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poems by Omar Willey
poems by Omar Willey
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Bond Hermitage Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse
9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 25
Stigmata Changes After youth is Disparate ideologies in the rain Humble origins Snowfall 11 by 14
27 29 30 31 32 33 34
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. 48 49 50 51 53 54 57 58 59 60 61 62 66 67 68 5 .
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. still. words smudged. 7 . promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. 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. crossed out.for Aaron Greenreich.
Soprano 8 .
No sadness. Two share the bond of separation. he recalls how in a touch the world would seem again: darkened gloams at riverside. horizons know terra and ﬁrmament ﬁssure. solemn upon their hearts. quiet words exchanged for silent thoughts— her beauty was never a question. their words its sole motion: there." Friendship should be so binding as vows repeat their memories. all is memory. naked and real— shared: "We shall meet at the horizon. Time cloven hearts. 9 . his youth (so youthless) no obstacle. no stolid masques enacted.Bond Two share the bond of separation. 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. a lone silent empathy. warm with the blush of blood. no numerals mar its eternal concomitance. no love. where heaven meets the plain. forever. invisible to mortality. Serene communications. no assuage for them. As she.
Escape—into the luminous: Your evanescent vision warms With life. Within the dampened caesura I wish The touch to synchronize our souls. I dream deposed on tinctured shroud. In blackness sink in mute reﬂection. recurs. the stench. I want to rest within your realm. I lose myself within the why Encircles my scarred isolation. In this still solitude there is nothing. the hermitage. I long to leave my desert chamber. To feel your nearness. this soul infuses ecstasy. 10 . Footfall rain resounds within The vacuum of my silent room. feel your pulse— Is that love?—awake within the dream. you offer no resolution.Hermitage The cold gray sunshine light that pierces Through the shadow drapes' shimmer ﬁlls The air that clings my ﬂesh with emptiness. Still minutes drown inside my blood. Still. I wake. Your apparition. and staring see the silence. The dust. But you are silent and withhold from me Your purifying word and touch. I want your touch illume the beauty Sleeps entombed in jade memory. still. Murmur broken words in fading haze And try to touch your speechless image As it ﬁnally dies away.
I cannot leave this dream to die alone. Trembling in your light I whisper. I close my eyes: hesitation. A single shadow conjoin us: I hold my hand to you through darkness. 11 .
now free ﬂy away 12 . coolly sealed in time's preserve poetic metaphor for eternality i think of the beauty of seeing the amber slowly melt away as dew recedes from petals and watching the bee unenthralled.Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber.
I killed a hunter I had become. I am rendered as a waning man. ﬁngerprints in talcum. But yours are the prints impressed upon my barren environ where I am dying there is no other. still could prey on those. perfumerie. cold in the light and begging warmth only your body could provide. and. where all about is nothing. instinct to kill now bound. all as broken branches from my life's tree where you have trespassed.. cast like demon out. This wilderness engulfs me. for love that gnaws vapidly within. old traces of blood where we loved. 13 . my ﬂuid and your ﬂuid in pattern of a voluptuous ﬂower. I cannot here live nor feed. now I am bitten where frost turns hoary and blue my ﬂesh..Prints I ﬁnd still your spoors about my den. strands of hair. I ﬁnd no passion remains. one as I would give to you. all is ice and dust. I wonder as my misery turns to the numb of dying and crimson trickles life away—if I had not loved. Love.
recoiling attack. no subtle brilliance crack stark helix shell where frightened curls this idiot spirit. cold soul. destroys all. listens no noise. stars interrupt the black jejune. preserving alone the I of the whorl. seeing no razing. 14 . And like still night.Spiral Alone staring into the dark above: no moonbeams. shadows former love. A cyclone spiral. the vortex pitch swirls about the eye glowers at me.
