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poems by Omar Willey
poems by Omar Willey
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Bond Hermitage Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse
9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 25
Stigmata Changes After youth is Disparate ideologies in the rain Humble origins Snowfall 11 by 14
27 29 30 31 32 33 34
A poem for Henry Grimes A Void Moire Aleph Null Compound Work For Hire Utterance What passes is not time Blonde antipode 35 37 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 Alto Nine Crows Tintinnabulation Photo Op Eschatology The Subject Was Motörhead Post-ironic non-detachment Trochaic monologue Sarcophagus Elephant talk Broken limbs The reformed hippies’ children Before the condos are planted As so often you leave Walking Rauschenberg. 48 49 50 51 53 54 57 58 59 60 61 62 66 67 68 5 .
Unseen hunter Scrabbles 69 70 Baritone Myriad metaphors Silent Night Splendour Ribbon Voice of the Brahma If Intangible Solstice London Midnight moonlight Connection Eve Reminiscence 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 80 81 83 85 83 83 6 .
7 . still. crossed out. because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors. Pages blank and torn.for Aaron Greenreich. promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. words smudged. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you.
Soprano 8 .
where heaven meets the plain. warm with the blush of blood. forever. No sadness. horizons know terra and ﬁrmament ﬁssure. solemn upon their hearts. their words its sole motion: there. invisible to mortality. Two share the bond of separation. a lone silent empathy. no assuage for them. As she. Time cloven hearts. 9 . naked and real— shared: "We shall meet at the horizon. no numerals mar its eternal concomitance. no stolid masques enacted. quiet words exchanged for silent thoughts— her beauty was never a question. he recalls how in a touch the world would seem again: darkened gloams at riverside. all is memory. no love. They stretch now their arms toward an embrace that is not felt. Serene communications.Bond Two share the bond of separation. his youth (so youthless) no obstacle. Parallel they held near each other and shared imaginings of a time eonic in its stasis." Friendship should be so binding as vows repeat their memories.
the hermitage. In this still solitude there is nothing. In blackness sink in mute reﬂection. this soul infuses ecstasy. Escape—into the luminous: Your evanescent vision warms With life. I want your touch illume the beauty Sleeps entombed in jade memory. Still. recurs. and staring see the silence. I wake. To feel your nearness. I want to rest within your realm. Your apparition. the stench. Footfall rain resounds within The vacuum of my silent room. I dream deposed on tinctured shroud. I lose myself within the why Encircles my scarred isolation.Hermitage The cold gray sunshine light that pierces Through the shadow drapes' shimmer ﬁlls The air that clings my ﬂesh with emptiness. you offer no resolution. feel your pulse— Is that love?—awake within the dream. The dust. 10 . still. Murmur broken words in fading haze And try to touch your speechless image As it ﬁnally dies away. Within the dampened caesura I wish The touch to synchronize our souls. But you are silent and withhold from me Your purifying word and touch. Still minutes drown inside my blood. I long to leave my desert chamber.
11 .I cannot leave this dream to die alone. Trembling in your light I whisper. I close my eyes: hesitation. A single shadow conjoin us: I hold my hand to you through darkness.
Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber. now free ﬂy away 12 . coolly sealed in time's preserve poetic metaphor for eternality i think of the beauty of seeing the amber slowly melt away as dew recedes from petals and watching the bee unenthralled.
now I am bitten where frost turns hoary and blue my ﬂesh.. 13 . I am rendered as a waning man. instinct to kill now bound. I killed a hunter I had become. I ﬁnd no passion remains. ﬁngerprints in talcum. old traces of blood where we loved. This wilderness engulfs me.Prints I ﬁnd still your spoors about my den. still could prey on those. for love that gnaws vapidly within. all as broken branches from my life's tree where you have trespassed. I wonder as my misery turns to the numb of dying and crimson trickles life away—if I had not loved. But yours are the prints impressed upon my barren environ where I am dying there is no other. all is ice and dust. I cannot here live nor feed. where all about is nothing.. and. one as I would give to you. cast like demon out. cold in the light and begging warmth only your body could provide. Love. strands of hair. perfumerie. my ﬂuid and your ﬂuid in pattern of a voluptuous ﬂower.
preserving alone the I of the whorl. no subtle brilliance crack stark helix shell where frightened curls this idiot spirit. A cyclone spiral. stars interrupt the black jejune. listens no noise.Spiral Alone staring into the dark above: no moonbeams. the vortex pitch swirls about the eye glowers at me. 14 . cold soul. seeing no razing. shadows former love. And like still night. recoiling attack. destroys all.
