Polyphony

poems by Omar Willey

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Polyphony
poems by Omar Willey

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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse

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9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 25

Tenor
Stigmata Changes After youth is Disparate ideologies in the rain Humble origins Snowfall 11 by 14

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27 29 30 31 32 33 34

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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 .

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

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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

Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber. 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caesura branches rustle panes rattle carpet forms impressions of feet anticipation of you wind a shiver on skin grown cold stiff flesh shuddering erratic pulsations benediction of you 22 .

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

in still reflection wonder. in presence of your beauty. 24 . waititing still for the fastening of your last button. where I dwell.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.

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.

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Tenor

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

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

because your flesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. but i've heard worser. 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. madness to suppose. but the only way out is to tell you that you have come into my life and transfigured it without so much as knowing or try. and then. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. 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. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. their words of us are self-pitiful. who does not. 31 . and that this is all that matters. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. absence of care: human flotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. and i unenlightened breeder male.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moire each drop holds a mirror upside down. turvy-topsy bent incidences streak across the glass bent incidences sparkle where reflections freeze— inverted miniatures of mirror beads eyes glass and rain beyond this moire. 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 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

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 no one finds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. eager for their first drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. and the inanities of college students. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak. until silence once more has value there— 50 . no listening.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. sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. cell phones. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). and sense of suffering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. this day I call forth: People. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. 58 . 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. too. joy and love instead of beer cans. grain rotation. Jailtime. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. Ergonomics. Everyone. Now.Trochaic monologue Truly. 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. lameness.

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

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

and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town.Broken limbs Eight officers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent flesh. blood veins with shrapnel islands. 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. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills. 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 more. and the smell of death and shit. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 .

his brother sharing the gaiety his mother unamused and stern walks just ahead of his father who squints behind his spectacles.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.

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

or of course not like them. rate and time the measure of life for the children. everyone should fight such resignations. 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.Dorian Grey reversal film now: old images of self beatified obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. sure. and 64 . and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baritone 71 .

Myriad metaphors Myriad metaphors—all are mute: none describe the light that shimmers reflections of the mauve setting sun's light upon the darkness of your eyes. 72 . cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life. nor the lineament of the air that. heavy with your perfume.

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

and so it blinds them all to the soul within. dissolve into your divine radiance. 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. before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and defines you. 74 . the fruition of cosmic design.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. scattering prism reflections.

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. and. 75 . no future tense only present.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. perfect. in this in the moment. before all thought and perception.

or color your skin reflects (all races mere reflections of light. of that we form into the future. Do not feel this rationalization. if only for us. Fly into the billowing. no meaning. small or polysyllable. awhile. and punctuate the air with your signature. All these can do is try: to reach that which within us is genius. 76 . yourself. Many people think because they are powerless to do these things they (like them) have no life. this is the breath of us.Voice of the Brahma Divine words cannot change the curls of your hair. 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. create sculptures of flesh or metal or marble to raise swords in justification. I am no magician—nor will words.

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

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. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. this picture memory. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. Suspended moment: this vision. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. delineate your figure beneath the peignoir silk touched fluorescent green. of eyes grown dusky with reflection as they avert. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the flux of your diffracted symmetry.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. recall our sympathy. 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 pulse with mine: this is all we know. no captured silence before words becalmed to nothing—still it lives. preserves only a moment past. the spirit animate that surrounds your body corporeal. these uncertain fingers retract perspiring from your heat. this moment binds. No kiss. this intangible reflection gives life to this lifeless would picture. This frame silences the motion. no taste upon our tongues the salt of passion quiets my bristling thoughts. delicate. I hold alone an image. if it could. no frame. 79 . no blood pulsates suddenly wordless against our cold lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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