Alone we bind our solitude. 15 .Sub Rosa I hold to you a rainbow blossom. The shadows of our souls are mute In glow of holy light. A silent covenant To sanctify our unity.
and I. sensuous. 16 . No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. no poet to fashion and from your truth ﬁgure metaphors and prostitutions. are such. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. These imaginings are squander.The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing. this moment between us. tender with ineffable emotions. I am but a lone human being as you.
lost within the damp air that surrounds us and bears to each the other hesitant shiver. 17 . returning to you the palpitation of my heart. These vibrations pass silently away.Vibration Your voice reverberates upon my ﬂesh.
I wished our careless touch would go forever on and into both of us. exchanged electricity. the way you brushed against me so gently that I stopped. I would tell you in some otherwhere world how the thoughtless touch you gave me awareness of what I am missing my body a little. The slight blush behind your smile and apology. I think. 18 . but all of my breath trembling with excitement and the know. Instead. we smiled to turn away with civilized politeness and potential death where there would have been. but had come together for an instant.Recognition (In a Bookstore) It was an accident. and merge me into you. All these things felt. We knew nothing of each other.
all sigils on its palimpsest. underneath the old. No way to bind this. too. memories of hurt that tell me quietly that my travails show consequence where I have grown. new wounds: each time more shallow. there is only healing. closer to a whole. an index not of suffering. what my ﬂesh shall not know again without pain and grim reﬂection—perhaps this is the knowledge never hid. I shed this scab and keep a scar. it writes all human destiny.The progress of my scars I watch the progress of my scars. One more milestone on the path of myriad. with scrawl and scratch and deep impression that we may always recollect. One cannot forget the claw that blazons history into soft skin and bone the character of all mortality. as lines within our palmistry (these. as certainly as we are life the hands of time shall notate us. but unity 19 . Open wounds ooze and bleed to form upon my rend an armor cold— this dries and cracks and tears away revealing. are markers of our future). yet still at root a scar.
with all that lives within and out. for life. past in continuity. future. my earthly thread. when I lose sight of who and where I am. *** 20 . these insignia recall for me. a cleaving—present.
refuses to be stirred. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. 21 . most certainly. is always time. There will be more. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. hands into a pleasant haze while there is still time. this parting. So it begins. this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. silent. small joys. 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.Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. but this makes numbers.
Caesura branches rustle panes rattle carpet forms impressions of feet anticipation of you wind a shiver on skin grown cold stiff ﬂesh shuddering erratic pulsations benediction of you 22 .
you stand in light. Trivialities. Head gently bowed (hide the eyes from sidelong glance). you would think me mad. and the light is gone: from me. but for your quiet weary meditation. You would ﬁnd it mundane. you dissolve in private rhapsody. truth. I search my pitiful mute vocabulary for brilliant wit. maquillage and dishes: daily glamour. your hair a sable veil whose threads protect your beauty. unguarded—without artiﬁce. unknown to me. and see. The dawn illuminates me as it reﬂects your delicate ﬂesh. and I am dumb to let this moment (as so many) die. to call poetry. as if these minute observations were a truth—yes. from you a subtle emanation—all the sound is silent. untold to you. some phrase not trite. The dull awakening. I am quiet in the dim banality. to hide how my quietude longs for feeling breast to breast our heartbeats' rhythm. I watch.Bow Another day begins. This seeking shiver 23 . as any other. to stiﬂe my yearning to be held— but I am beyond words. ﬂowing iridescent swirls upon perspiring ﬁngers. Alone. truth: Truth. your blue folds in blue. your eyelids close. to hear me speak.
