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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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

promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. crossed out.for Aaron Greenreich. 7 . Pages blank and torn. words smudged. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you. 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.

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 .

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

and met each the other's eyes. more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather. Her hands twitch. These two will never know that they have met in gaze. City life is more than the sum of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians. though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list. 34 . he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze.11 by 14 The window opens upon the world and limits nothing now three floors up. in life or death. 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. Eyes are crusted dry. she stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

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

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

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

legs where arms should be. flesh pierced through by iridescent shards of steel to bleed out vitriol the snap of bone against aluminum and the lifelessness of muscle revealing ghastly mortality. and teeth scattered like dice— for you. I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good.Eschatology For all who have had their hearts lacerated by the flak of glass shard. 53 .

but not at all surprising. so full of wonderful. was scrawled. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. supposedly. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. and wave to mom from outer space. great. It's a little lonely in my age to look around and see the smiles of vapid yuppies who used to smoke pot and the Republicans with mohawks. no. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. Oh. No one ever read in my hands the years of sloth and pointless toil it took to get this much closer to the end of my life without so much as a single bit of fortune. The only fortune ever smiled upon me was that I grew up impervious to promise and kept a warm heart beneath all my bitten skeptic skin. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 .

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

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

contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. 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. blinded by blood. 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 . The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail. there is only the emptiness it always hid. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance.

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

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

we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. since Derrida said we didn't. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. since someone on the Internet said so. then went and got tattoos. 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. put scarrifications across our flesh. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion 60 . and who could argue with such mighty.

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

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. his face has no memory of smiles a little-sized jacket with The Doors logo: he cannot be more than nine years old as they all climb back into the Volkswagen Eurovan. fashionably red and modern 62 .

Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him firmly in his late afternoon ritual. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. now he returns to a suburban 63 . Reflecting from the image of the SUV window. espresso and glossy. whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. 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. how in college kicked a television set down six flights. 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. cocaine potatoes. the school where his two children toil daily.

everyone should fight such resignations. sure.Dorian Grey reversal film now: old images of self beatified obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. bed bath and beyond… None of this was planned in marijuana haze and chats around the Poor Manʼs James Bond pipe bombs slipped into the neighborʼs Brand names and leather interiors. and wife one must sacrifice all sorts what was worth fighting for that he cannot recall the time his parents visited and left him with his childhood Holy Bible and a foul taste. and 64 . and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. principles are now thought with interests in mind. or of course not like them. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. rate and time the measure of life for the children.

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

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

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 .

a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. pomade glazed goatee and wry (never vapid) self-satisfaction like the ankh that dangles emptily above upon your second-hand Nehru) flares digging Tony Bennett on designer headphones. such a mystery 68 .Walking Rauschenberg. what makes you (for you are made. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. self-stylish as if it were (grand creation to imbibe the dross of your dying world and forth spew from your mouth this shit once from assholes of corporations who shit it first on you. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. by capture tranquilized. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. care) No. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not flush. of course. beneath glass and wire rim. on lost costumanity. wow. rape (all in sight. thinking if (it's called that anymore you are.

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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

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

dissolve into your divine radiance.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. and so it blinds them all to the soul within. before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and defines you. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form. 74 . scattering prism reflections. 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. the fruition of cosmic design.

Ribbon Time is a bright black ribbon in your hair unwinding the opposite of the clock— fingers slow extend to touching at the contact is all stasis: each impulse of electric apprehension alone. 75 . at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. before all thought and perception. in this in the moment. no future tense only present. and. perfect. as myriad strands of sunlight reflecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand.

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

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

Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. Suspended moment: this vision. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. Did not this wind hover about us and waft between us where the perfume of our bodies mingle surround with the other essence each of us. this picture memory. delineate your figure beneath the peignoir silk touched fluorescent green. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the flux of your diffracted symmetry. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. 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. recall our sympathy.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. of eyes grown dusky with reflection as they avert. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration.

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

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

sororities. caught in glass. The lens—a black moon rising. Yet they do not die. and blue motels—dim domains all. soft smiles. Tinsel. These pale. but hide beneath the stately ivy carapace that clutches for dear life to that which fuels its fuse. Here I am. with never a glimpse of me. cut where I am consigned to Flatland and mere memory: memories— yes. something less: a masquerade. and dumb inanities. They become one 81 . Two decades staring. these I know. through shuttered reverie: private resorts. lines and lines of repetition. these images. solicitations. no longer selves—no.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. soulless shadows searching. Darlings all. free no more but slave shackled to the bland mint where dreams are pressed dead green. sequin and decolletage are truth where Eros is love.

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

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

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

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

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

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