15 . Alone we bind our solitude. A silent covenant To sanctify our unity. The shadows of our souls are mute In glow of holy light.Sub Rosa I hold to you a rainbow blossom.
this moment between us. sensuous. tender with ineffable emotions. are such. no poet to fashion and from your truth ﬁgure metaphors and prostitutions. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. These imaginings are squander. No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now. 16 .The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing. and I. I am but a lone human being as you. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not.
Vibration Your voice reverberates upon my ﬂesh. These vibrations pass silently away. returning to you the palpitation of my heart. 17 . lost within the damp air that surrounds us and bears to each the other hesitant shiver.
All these things felt. but had come together for an instant. and merge me into you. we smiled to turn away with civilized politeness and potential death where there would have been. exchanged electricity. I think.Recognition (In a Bookstore) It was an accident. but all of my breath trembling with excitement and the know. We knew nothing of each other. 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. Instead. The slight blush behind your smile and apology. 18 . 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.
but unity 19 . an index not of suffering. memories of hurt that tell me quietly that my travails show consequence where I have grown. are markers of our future). Open wounds ooze and bleed to form upon my rend an armor cold— this dries and cracks and tears away revealing. as lines within our palmistry (these. closer to a whole. all sigils on its palimpsest. One cannot forget the claw that blazons history into soft skin and bone the character of all mortality. there is only healing.The progress of my scars I watch the progress of my scars. too. new wounds: each time more shallow. No way to bind this. with scrawl and scratch and deep impression that we may always recollect. as certainly as we are life the hands of time shall notate us. yet still at root a scar. it writes all human destiny. what my ﬂesh shall not know again without pain and grim reﬂection—perhaps this is the knowledge never hid. One more milestone on the path of myriad. I shed this scab and keep a scar. underneath the old.
*** 20 . future. my earthly thread. when I lose sight of who and where I am. these insignia recall for me. a cleaving—present.with all that lives within and out. for life. past in continuity.
silent. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. small joys. but this makes numbers. So it begins. 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. this parting. is always time.Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. refuses to be stirred. There will be more. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. most certainly. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. 21 .
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 .
some phrase not trite. you stand in light. You would ﬁnd it mundane. you would think me mad. to call poetry. to hide how my quietude longs for feeling breast to breast our heartbeats' rhythm. you dissolve in private rhapsody. from you a subtle emanation—all the sound is silent. untold to you. but for your quiet weary meditation. your eyelids close. I am quiet in the dim banality. and see. your hair a sable veil whose threads protect your beauty.Bow Another day begins. The dull awakening. truth: Truth. and I am dumb to let this moment (as so many) die. maquillage and dishes: daily glamour. and the light is gone: from me. as any other. Trivialities. truth. Alone. This seeking shiver 23 . I watch. The dawn illuminates me as it reﬂects your delicate ﬂesh. I search my pitiful mute vocabulary for brilliant wit. unguarded—without artiﬁce. Head gently bowed (hide the eyes from sidelong glance). to hear me speak. unknown to me. your blue folds in blue. as if these minute observations were a truth—yes. ﬂowing iridescent swirls upon perspiring ﬁngers. to stiﬂe my yearning to be held— but I am beyond words.
24 . in still reﬂection wonder. waititing still for the fastening of your last button. where I dwell.of my empty hands will force a paper to record by token and quill this lapse and that will be all: this unspeaking becomes a vacuum. void aspect of a warm alienation. 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.
but is not us. and even its emotion. it is our one true sacrament. the well a part of thirst. above all else: our ﬂesh may change and must. taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. where the heavens are. of course. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. 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. ever brighter— 29 . reﬂections. are beauty. experience of all the world. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. and we are spirits ﬁrst. for we are love.Changes I have heard that people change from you. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. intimations.