24 .of my empty hands will force a paper to record by token and quill this lapse and that will be all: this unspeaking becomes a vacuum. void aspect of a warm alienation. where I dwell. waititing still for the fastening of your last button. in still reﬂection wonder. 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.
and even its emotion. reﬂections. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. and we are spirits ﬁrst. it is our one true sacrament.Changes I have heard that people change from you. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. where the heavens are. our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others. experience of all the world. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. of course. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. above all else: our ﬂesh may change and must. but is not us. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. are beauty. taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. intimations. for we are love. ever brighter— 29 . the well a part of thirst.
gone what was me once. I seek the touch itself no longer. the life within your breast. Yet I shall reach my hand. my eyes. the meaning of it all or anything. your beauty shall ﬁll up my life. and this remind me of the youth i lost in being much too long without you near. and as we touched. if i were still young i would sing to you a myriad of drunken rhapsodies and tell to you above all how gorgeous aurora is upon your azure eyes. and i would know that this is sufﬁcient. while the light remains a spark upon your eye. that you are beautiful above all things is all that matters. my queen. i would wait to see you every day. and talk about the scope of love and love's desire. if only en passant your graceful glide. 30 . I know that now the universe does not for any second care about my soul's eradication. i'd sing about the light within your eyes. i would dissolve into the meaning of annihilation. while knowing we will never touch. 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. my hands. no matter that my wisdom contravenes. become what i could not be certain. and while I retain my voice. my reason. and give me rhapsodies forevermore to sing. to you. what I am or was.After youth is if i were young i would idolize you: the most beautiful girl in the world. if i were— but I am not. now the act of reaching is the vital thing.
and i probably the great-grandson of the slave of your pioneer kindred— matters nothing when the rain drives you to shelter next to me. 31 . and that this is all that matters. who does not. and then. but i've heard worser. madness to suppose. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. somewhere it deﬁes a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. and i unenlightened breeder male. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. because your ﬂesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. and all i think is how very beautiful the curvature of your lips and the fullness of your form beneath the water speckling your hardened leather jacket. their words of us are self-pitiful. 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. absence of care: human ﬂotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke.
all creation—a body of work to ﬁll ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical.Humble origins A broken bone. the butterﬂy form of ﬁrst menstrual blood. if only for awhile. a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy. and you into something greater 32 . but rather the gift of taking. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me. a mis(sed) direction: the warmness radiant in your parted lips as you breathe ﬁrst life is not a spiritual gift. the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. a ﬂeshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche.
a bloom. a tap. not a door that closes. 33 .Snowfall the ﬁrst season is not spring but fall. and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest. there is something before the nothingness that must decay to bring forth life. but an opening into the future. Slow regeneration in a bud. leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked. a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. as humus needs the moss the cycle begins in death.
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.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. 34 . more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather. she stops. Her hands twitch. City life is more than the sum of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians. he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze. These two will never know that they have met in gaze. Eyes are crusted dry. and met each the other's eyes.
silence cleaves us of ourselves. accompany to witnesses. Monk knew. but all unnoticed. evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule. You were more than your destiny. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others).A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) ﬁddles. its unit structures of walking unwalked. whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. and I shall only with these murmur words dance about your painting (upper Egyptian hieroglyphs of sostenuto with sounds all alone yours against the silence shadowing your life and death. You call. They shall die. Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us. white unmoved by your arco gliss. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit)) 35 .
prana of nothingness where once had been your eye gazing black to all. 36 .there was only. the vacuum. after Tauhid. now whitened. opaque as death.
your eyes in their reﬂection glow with wonder. mystery that reveals not. 37 . I cannot in bright rhapsody tell you how the sun pales against your silhouette. For you. as you are. If I could will. Denial is protection. I to you. not to change. remain a void.A Void You would never understand that we are never that which we say we are. the same. you would be who you say not who you refuse. only care. and that this is of no consequence. as all the rest: nothing special. when there is comfort within the walls. a prison. your charm voluptuous ﬁlls with electricity—none of these. that it is enough. This is not given to me. Not to know.
