cinders are scars of a dead ﬂame is the bourn of my temptation. universal. attending mind concentrate (Dust will not remain undisturbed the emptiness of me. Dead thoughts there scream. moribund. I create a silence. the past rules all too crawl at that perimeter and plead entrance. drawn. Lenten.Aleph Null As nature. voice of the as yet unfelt idea— nothing. Mute genesis. a focus. purged of all language masks. old words. am whole again. cacophonous choirs of undead unwanted things All hope is false) hope. screaming stiﬂe the calm silence. wilderness. around me. inside this ring.
the beginning. stasis is order crosses. without water. the invisible hieroglyph of the spirit) There is only the breath primeval.
. No knowing (the vase without ﬂowers. all are powerless All change is chaos. without motion. here. ruptures my solitude.Nothing changes.
. there nothing lost in reﬂections: the machicolations guard nothing but shadow on the sundial numerals and the silence of a zephyr. Nothing is caught. their preserve. Architects imprison these in their makeup.Compound History is made in glass. Innocent as black sheep. they consecrate the hours' sacriﬁce.
each beside the other. only work. the rest was asides. We could not complain. as we worked in our quietude. not to breed stars. Renderings of lead and china white will be remains. Others are lost to time." We had no leisure to discuss our artistry. and I have lived.Work For Hire (for Sheldon Moldoff) A single bristle makes no brush. trying only to survive in such times where heroes only could thrive in the images. and shall pass again. The studio was for the studious. the chewing of time. Many more famous than I have passed. where pages turn slowly yellow. nameless but for the lines in which we write our anonymity. doing "a good job. then decay. ideas— they shall outlast the work and worker who was mere creator. they will wear laurels. Our work was ours.
. Living: living was what we knew.
idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. wrought hands. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. Could she feel this if I touched her? Would she regain her innocence? And transform me into electricity? Thought—
. accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang.Utterance Wheels grind. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. eyes that do not blink. the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns. and there are clouds.
. You could tell him things.What passes is not time Ten thousand nights since you caught the light and scattered it with dance. No way to reverse that ﬂow of time. if they could talk—no. 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. "I wish we could be friends
. No poetry. echoing in the hollow: too many memories unmade of you now.he could listen. you would talk. no prose but simple conversation. Mostly it was words he wanted.. with you. incomplete in history and form. if he could ﬁnd them: some rhapsody of how in trance he held you—this would not do. If he could sit and gently gaze through wisps of winter coffee into your eyes. No outstanding day for you. and if you asked he'd say. evasive mystery. His rapt attention would be enough to let you know him harmlessly. just part of the routine—not so for him: that bit bore deeply in his grain.
. You could tell him.." he'd say. if only he could speak.if only. So many ifs are lost in silences. and still you're only good with words on paper. and mock him gently.yet I do not know how to ask in plain words.. "Do not underestimate the power of memory recurring. given ﬂesh and voice. "So many years gone by. You would know." You would smile softly at his bashful reticence. if only.
Blonde antipode The trick is to seem.
. and I am therefore typical. And so my mask. typical. the sear of jealous tempers. This only seems contradiction if you believe all you see. So. Reﬂections not complete. When the poet wrote about the dancing girls. Pieces of this and that. but these are not me—even if I knew who I really am. it was a mask. just some approximate me. once past. not to be. Being is for people who can afford the frosty gaze. like the silt stirred up by storms outside Sarehole Mill. There is safety in the mundane. All is still. But typical of what? Myriad stereotypes to assemble into some kind of me. the water is calm and clear. if only to make it all subside into silence. the drool of insincere mouths and the pain in my chest when I wake. The weather wanes. split open. and not her self. if I cared about that sort of thing.
I will remove with you I say to you such wild things and hope you will believe not what I have said. and I will make my marks. not looking through me. 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. soon become opaque. Can you see more? Can you peer deep. for you to ﬁnd and prove me that you think your search is worthwhile. but what you feel within.I know you see my veil and guise. the girl without and the dormant goddess within? I shall hide these like an Easter egg.
. You have told me you admire them. I shall be typical. too. not into your images of me. there is still time. Water soon will turn to mud. brilliant. I will stand out. if you will believe my words. too. and I shall don my cloak to weather it once more. their patina of stale normality. But beautiful. but know: for those who wait. if you will have me. beyond cliches. like the moon upon the harvest grain. The storms begin again.
their claws dictation. glass and shredded steel. then all is still. as leaves. their cabal breathes intimate and dark billows of thin fog. surrounded with barbed wire fence: this will be the site of lost childhoods and numbers run.
