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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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