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. broken city itself reﬂecting rows of Ezra Pound petals pass swiftly by and by to others I am one such strange passenger: without so much as root wherever my feet pause—or stop 38 .Moire each drop holds a mirror upside down.
attending mind concentrate (Dust will not remain undisturbed the emptiness of me. around me. wilderness. where. universal. cacophonous choirs of undead unwanted things All hope is false) hope. purged of all language masks. voice of the as yet unfelt idea— nothing. old words. drawn. the cipher around me carved of stones Cinders are scars of a dead ﬂame is the bourn of my temptation. Dead thoughts there scream. a focus. the center me. to strangle thoughts yet unspoke rotting notions. am whole again. I am pure. the past rules all too crawl at that perimeter and plead entrance. Lenten. Mute genesis. moribund. nothing 39 . inside this ring. I create a silence.Aleph Null As nature. screaming stiﬂe the calm silence.
here.Nothing changes. without water. stasis is order crosses. the invisible hieroglyph of the spirit) There is only the breath primeval. ruptures my solitude. without motion. the beginning. all are powerless All change is chaos. No knowing (the vase without ﬂowers. 40 .
41 . Architects imprison these in their makeup. Innocent as black sheep.Compound History is made in glass. their preserve. Nothing is caught. they consecrate the hours' sacriﬁce. there nothing lost in reﬂections: the machicolations guard nothing but shadow on the sundial numerals and the silence of a zephyr.
as we worked in our quietude." We had no leisure to discuss our artistry. trying only to survive in such times where heroes only could thrive in the images. Our work was ours. then decay. Renderings of lead and china white will be remains. the chewing of time. not to breed stars. nameless but for the lines in which we write our anonymity. We could not complain. Others are lost to time. The studio was for the studious. 42 . they will wear laurels. and I have lived. and shall pass again. doing "a good job.Work For Hire (for Sheldon Moldoff) A single bristle makes no brush. the rest was asides. Living: living was what we knew. ideas— they shall outlast the work and worker who was mere creator. where pages turn slowly yellow. Many more famous than I have passed. each beside the other. only work.
idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang.Utterance Wheels grind. eyes that do not blink. Could she feel this if I touched her? Would she regain her innocence? And transform me into electricity? Thought— 43 . and there are clouds. wrought hands. the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns.
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. just part of the routine—not so for him: that bit bore deeply in his grain.. no prose but simple conversation. You could tell him things.he could listen. incomplete in history and form. if he could ﬁnd them: some rhapsody of how in trance he held you—this would not do.What passes is not time Ten thousand nights since you caught the light and scattered it with dance. with you. His rapt attention would be enough to let you know him harmlessly. No outstanding day for you. and if you asked he'd say. No way to reverse that ﬂow of time. If he could sit and gently gaze through wisps of winter coffee into your eyes. you would talk. "I wish we could be friends 44 . Mostly it was words he wanted. echoing in the hollow: too many memories unmade of you now.. evasive mystery. No poetry.
45 . if only. if only he could speak.." he'd say..if only..yet I do not know how to ask in plain words." You would smile softly at his bashful reticence. "Do not underestimate the power of memory recurring. You could tell him. So many ifs are lost in silences. "So many years gone by. and still you're only good with words on paper. You would know. given ﬂesh and voice. and mock him gently..
but these are not me—even if I knew who I really am. And so my mask. The weather wanes.Blonde antipode The trick is to seem. Reﬂections not complete. the drool of insincere mouths and the pain in my chest when I wake. if only to make it all subside into silence. When the poet wrote about the dancing girls. split open. This only seems contradiction if you believe all you see. Pieces of this and that. and I am therefore typical. if I cared about that sort of thing. All is still. the sear of jealous tempers. it was a mask. 46 . But typical of what? Myriad stereotypes to assemble into some kind of me. So. the water is calm and clear. once past. typical. There is safety in the mundane. Being is for people who can afford the frosty gaze. like the silt stirred up by storms outside Sarehole Mill. not to be. just some approximate me. and not her self.