. wings outspread. fall just between their overseen: the new-laid baseball ﬁeld. They preen and nod so knowing each in their sequester: their bills silent.Nine Crows Nine crows gather in the naked trees. a maze of broken concrete. where minds are spent like wet ammunition and dead ends are plainly visible.
sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues).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. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. cell phones. until silence once more has value there—
. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. and the inanities of college students. eager for their ﬁrst drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. and no one ﬁnds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. and sense of suffering. weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak. 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. no listening.
but not entirely there. mist from wheels capturing the halogen blue of auto lights. Even this one you remind me: I recall. I was never there to be famous. Would they have shared my causes. But we were there.
. a not-so beauty contest. holding ourselves for all to see. not in the pictures somehow. I too lose myself in the haze. Likely they would drift from me with jealous words and petty notions of security. the naive contestants in the people pageantry. and slowly spraying spring rainbows that decay into the wind.Photo Op Another night on the M1. mirror: who's the fairest. It was just clariﬁcation. What is beauty? What matters? Theses for poets and philosophes to debate in books I will never read. I think about the separation. 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. who's the biggest. together. too young to be in awe of the simple gifts. nor quite on a lark. always. who's the quickest one to be through with it all. so it is said. Photogenic. and my sense the world has gone quite mad? Could they take this loneliness and soften it with love and random kindnesses? Probably not. Mirror. Too young to remember. but of them as a hermit crab is of his hermitage.
if she'd have us) of friends. I didn't expect a title or congratulations. What I missed was chance. pasted then cut out and (mercifully) become a news footnote. This is my exit. All I wanted was to sink into my chair and be able to sit upright. I could have stood with all of us. That. not feeling the burden anymore. You remind me of it all. Lights ﬂicker still through the torrents. you hold the paper in your hands and memory. Such is the ﬁckleness of taste and chance and circumstance. too. has past. Fame is not my thing. and the rain washes quickly over the glass and it all fades in again: the road is uncertain tonight. brought together by some ﬂuke of biology but now inseparable.
. and bared myself to the world as a trio (or quartet.My ﬁfteen minutes past. all smiles. It was only clariﬁcation. and didn't have them bestowed on me. I just smile in echo of that moment. It's okay.
I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good. and teeth scattered like dice— for you.
. legs where arms should be.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.
supposedly. Oh. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while
. 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. 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. 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. but not at all surprising. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. great. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. no. was scrawled. so full of wonderful. and wave to mom from outer space.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future.
" when I hated your sorry ass then and now.everyone forgot the future. because you don't know how it felt to see you coast
. believe. Just don't come up to me and say. you cannot ask me how. especially the clean-up time. except a very long killing spree that would lose its fun quality after the ﬁrst ﬁve years or so. and that would be a bummer. in spite of all that life presents. I hold still to my ideals of youth. I still. I'll tell you that I do not know. I hold this love I've always held for friends who most probably think that I've forgotten them. Only. I still. I know only that I have no other option. dude. "Gee. 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. always tempered by encounters with stupid assholes in my life. I remember you from school. from shelter.
I look down at my well-lined palms. The falling of a full moon night. I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead. beautiful to me. whose eyes never saw me. oblivious to all. The breath of wind that blows through trees across. or how I hated every day of waking up to faces.on by. Silent thoughts. That past is dead. But here: take this orchid to show that I can turn the other cheek. and think.
Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there. The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others. when all they show is the vacuum tube not only sucks but supplants an intellect that might be used for something other than garbage repository: maybe some existence in a world where there are leaves and conversations grow. there is only the emptiness it always hid.
. The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail. blinded by blood. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe.
grain rotation. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. too. Ergonomics. lameness. Jailtime. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines.
. 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. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. Everyone. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. Now. this day I call forth: People. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution.Trochaic monologue Truly. joy and love instead of beer cans. 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.
for)) quiet solitude as mysteries of the Stone: mute. yet transcendent) shroud the limits of an ineffable—end. where numbers did not) sufﬁce—these now insensate things hidden.
.Sarcophagus skeletal beneath the ﬂesh where shivers in a (here broken. dumb as a veil. there (inclement mortality. where beginnings are foresworn. no longer (words were once the sigil.
then went and got tattoos.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. if we ever had any. since Derrida said we didn't. 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. put scarriﬁcations across our ﬂesh. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion
. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. since someone on the Internet said so. and who could argue with such mighty. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor ﬁlms replace our actual thoughts—that is.
