poems by Omar Willey


poems by Omar Willey


This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/ or send a letter to: Creative Commons 171 Second Street, Suite 300 San Francisco, California, 94105 USA


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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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. 7 . words smudged. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you. still. Pages blank and torn. because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors.for Aaron Greenreich. crossed out.

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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

now free fly away 12 .Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber. 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 .

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

waititing still for the fastening of your last button.of my empty hands will force a paper to record by token and quill this lapse and that will be all: this unspeaking becomes a vacuum. in still reflection wonder. 24 . void aspect of a warm alienation. in presence of your beauty. where I dwell.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion 60 . 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. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. since Derrida said we didn't. school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor films replace our actual thoughts—that is. then went and got tattoos. we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. since someone on the Internet said so. 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. if we ever had any. and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. and who could argue with such mighty. put scarrifications across our flesh.

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

fashionably red and modern 62 .The reformed hippiesʼ children Their legs and arms in a constant bounce bounce as though they do not care about gravity His red hair lifted carefree by the quayʼs zephyr. 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.

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. now he returns to a suburban 63 . 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. whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. the school where his two children toil daily. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. espresso and glossy.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him firmly in his late afternoon ritual. Reflecting from the image of the SUV window. cocaine potatoes. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream.

rate and time the measure of life for the children. 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. 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. principles are now thought with interests in mind. bed bath and beyond… None of this was planned in marijuana haze and chats around the Poor Manʼs James Bond pipe bombs slipped into the neighborʼs Brand names and leather interiors. and 64 . everyone should fight such resignations. or of course not like them.Dorian Grey reversal film now: old images of self beatified obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry.

the light. the old embers in his night-brown eyes flicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun. 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. reflection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic 65 .

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

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 .

of course. care) No. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. what makes you (for you are made. on lost costumanity. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not flush. self-stylish as if it were (grand creation to imbibe the dross of your dying world and forth spew from your mouth this shit once from assholes of corporations who shit it first on you. 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. by capture tranquilized. beneath glass and wire rim. wow. rape (all in sight. such a mystery 68 .Walking Rauschenberg. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. thinking if (it's called that anymore you are.

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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

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

No glass sufficient to reflect the magnitude of your heavenly body. 74 . dissolve into your divine radiance. scattering prism reflections. the fruition of cosmic design. but you —you could take me in your hands like a dewdrop in the morning sunlight. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form. before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and defines you.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. and so it blinds them all to the soul within.

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

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

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

did not your napeskin tremble then with blush beneath the shadow silent—no love would resonate my hollow cavity where syncopates 78 . of eyes grown dusky with reflection as they avert. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. this picture memory.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. 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. delineate your figure beneath the peignoir silk touched fluorescent green. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. recall our sympathy. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. Suspended moment: this vision. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the flux of your diffracted symmetry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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