and talk about the scope of love and love's desire.After youth is if i were young i would idolize you: the most beautiful girl in the world. and while I retain my voice. I seek the touch itself no longer. what I am or was. gone what was me once. i would wait to see you every day. my hands. 30 . 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. no matter that my wisdom contravenes. become what i could not be certain. now the act of reaching is the vital thing. the life within your breast. that you are beautiful above all things is all that matters. while the light remains a spark upon your eye. I know that now the universe does not for any second care about my soul's eradication. and this remind me of the youth i lost in being much too long without you near. if i were still young i would sing to you a myriad of drunken rhapsodies and tell to you above all how gorgeous aurora is upon your azure eyes. if only en passant your graceful glide. Yet I shall reach my hand. while knowing we will never touch. and give me rhapsodies forevermore to sing. the meaning of it all or anything. if i were young. and as we touched. i'd sing about the light within your eyes. to you. and i would know that this is sufﬁcient. my reason. your beauty shall ﬁll up my life. my eyes. my queen. i would dissolve into the meaning of annihilation. if i were— but I am not.
and then. 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 surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. somewhere it deﬁes a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. and 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 i unenlightened breeder male.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. and that this is all that matters. because your ﬂesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. who does not. but i've heard worser. 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. 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. 31 . to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. madness to suppose.
a ﬂeshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche. and you into something greater 32 . a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy. but rather the gift of taking. all creation—a body of work to ﬁll ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical. if only for awhile. 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. the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity.Humble origins A broken bone.
a tap. a bloom. but an opening into the future. a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. as humus needs the moss the cycle begins in death.Snowfall the ﬁrst season is not spring but fall. Slow regeneration in a bud. there is something before the nothingness that must decay to bring forth life. not a door that closes. 33 . leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked. and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest.
and met each the other's eyes. more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather. she stops. These two will never know that they have met in gaze. Her hands twitch. Eyes are crusted dry. 34 . in life or death. 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. City life is more than the sum of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians. lifting his long hair into a moire before his eyes driving by. nor consider all the possibilities of what would happen if they looked just one more time. though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list.
and I shall only with these murmur words dance about your painting (upper Egyptian hieroglyphs of sostenuto with sounds all alone yours against the silence shadowing your life and death. You call. whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule. accompany to witnesses. white unmoved by your arco gliss. its unit structures of walking unwalked. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. Monk knew.A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) ﬁddles. They shall die. silence cleaves us of ourselves. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us. but all unnoticed. You were more than your destiny. You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit)) 35 .
opaque as death. prana of nothingness where once had been your eye gazing black to all. 36 . now whitened. after Tauhid. the vacuum.there was only.
I cannot in bright rhapsody tell you how the sun pales against your silhouette. you would be who you say not who you refuse. and that this is of no consequence. For you. that it is enough. as all the rest: nothing special. your eyes in their reﬂection glow with wonder. I to you. only care. your charm voluptuous ﬁlls with electricity—none of these. when there is comfort within the walls. a prison. remain a void. 37 . as you are. This is not given to me. Not to know. If I could will.A Void You would never understand that we are never that which we say we are. not to change. the same. Denial is protection. mystery that reveals not.
broken city itself reﬂecting rows of Ezra Pound petals pass swiftly by and by to others I am one such strange passenger: without so much as root wherever my feet pause—or stop 38 .Moire each drop holds a mirror upside down. 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.
purged of all language masks. nothing 39 . screaming stiﬂe the calm silence. voice of the as yet unfelt idea— nothing. universal. to strangle thoughts yet unspoke rotting notions. am whole again.Aleph Null As nature. Mute genesis. moribund. around me. I am pure. the cipher around me carved of stones Cinders are scars of a dead ﬂame is the bourn of my temptation. I create a silence. Lenten. cacophonous choirs of undead unwanted things All hope is false) hope. wilderness. the past rules all too crawl at that perimeter and plead entrance. attending mind concentrate (Dust will not remain undisturbed the emptiness of me. inside this ring. drawn. where. a focus. old words. the center me. Dead thoughts there scream.
the invisible hieroglyph of the spirit) There is only the breath primeval. ruptures my solitude. without motion. 40 . the beginning. stasis is order crosses.Nothing changes. all are powerless All change is chaos. No knowing (the vase without ﬂowers. here. without water.
their preserve. there nothing lost in reﬂections: the machicolations guard nothing but shadow on the sundial numerals and the silence of a zephyr. they consecrate the hours' sacriﬁce.Compound History is made in glass. Nothing is caught. 41 . Architects imprison these in their makeup. Innocent as black sheep.
