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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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

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

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. 17 .

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

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

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

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

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

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. where I dwell. 24 . void aspect of a warm alienation. waititing still for the fastening of your last button. 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.

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

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

31 . and i probably the great-grandson of the slave of your pioneer kindred— matters nothing when the rain drives you to shelter next to me. and i unenlightened breeder male. madness to suppose. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. who does not. and all i think is how very beautiful the curvature of your lips and the fullness of your form beneath the water speckling your hardened leather jacket. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. and then. 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. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. because your flesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. but i've heard worser. and that this is all that matters. absence of care: human flotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. their words of us are self-pitiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moire each drop holds a mirror upside down. broken city itself reflecting rows of Ezra Pound petals pass swiftly by and by to others I am one such strange passenger: without so much as root wherever my feet pause—or stop 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but what you feel within. and I shall don my cloak to weather it once more. Can you see more? Can you peer deep. brilliant. 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. their patina of stale normality. but know: for those who wait. like the moon upon the harvest grain. beyond cliches. soon become opaque. You have told me you admire them. 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. there is still time.I know you see my veil and guise. not into your images of me. too. and I will make my marks. or theirs taken from People magazine and television talk show tripe— but me. if you will have me. for you to find and prove me that you think your search is worthwhile. The storms begin again. I will stand out. if you will believe my words. Water soon will turn to mud. not looking through me. 47 . But beautiful. too.

Alto 48 .

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

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

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

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

53 . 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. legs where arms should be. flesh pierced through by iridescent shards of steel to bleed out vitriol the snap of bone against aluminum and the lifelessness of muscle revealing ghastly mortality. and teeth scattered like dice— for you.

supposedly. but not at all surprising. no. The only fortune ever smiled upon me was that I grew up impervious to promise and kept a warm heart beneath all my bitten skeptic skin. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. was scrawled.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. so full of wonderful. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 . great. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. Oh. 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. and wave to mom from outer space. 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.

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

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

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

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

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

though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. put scarrifications across our flesh. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion 60 . anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. since someone on the Internet said so. school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor films replace our actual thoughts—that is. if we ever had any. and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. 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. and who could argue with such mighty. since Derrida said we didn't. 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.

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

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. fashionably red and modern 62 . 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.

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

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. and 64 . and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. 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. 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.Dorian Grey reversal film now: old images of self beatified obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry.

the glass reflex and then returns to reading The Village Voice article about Ani DiFranco and the politics of approval. What does it say for CSI Miami tonight… His mug perched on the teak.for just a moment. 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 65 . the light.

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

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

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

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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

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

the fruition of cosmic design.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form. scattering prism reflections. 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. 74 . dissolve into your divine radiance. 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.

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

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

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

recall our sympathy. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. of eyes grown dusky with reflection as they avert. delineate your figure beneath the peignoir silk touched fluorescent green. 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. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. 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. did not your napeskin tremble then with blush beneath the shadow silent—no love would resonate my hollow cavity where syncopates 78 . Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. this picture memory. Suspended moment: this vision. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration.

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

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

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

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

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

84 . she thinks. and perhaps is right.) Such might he say. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty. her bosom to his. She draws close the curtain. 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. and shares with him an invisible moment. than this—I could not— I cannot love the absence of the space. love. your beauty is you.

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

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