Broken limbs Eight ofﬁcers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent ﬂesh. and the smell of death and shit. and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. 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. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker
. and more. 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. eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town.
fashionably red and modern
. 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.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.
cocaine potatoes. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. the school where his two children toil daily. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. how in college kicked a television set down six ﬂights. espresso and glossy. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. 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. riddled Reaganʼs efﬁgy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies. 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. now he returns to a suburban
Dorian Grey reversal ﬁlm now: old images of self beatiﬁed obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. principles are now thought with interests in mind. 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. sure. and wife one must sacriﬁce all sorts what was worth ﬁghting for that he cannot recall the time his parents visited and left him with his childhood Holy Bible and a foul taste. rate and time the measure of life for the children. and
. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. or of course not like them.
the light. the old embers in his night-brown eyes ﬂicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun. reﬂection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic
. 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.for just a moment.
subdivided theirs. theirs and maybe some space we are absorbed. theirs. some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel. again. he has scurried slowly across the ﬁeld to watch his swamp world ﬁlled with the vacuity of forms and ideas of progress.
.Before the condos are planted the croak of the lone tree frog reminds pastoral is dead. metal teeth chew the earth become asphalt.
As so often you leave mundane traps your vision does not see and my wishes are silent therefore you will not know how how a how long ing how timid how warm how much how I no you will not because you see clearly before you the press of your days dull routine and all that you or I would want is so much less than the duties of your imagining
such a mystery
. thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. 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. of course. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not ﬂush. rape (all in sight. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. by capture tranquilized. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. care) No.Walking Rauschenberg. on lost costumanity. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. beneath glass and wire rim. wow. pomade glazed goatee and wry (never vapid) self-satisfaction like the ankh that dangles emptily above upon your second-hand Nehru) ﬂares digging Tony Bennett on designer headphones.
Rain. Open wound. A small and silent trickling becomes a ﬂux. The brilliant colors bleed. Prey. golden brown.Unseen hunter Spoors of industry. Metal quarry. these concentric circles begin. Blue into dull puce. then gold. and gold to pale amber against the black rocks. pierced with points of stone. Blue.
. anemic red. then red. unseen hunter.
six. nine. and are still.Scrabbles Scrabbles at the denim. now mere ornament. twelve fourteen bones beneath the unwrinkled green sigil. hieroglyph that once marked warriors. and marrow but the hand. offers not. eyes deep in shadow regret their vigilance. Three. withdrawn.
. meretricious. Blood ﬂows there.
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. heavy with your perfume.
This choir of blood now pale within your radiance—a plaintive vocalise. where scars unseal themselves as mute mouths now.Silent Night Ten thousand past specters denude themselves beneath a blanket darkness. no untidy retributions from a whisper light. but for your touch: still unto death.
. by light of Eve. lost as mystery. unpursed lips telling deaf ears tales of soft and liquid history: how. its dissonance. warmth of night. But no ﬁngers reach in counterpoint: I am a cappella. beneath dusts of time. Eye unblinking. do not turn your sleeping smile to me and gaze upon my visage. and unseen face away this moment. leave to me your backside turned. numb bears a not quite invisible. no. A human hand might hear and heal its silent melancholy song. Beside me. My hand now curled. see the rivulets of crimson not. unstirred passions wither and are unmoved. a wound where once I wiped away my mouth: it no longer murmurs words to cry the twinge of memory. No fear there to strangle secrets. fallen. never see this uncertain reach before it dies in down. lie like moonlight. Held to you. The question fades and dies: unanswered call.
dissolve into your divine radiance. No glass sufﬁcient to reﬂect the magnitude of your heavenly body. the fruition of cosmic design.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. and so it blinds them all to the soul within. scattering prism reﬂections.
. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form. but you —you could take me in your hands like a dewdrop in the morning sunlight. before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and deﬁnes you.
at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. before all thought and perception.
.Ribbon Time is a bright black ribbon in your hair unwinding the opposite of the clock— ﬁngers slow extend to touching at the contact is all stasis: each impulse of electric apprehension alone. as myriad strands of sunlight reﬂecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand. perfect. no future tense only present. in this in the moment. and.
of that we form into the future.
. yourself. small or polysyllable. or color your skin reﬂects (all races mere reﬂections of light. and punctuate the air with your signature. 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.Voice of the Brahma Divine words cannot change the curls of your hair. All these can do is try: to reach that which within us is genius. this is the breath of us. Do not feel this rationalization. create sculptures of ﬂesh or metal or marble to raise swords in justiﬁcation. I am no magician—nor will words. if only for us. awhile. no meaning. Fly into the billowing. On the wind a breath recalls the vibration: where our ancestors sang the world from our dreaming into the stuff of now.
.If I want to dream of you and all sensations that clothe you suddenly reveal your naked beauty.
Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. recall our sympathy. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. delineate your ﬁgure beneath the peignoir silk touched ﬂuorescent green. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. Suspended moment: this vision. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. this picture memory. Did not this wind hover about us and waft between us where the perfume of our bodies mingle surround with the other essence each of us. 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
. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the ﬂux of your diffracted symmetry. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause.