Our work was ours. Living: living was what we knew. as we worked in our quietude. doing "a good job. not to breed stars. where pages turn slowly yellow. then decay.Work For Hire (for Sheldon Moldoff) A single bristle makes no brush. Renderings of lead and china white will be remains. they will wear laurels. We could not complain. and shall pass again." We had no leisure to discuss our artistry. and I have lived. trying only to survive in such times where heroes only could thrive in the images. the chewing of time. Many more famous than I have passed. 42 . The studio was for the studious. the rest was asides. Others are lost to time. only work. ideas— they shall outlast the work and worker who was mere creator. each beside the other. nameless but for the lines in which we write our anonymity.
the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. Could she feel this if I touched her? Would she regain her innocence? And transform me into electricity? Thought— 43 . wrought hands. eyes that do not blink. accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. and there are clouds.Utterance Wheels grind.
His rapt attention would be enough to let you know him harmlessly. You could tell him things. if they could talk—no.he could listen. echoing in the hollow: too many memories unmade of you now. you would talk. No outstanding day for you.What passes is not time Ten thousand nights since you caught the light and scattered it with dance. no prose but simple conversation.. just part of the routine—not so for him: that bit bore deeply in his grain. and if you asked he'd say. with you. if he could ﬁnd them: some rhapsody of how in trance he held you—this would not do. Mostly it was words he wanted. No way to reverse that ﬂow of time.. evasive mystery. If he could sit and gently gaze through wisps of winter coffee into your eyes. 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. "I wish we could be friends 44 . incomplete in history and form. No poetry.
So many ifs are lost in silences. if only. 45 ..if only. and mock him gently.." he'd say. if only he could speak. "So many years gone by.yet I do not know how to ask in plain words.. You could tell him." You would smile softly at his bashful reticence.. You would know. and still you're only good with words on paper. given ﬂesh and voice. "Do not underestimate the power of memory recurring.
and not her self. the sear of jealous tempers. This only seems contradiction if you believe all you see. not to be. The weather wanes. So. typical. When the poet wrote about the dancing girls. Pieces of this and that. if only to make it all subside into silence. split open.Blonde antipode The trick is to seem. just some approximate me. But typical of what? Myriad stereotypes to assemble into some kind of me. And so my mask. once past. All is still. and I am therefore typical. There is safety in the mundane. the water is calm and clear. but these are not me—even if I knew who I really am. Reﬂections not complete. like the silt stirred up by storms outside Sarehole Mill. the drool of insincere mouths and the pain in my chest when I wake. Being is for people who can afford the frosty gaze. if I cared about that sort of thing. 46 . it was a mask.
not looking through me. You have told me you admire them.I know you see my veil and guise. But beautiful. Water soon will turn to mud. the girl without and the dormant goddess within? I shall hide these like an Easter egg. I shall be typical. beyond cliches. too. soon become opaque. The storms begin again. like the moon upon the harvest grain. not into your images of me. 47 . too. but know: for those who wait. I will stand out. for you to ﬁnd and prove me that you think your search is worthwhile. I will remove with you I say to you such wild things and hope you will believe not what I have said. brilliant. and I shall don my cloak to weather it once more. there is still time. but what you feel within. if you will believe my words. if you will have me. or theirs taken from People magazine and television talk show tripe— but me. and I will make my marks. Can you see more? Can you peer deep. their patina of stale normality. the slightly fearful child who wants to love and be loved now for all of me.