I will stand out. like the moon upon the harvest grain. But beautiful. beyond cliches. not looking through me. if you will believe my words. there is still time. not into your images of me. the slightly fearful child who wants to love and be loved now for all of me. and I will make my marks. 47 . if you will have me. but what you feel within.I know you see my veil and guise. brilliant. I will remove with you I say to you such wild things and hope you will believe not what I have said. Can you see more? Can you peer deep. soon become opaque. Water soon will turn to mud. I shall be typical. but know: for those who wait. You have told me you admire them. and I shall don my cloak to weather it once more. too. The storms begin again. or theirs taken from People magazine and television talk show tripe— but me. for you to ﬁnd and prove me that you think your search is worthwhile. the girl without and the dormant goddess within? I shall hide these like an Easter egg. too. their patina of stale normality.
Alto 48 .
where minds are spent like wet ammunition and dead ends are plainly visible.Nine Crows Nine crows gather in the naked trees. surrounded with barbed wire fence: this will be the site of lost childhoods and numbers run. fall just between their overseen: the new-laid baseball ﬁeld. glass and shredded steel. a maze of broken concrete. their claws dictation. wings outspread. then all is still. They preen and nod so knowing each in their sequester: their bills silent. 49 . as leaves. their cabal breathes intimate and dark billows of thin fog.
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. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. cell phones. and no one ﬁnds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. until silence once more has value there— 50 . weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak. no listening. 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. 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. and the inanities of college students.
What is beauty? What matters? Theses for poets and philosophes to debate in books I will never read. but not entirely there. holding ourselves for all to see. not in the pictures somehow. I think about the separation. too young to be in awe of the simple gifts. Likely they would drift from me with jealous words and petty notions of security. mist from wheels capturing the halogen blue of auto lights. a not-so beauty contest. Photogenic. the naive contestants in the people pageantry. who's the biggest. It was just clariﬁcation. and slowly spraying spring rainbows that decay into the wind. But we were there. together. so it is said. Too young to remember. who's the quickest one to be through with it all. 51 .Photo Op Another night on the M1. mirror: who's the fairest. and my sense the world has gone quite mad? Could they take this loneliness and soften it with love and random kindnesses? Probably not. I was never there to be famous. always. nor quite on a lark. I too lose myself in the haze. Even this one you remind me: I recall. but of them as a hermit crab is of his hermitage. 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. Mirror. Would they have shared my causes.
All I wanted was to sink into my chair and be able to sit upright. not feeling the burden anymore. brought together by some ﬂuke of biology but now inseparable. You remind me of it all. too. and the rain washes quickly over the glass and it all fades in again: the road is uncertain tonight. That. if she'd have us) of friends. What I missed was chance. all smiles. and bared myself to the world as a trio (or quartet. Such is the ﬁckleness of taste and chance and circumstance. pasted then cut out and (mercifully) become a news footnote.My ﬁfteen minutes past. Lights ﬂicker still through the torrents. I just smile in echo of that moment. I could have stood with all of us. It was only clariﬁcation. It's okay. This is my exit. 52 . has past. I didn't expect a title or congratulations. and didn't have them bestowed on me. you hold the paper in your hands and memory. Fame is not my thing.
and teeth scattered like dice— for you. 53 . ﬂesh pierced through by iridescent shards of steel to bleed out vitriol the snap of bone against aluminum and the lifelessness of muscle revealing ghastly mortality. legs where arms should be. 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.
going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. 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. supposedly. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 . going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. so full of wonderful. great. and wave to mom from outer space. was scrawled. but not at all surprising. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. no.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. 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.
especially the clean-up time. Only. I hold this love I've always held for friends who most probably think that I've forgotten them. from shelter. I hold still to my ideals of youth. and that would be a bummer." when I hated your sorry ass then and now. 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. Just don't come up to me and say. dude.everyone forgot the future. you cannot ask me how. I remember you from school. 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. in spite of all that life presents. because you don't know how it felt to see you coast 55 . "Gee. I still. I know only that I have no other option. always tempered by encounters with stupid assholes in my life. I still. believe.