This frame silences the motion. no taste upon our tongues the salt of passion quiets my bristling thoughts. if it could. I hold alone an image. this intangible reﬂection gives life to this lifeless would picture. no frame. no captured silence before words becalmed to nothing—still it lives.
. this moment binds. the spirit animate that surrounds your body corporeal. these uncertain ﬁngers retract perspiring from your heat. delicate. No kiss. preserves only a moment past. no blood pulsates suddenly wordless against our cold lips.your pulse with mine: this is all we know.
. who wait and wish for spring as surely as they shy from winter gray. as west wind swirls about your form to caress you with its felt formlessness and move your fabric to gorgeous delight. leaves grow green again. who love. your nativity. this celebration. eclipsed. so the season brings renaissance to all things—this is your gift.Solstice As any other day. the sun will arise from low behind snow-spangled mountain peaks. this day is yours alone to share with all who live. you would see how. high above the spinning earth now bathed in luminescence. exactly each as this (we mark them all with candles)—why should this day be different from all others? Your life goes on. invisible to the eye. In your aura. If you could stand and be aware of heaven. have passed before. and honeybees dance the silent message: You bring with you Spring's inspiration. molten frost turns to dew. stands in your shade. pistils sweet intercourse with each other. stamens. for all. and ﬂowers will grip the soil and stone to bare their blossoms before the light. you are the star of all. Ten cycles of the sun. dust will dissipate. time stands still: for a moment. for you. The sun stops in the sky. three times. each year another blessing. As you are reborn.
no longer selves—no. cut where I am consigned to Flatland and mere memory: memories— yes. Two decades staring. lines and lines of repetition. Here I am. Yet they do not die. soulless shadows searching. sororities. with never a glimpse of me. through shuttered reverie: private resorts. caught in glass. and dumb inanities. They become one
. something less: a masquerade. sequin and decolletage are truth where Eros is love. cliche redheads and cute hot tub hookers. these I know.London Youth that dreams of nothing else dreams to see herself in silver and glass that projects rising stars. soft smiles. these images. The lens—a black moon rising. Darlings all. These pale. free no more but slave shackled to the bland mint where dreams are pressed dead green. solicitations. Tinsel. but hide beneath the stately ivy carapace that clutches for dear life to that which fuels its fuse. and blue motels—dim domains all.
and live together where a separation kills. my shell: a genius symmetry—and know my lone invisibility. See.
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. a life: these are not known until lost. inward she turns. now. into thought solitude. You kiss gently this form. and what then? she) knew none of this . a woman. nor the dilation of your eyes.Midnight moonlight Silken. Silent as the mountain snow drives through the vale. spent. love me for my invisibility—she sinks. searching. beside her self. midnight moonlight cobalt blue uipon the curve of her ilium. then (a lady. her visions: (A girl. so may questions so may (with stone opacity) youth. She would have no form. beneath the moisture of his breath she feels (the words): You are. for all these impressions do not love them. In this her love's ﬂesh. her mortality forgot. unquestioned questions. eyes averted. as I
. Now only the question. for whatever you (have. Her skin shivers beneath the furrows as his ﬁngernails bite softly into her shoulders. curl about your ﬁngers these tresses that veil me—for these. and all (I desire) only. will) see of me. slight. she lies beside her lover. pure desire unite and merge their esences (calm her lover upon) her breast: pure love. supine. love. present. but what lives within: love me.
and perhaps is right.) Such might he say. her bosom to his. than this—I could not— I cannot love the absence of the space. and shares with him an invisible moment. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty. She draws close the curtain. she thinks. love. your beauty is you.
. or the sharp hard bone of your mouth beneath your kiss—I —no other way.touch your hand—not for the berry brown of your areolae.
We were twice ourselves then. these words' place upon your lips. against all possibility. intricate movement. receptive. connection: remote as they are twain in the mystery. formulae. and sends from each to each our identity. Two have known this. No longer no closer than the line between: no more detached protocol. A ﬂow of electric excitement creates vision. your sweet perspiration. digit to digit. and we are real as the ﬂesh that touches now. How this world. This is now. emotions sightless. Striking light upon ﬁngers. as myriads now.Connection Twelve chimes distant toll. Passes from light to digital motion through chemistry are not words. our ﬁngers creating the real from the intangible made this: tangible.
. A spittle mote more important than a blush or perspiration. All sight unseen. Sensations are all. invisible feeling become palpable through these palms. eyes. We did not know. nightly slipping through our hands. its drama written. and this is knowledge: indices.
Shining endow with silver radiance The universe cleaved with your velvet.Eve The cloak night shrouds your Cynthian form.