Alto 48 .
their claws dictation. then all is still. They preen and nod so knowing each in their sequester: their bills silent. 49 . fall just between their overseen: the new-laid baseball ﬁeld. surrounded with barbed wire fence: this will be the site of lost childhoods and numbers run. wings outspread. glass and shredded steel. as leaves. a maze of broken concrete. their cabal breathes intimate and dark billows of thin fog.Nine Crows Nine crows gather in the naked trees. where minds are spent like wet ammunition and dead ends are plainly visible.
no listening. sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola. and sense of suffering. weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak.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. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. cell phones. and no one ﬁnds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). until silence once more has value there— 50 . and the inanities of college students. eager for their ﬁrst drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. 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.
too young to be in awe of the simple gifts. not in the pictures somehow. 51 . a not-so beauty contest. and my sense the world has gone quite mad? Could they take this loneliness and soften it with love and random kindnesses? Probably not. but of them as a hermit crab is of his hermitage. I was never there to be famous. But we were there. Would they have shared my causes.Photo Op Another night on the M1. Photogenic. Mirror. nor quite on a lark. who's the biggest. but not entirely there. the naive contestants in the people pageantry. together. I too lose myself in the haze. mist from wheels capturing the halogen blue of auto lights. It was just clariﬁcation. I think about the separation. What is beauty? What matters? Theses for poets and philosophes to debate in books I will never read. Even this one you remind me: I recall. and slowly spraying spring rainbows that decay into the wind. always. 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. Too young to remember. so it is said. Likely they would drift from me with jealous words and petty notions of security. holding ourselves for all to see. mirror: who's the fairest. who's the quickest one to be through with it all.
I didn't expect a title or congratulations. All I wanted was to sink into my chair and be able to sit upright. pasted then cut out and (mercifully) become a news footnote. Such is the ﬁckleness of taste and chance and circumstance. Fame is not my thing. Lights ﬂicker still through the torrents. It's okay. if she'd have us) of friends. not feeling the burden anymore. and didn't have them bestowed on me. all smiles. and bared myself to the world as a trio (or quartet. too. You remind me of it all. 52 . What I missed was chance. brought together by some ﬂuke of biology but now inseparable. That. This is my exit. It was only clariﬁcation. has past. I just smile in echo of that moment. I could have stood with all of us.My ﬁfteen minutes past. and the rain washes quickly over the glass and it all fades in again: the road is uncertain tonight. you hold the paper in your hands and memory.
Eschatology For all who have had their hearts lacerated by the ﬂak of glass shard. 53 . legs where arms should be. I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good. 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.
supposedly. so full of wonderful. but not at all surprising. Oh. great. was scrawled.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. 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 read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. 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. no. 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. and wave to mom from outer space. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 .
I hold still to my ideals of youth. because you don't know how it felt to see you coast 55 . I'll tell you that I do not know. believe. always tempered by encounters with stupid assholes in my life. and that would be a bummer. "Gee. from shelter. I remember you from school." when I hated your sorry ass then and now. Just don't come up to me and say. you cannot ask me how. Only. except a very long killing spree that would lose its fun quality after the ﬁrst ﬁve years or so. 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. I still. especially the clean-up time. I still. dude. I hold this love I've always held for friends who most probably think that I've forgotten them.everyone forgot the future. I know only that I have no other option. in spite of all that life presents.
Silent thoughts. whose eyes never saw me.on by. I look down at my well-lined palms. That past is dead. I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead. The falling of a full moon night. and think. The breath of wind that blows through trees across. beautiful to me. But here: take this orchid to show that I can turn the other cheek. 56 . or how I hated every day of waking up to faces. oblivious to all.
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. The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail. contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. blinded by blood. when all they show is the vacuum tube not only sucks but supplants an intellect that might be used for something other than garbage repository: maybe some existence in a world where there are leaves and conversations grow. The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. there is only the emptiness it always hid. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. 57 .
Everyone. 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. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. Now. lameness.Trochaic monologue Truly. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. grain rotation. Jailtime. 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. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. this day I call forth: People. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. too. Ergonomics. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. 58 . joy and love instead of beer cans.
yet transcendent) shroud the limits of an ineffable—end. where beginnings are foresworn. for)) quiet solitude as mysteries of the Stone: mute. where numbers did not) sufﬁce—these now insensate things hidden. there (inclement mortality. no longer (words were once the sigil. 59 . dumb as a veil.Sarcophagus skeletal beneath the ﬂesh where shivers in a (here broken.
anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. since someone on the Internet said so. and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. put scarriﬁcations across our ﬂesh. then went and got tattoos. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion 60 . we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. since Derrida said we didn't. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. and who could argue with such mighty. 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.