56 . The falling of a full moon night. beautiful to me.on by. and think. I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead. The breath of wind that blows through trees across. Silent thoughts. But here: take this orchid to show that I can turn the other cheek. or how I hated every day of waking up to faces. I look down at my well-lined palms. whose eyes never saw me. That past is dead. oblivious to all.
The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. 57 . contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. blinded by blood. 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. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe. The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail.Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there.
Everyone. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. Ergonomics. too.Trochaic monologue Truly. Now. joy and love instead of beer cans. 58 . worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. Jailtime. lameness. 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. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. 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. this day I call forth: People. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. grain rotation. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve.
where beginnings are foresworn.Sarcophagus skeletal beneath the ﬂesh where shivers in a (here broken. there (inclement mortality. where numbers did not) sufﬁce—these now insensate things hidden. dumb as a veil. yet transcendent) shroud the limits of an ineffable—end. for)) quiet solitude as mysteries of the Stone: mute. no longer (words were once the sigil. 59 .
school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor ﬁlms replace our actual thoughts—that is. and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. then went and got tattoos. if we ever had any. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion 60 . only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. since Derrida said we didn't. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. put scarriﬁcations across our ﬂesh.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. 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.
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. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 . and the smell of death and shit. and more. eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills. and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. 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.Broken limbs Eight ofﬁcers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent ﬂesh.
his brother sharing the gaiety his mother unamused and stern walks just ahead of his father who squints behind his spectacles. his face has no memory of smiles a little-sized jacket with The Doors logo: he cannot be more than nine years old as they all climb back into the Volkswagen Eurovan. fashionably red and modern 62 .The reformed hippiesʼ children Their legs and arms in a constant bounce bounce as though they do not care about gravity His red hair lifted carefree by the quayʼs zephyr.
whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. espresso and glossy. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him ﬁrmly in his late afternoon ritual. 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. the school where his two children toil daily. 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. how in college kicked a television set down six ﬂights. cocaine potatoes. now he returns to a suburban 63 . riddled Reaganʼs efﬁgy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies. Reﬂecting from the image of the SUV window.
worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. sure. and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. and wife one must sacriﬁce all sorts what was worth ﬁghting for that he cannot recall the time his parents visited and left him with his childhood Holy Bible and a foul taste. and 64 .Dorian Grey reversal ﬁlm now: old images of self beatiﬁed obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. bed bath and beyond… None of this was planned in marijuana haze and chats around the Poor Manʼs James Bond pipe bombs slipped into the neighborʼs Brand names and leather interiors. principles are now thought with interests in mind. everyone should ﬁght such resignations. or of course not like them. rate and time the measure of life for the children.
reﬂection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic 65 . What does it say for CSI Miami tonight… His mug perched on the teak. the glass reﬂex and then returns to reading The Village Voice article about Ani DiFranco and the politics of approval. the light. the old embers in his night-brown eyes ﬂicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun.for just a moment.
theirs. again.Before the condos are planted the croak of the lone tree frog reminds pastoral is dead. theirs and maybe some space we are absorbed. subdivided theirs. he has scurried slowly across the ﬁeld to watch his swamp world ﬁlled with the vacuity of forms and ideas of progress. some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel. 66 . 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 67 .
thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. what makes you (for you are made. on lost costumanity. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. self-stylish as if it were (grand creation to imbibe the dross of your dying world and forth spew from your mouth this shit once from assholes of corporations who shit it ﬁrst on you. beneath glass and wire rim. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not ﬂush. wow. by capture tranquilized. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr.Walking Rauschenberg. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. 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. such a mystery 68 . of course. rape (all in sight. care) No.
and gold to pale amber against the black rocks. Blue. golden brown. 69 . Metal quarry. then gold. anemic red. pierced with points of stone. Open wound. Rain. The brilliant colors bleed. these concentric circles begin. Blue into dull puce.Unseen hunter Spoors of industry. Prey. then red. unseen hunter. A small and silent trickling becomes a ﬂux.
withdrawn.Scrabbles Scrabbles at the denim. now mere ornament. and marrow but the hand. nine. hieroglyph that once marked warriors. six. eyes deep in shadow regret their vigilance. and are still. Three. 70 . offers not. Blood ﬂows there. twelve fourteen bones beneath the unwrinkled green sigil. meretricious.