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. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 . and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. except that they work for a living seven death sentences and life imprisonment is the vengeance of blind law (thank god for the old testament enlightenment that demands death for more dead): their names lost. blood veins with shrapnel islands. and more. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills. 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.
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. his brother sharing the gaiety his mother unamused and stern walks just ahead of his father who squints behind his spectacles. fashionably red and modern 62 .
Reﬂecting from the image of the SUV window. now he returns to a suburban 63 . whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. cocaine potatoes. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. riddled Reaganʼs efﬁgy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him ﬁrmly in his late afternoon ritual. the school where his two children toil daily. 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. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. espresso and glossy.
worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. rate and time the measure of life for the children. or of course not like them. 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.Dorian Grey reversal ﬁlm now: old images of self beatiﬁed obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. everyone should ﬁght such resignations. sure. and 64 . 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 vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world.
the old embers in his night-brown eyes ﬂicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun. the light. reﬂection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic 65 . the glass reﬂex and then returns to reading The Village Voice article about Ani DiFranco and the politics of approval.for just a moment. What does it say for CSI Miami tonight… His mug perched on the teak.
some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel. theirs and maybe some space we are absorbed. he has scurried slowly across the ﬁeld to watch his swamp world ﬁlled with the vacuity of forms and ideas of progress.Before the condos are planted the croak of the lone tree frog reminds pastoral is dead. 66 . metal teeth chew the earth become asphalt. subdivided theirs. theirs. 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 .
care) No. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. wow. 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. of course.Walking Rauschenberg. such a mystery 68 . pomade glazed goatee and wry (never vapid) self-satisfaction like the ankh that dangles emptily above upon your second-hand Nehru) ﬂares digging Tony Bennett on designer headphones. on lost costumanity. beneath glass and wire rim. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. rape (all in sight. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not ﬂush. what makes you (for you are made. thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. by capture tranquilized.
Metal quarry. Open wound. pierced with points of stone. unseen hunter. 69 . Blue into dull puce. and gold to pale amber against the black rocks. then red. golden brown. Prey. these concentric circles begin.Unseen hunter Spoors of industry. The brilliant colors bleed. then gold. Rain. anemic red. Blue. A small and silent trickling becomes a ﬂux.
now mere ornament. meretricious. Three. hieroglyph that once marked warriors. withdrawn. and marrow but the hand. Blood ﬂows there. and are still. nine. 70 . offers not. twelve fourteen bones beneath the unwrinkled green sigil. eyes deep in shadow regret their vigilance.Scrabbles Scrabbles at the denim. six.
Baritone 71 .
cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life. nor the lineament of the air that. heavy with your perfume. 72 .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.
unstirred passions wither and are unmoved. and unseen face away this moment. warmth of night. leave to me your backside turned. lie like moonlight. 73 . lost as mystery. see the rivulets of crimson not. Held to you. My hand now curled. The question fades and dies: unanswered call. its dissonance. Eye unblinking. Beside me. no. do not turn your sleeping smile to me and gaze upon my visage. where scars unseal themselves as mute mouths now. A human hand might hear and heal its silent melancholy song. No fear there to strangle secrets. beneath dusts of time. This choir of blood now pale within your radiance—a plaintive vocalise. unpursed lips telling deaf ears tales of soft and liquid history: how. But no ﬁngers reach in counterpoint: I am a cappella. by light of Eve. no untidy retributions from a whisper light. never see this uncertain reach before it dies in down.Silent Night Ten thousand past specters denude themselves beneath a blanket darkness. numb bears a not quite invisible. but for your touch: still unto death. fallen. a wound where once I wiped away my mouth: it no longer murmurs words to cry the twinge of memory.
but you —you could take me in your hands like a dewdrop in the morning sunlight. and so it blinds them all to the soul within. No glass sufﬁcient to reﬂect the magnitude of your heavenly body. before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and deﬁnes you. 74 . scattering prism reﬂections.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form. the fruition of cosmic design. dissolve into your divine radiance.
75 . before all thought and perception. at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. no future tense only present. perfect. and. in this in the moment. as myriad strands of sunlight reﬂecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand.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.