Baritone 71 .
72 . heavy with your perfume. 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. nor the lineament of the air that.
no. its dissonance. Held to you. and unseen face away this moment. warmth of night. lost as mystery. beneath dusts of time. This choir of blood now pale within your radiance—a plaintive vocalise. 73 . unpursed lips telling deaf ears tales of soft and liquid history: how. never see this uncertain reach before it dies in down. do not turn your sleeping smile to me and gaze upon my visage. a wound where once I wiped away my mouth: it no longer murmurs words to cry the twinge of memory. no untidy retributions from a whisper light. Eye unblinking. see the rivulets of crimson not. but for your touch: still unto death. by light of Eve. leave to me your backside turned. where scars unseal themselves as mute mouths now. unstirred passions wither and are unmoved. My hand now curled. No fear there to strangle secrets. The question fades and dies: unanswered call. A human hand might hear and heal its silent melancholy song. Beside me. lie like moonlight. But no ﬁngers reach in counterpoint: I am a cappella.Silent Night Ten thousand past specters denude themselves beneath a blanket darkness. numb bears a not quite invisible. fallen.
before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and deﬁnes you.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. but you —you could take me in your hands like a dewdrop in the morning sunlight. No glass sufﬁcient to reﬂect the magnitude of your heavenly body. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form. dissolve into your divine radiance. scattering prism reﬂections. 74 . the fruition of cosmic design. and so it blinds them all to the soul within.
Ribbon Time is a bright black ribbon in your hair unwinding the opposite of the clock— ﬁngers slow extend to touching at the contact is all stasis: each impulse of electric apprehension alone. before all thought and perception. as myriad strands of sunlight reﬂecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand. at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. 75 . and. no future tense only present. in this in the moment. perfect.
if only for us. this is the breath of us. On the wind a breath recalls the vibration: where our ancestors sang the world from our dreaming into the stuff of now. I am no magician—nor will words. yourself. awhile. of that we form into the future. Fly into the billowing. Do not feel this rationalization. create sculptures of ﬂesh or metal or marble to raise swords in justiﬁcation. 76 .Voice of the Brahma Divine words cannot change the curls of your hair. no meaning. 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. small or polysyllable. and punctuate the air with your signature. or color your skin reﬂects (all races mere reﬂections of light. All these can do is try: to reach that which within us is genius.
77 .If I want to dream of you and all sensations that clothe you suddenly reveal your naked beauty.
to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the ﬂux of your diffracted symmetry. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. Did not this wind hover about us and waft between us where the perfume of our bodies mingle surround with the other essence each of us. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. recall our sympathy.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. Suspended moment: this vision. this picture memory. did not your napeskin tremble then with blush beneath the shadow silent—no love would resonate my hollow cavity where syncopates 78 . Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. delineate your ﬁgure beneath the peignoir silk touched ﬂuorescent green. of eyes grown dusky with reﬂection as they avert. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence.
no captured silence before words becalmed to nothing—still it lives. this moment binds. This frame silences the motion. these uncertain ﬁngers retract perspiring from your heat.your pulse with mine: this is all we know. delicate. this intangible reﬂection gives life to this lifeless would picture. no taste upon our tongues the salt of passion quiets my bristling thoughts. I hold alone an image. if it could. No kiss. the spirit animate that surrounds your body corporeal. no blood pulsates suddenly wordless against our cold lips. preserves only a moment past. no frame. 79 .
who love. who wait and wish for spring as surely as they shy from winter gray. If you could stand and be aware of heaven. for all. Ten cycles of the sun. eclipsed. your nativity. you are the star of all. The sun stops in the sky. have passed before.Solstice As any other day. so the season brings renaissance to all things—this is your gift. each year another blessing. molten frost turns to dew. invisible to the eye. pistils sweet intercourse with each other. you would see how. In your aura. high above the spinning earth now bathed in luminescence. time stands still: for a moment. for you. stamens. as west wind swirls about your form to caress you with its felt formlessness and move your fabric to gorgeous delight. and ﬂowers will grip the soil and stone to bare their blossoms before the light. exactly each as this (we mark them all with candles)—why should this day be different from all others? Your life goes on. As you are reborn. this day is yours alone to share with all who live. dust will dissipate. leaves grow green again. the sun will arise from low behind snow-spangled mountain peaks. and honeybees dance the silent message: You bring with you Spring's inspiration. stands in your shade. three times. this celebration. 80 .
soulless shadows searching. but hide beneath the stately ivy carapace that clutches for dear life to that which fuels its fuse. free no more but slave shackled to the bland mint where dreams are pressed dead green. Two decades staring. these images. cut where I am consigned to Flatland and mere memory: memories— yes. solicitations. through shuttered reverie: private resorts. sequin and decolletage are truth where Eros is love. cliche redheads and cute hot tub hookers. something less: a masquerade. caught in glass. Darlings all. no longer selves—no. Tinsel. lines and lines of repetition. sororities. with never a glimpse of me. these I know. These pale. Here I am. Yet they do not die. and dumb inanities. and blue motels—dim domains all. soft smiles. The lens—a black moon rising.London Youth that dreams of nothing else dreams to see herself in silver and glass that projects rising stars. They become one 81 .
and live together where a separation kills. See. 82 . my shell: a genius symmetry—and know my lone invisibility.
searching. inward she turns. The shadow (of snow upon the wall)—turns her lips toward him with whisper: You see of me many images. love me for my invisibility—she sinks. supine. unquestioned questions. eyes averted. now. midnight moonlight cobalt blue uipon the curve of her ilium. Silent as the mountain snow drives through the vale. her mortality forgot. You kiss gently this form. but what lives within: love me. beside her self. 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. Not for the line draws your calf to thigh. spent. for all these impressions do not love them. a life: these are not known until lost. she lies beside her lover. In this her love's ﬂesh. She would have no form. as I 83 . and what then? she) knew none of this . her visions: (A girl. for whatever you (have. slight. beneath the moisture of his breath she feels (the words): You are. present. love. so may questions so may (with stone opacity) youth.Midnight moonlight Silken. then (a lady. nor the dilation of your eyes. into thought solitude. and all (I desire) only. will) see of me. Now only the question. pure desire unite and merge their esences (calm her lover upon) her breast: pure love. a woman.
or the sharp hard bone of your mouth beneath your kiss—I —no other way. and perhaps is right. and shares with him an invisible moment.) Such might he say. 84 . your beauty is you. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty. love. than this—I could not— I cannot love the absence of the space. She draws close the curtain. she thinks.touch your hand—not for the berry brown of your areolae. her bosom to his.
and sends from each to each our identity. All sight unseen. intricate movement. We were twice ourselves then. Two have known this. Sensations are all. nightly slipping through our hands. Passes from light to digital motion through chemistry are not words. How this world. emotions sightless. We did not know. No longer no closer than the line between: no more detached protocol. 85 . digit to digit. invisible feeling become palpable through these palms. and this is knowledge: indices. its drama written. Striking light upon ﬁngers. eyes. connection: remote as they are twain in the mystery. your sweet perspiration. receptive. and we are real as the ﬂesh that touches now.Connection Twelve chimes distant toll. our ﬁngers creating the real from the intangible made this: tangible. these words' place upon your lips. A ﬂow of electric excitement creates vision. This is now. A spittle mote more important than a blush or perspiration. as myriads now. formulae. against all possibility.
Eve The cloak night shrouds your Cynthian form. 86 . Shining endow with silver radiance The universe cleaved with your velvet.