Do not feel this rationalization. I am no magician—nor will words. Fly into the billowing. Many people think because they are powerless to do these things they (like them) have no life. awhile. On the wind a breath recalls the vibration: where our ancestors sang the world from our dreaming into the stuff of now.Voice of the Brahma Divine words cannot change the curls of your hair. and punctuate the air with your signature. 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. create sculptures of ﬂesh or metal or marble to raise swords in justiﬁcation. no meaning. yourself. small or polysyllable. All these can do is try: to reach that which within us is genius. of that we form into the future. this is the breath of us. 76 . if only for us.
If I want to dream of you and all sensations that clothe you suddenly reveal your naked beauty. 77 .
Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the ﬂux of your diffracted symmetry. this picture memory. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. Suspended moment: this vision. of eyes grown dusky with reﬂection as they avert. Did not this wind hover about us and waft between us where the perfume of our bodies mingle surround with the other essence each of us. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. delineate your ﬁgure beneath the peignoir silk touched ﬂuorescent green. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. recall our sympathy. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. did not your napeskin tremble then with blush beneath the shadow silent—no love would resonate my hollow cavity where syncopates 78 .
preserves only a moment past. no blood pulsates suddenly wordless against our cold lips. this moment binds. delicate. if it could. No kiss. the spirit animate that surrounds your body corporeal.your pulse with mine: this is all we know. This frame silences the motion. this intangible reﬂection gives life to this lifeless would picture. 79 . no taste upon our tongues the salt of passion quiets my bristling thoughts. I hold alone an image. no frame. these uncertain ﬁngers retract perspiring from your heat. no captured silence before words becalmed to nothing—still it lives.
who love. so the season brings renaissance to all things—this is your gift. If you could stand and be aware of heaven. have passed before. your nativity. for all. In your aura. molten frost turns to dew. eclipsed. you would see how. stamens. invisible to the eye. this celebration. you are the star of all. each year another blessing. 80 . three times. time stands still: for a moment. As you are reborn. this day is yours alone to share with all who live. for you. exactly each as this (we mark them all with candles)—why should this day be different from all others? Your life goes on. leaves grow green again. high above the spinning earth now bathed in luminescence. pistils sweet intercourse with each other. dust will dissipate. The sun stops in the sky.Solstice As any other day. who wait and wish for spring as surely as they shy from winter gray. as west wind swirls about your form to caress you with its felt formlessness and move your fabric to gorgeous delight. the sun will arise from low behind snow-spangled mountain peaks. stands in your shade. and honeybees dance the silent message: You bring with you Spring's inspiration. and ﬂowers will grip the soil and stone to bare their blossoms before the light. Ten cycles of the sun.
These pale. free no more but slave shackled to the bland mint where dreams are pressed dead green. lines and lines of repetition. but hide beneath the stately ivy carapace that clutches for dear life to that which fuels its fuse. sororities. these images. caught in glass. cliche redheads and cute hot tub hookers. no longer selves—no. Tinsel. Two decades staring. Yet they do not die. with never a glimpse of me. something less: a masquerade. and blue motels—dim domains all.London Youth that dreams of nothing else dreams to see herself in silver and glass that projects rising stars. these I know. sequin and decolletage are truth where Eros is love. Darlings all. soulless shadows searching. Here I am. and dumb inanities. cut where I am consigned to Flatland and mere memory: memories— yes. The lens—a black moon rising. soft smiles. They become one 81 . solicitations. through shuttered reverie: private resorts.
my shell: a genius symmetry—and know my lone invisibility.and live together where a separation kills. 82 . See.
a woman. for all these impressions do not love them. eyes averted. will) see of me. supine. her mortality forgot. The shadow (of snow upon the wall)—turns her lips toward him with whisper: You see of me many images. now. Her skin shivers beneath the furrows as his ﬁngernails bite softly into her shoulders. beneath the moisture of his breath she feels (the words): You are. Now only the question. her visions: (A girl. for whatever you (have. You kiss gently this form. she lies beside her lover. curl about your ﬁngers these tresses that veil me—for these. but what lives within: love me. beside her self. unquestioned questions. into thought solitude.Midnight moonlight Silken. so may questions so may (with stone opacity) youth. In this her love's ﬂesh. present. inward she turns. She would have no form. midnight moonlight cobalt blue uipon the curve of her ilium. spent. as I 83 . love. searching. then (a lady. Not for the line draws your calf to thigh. a life: these are not known until lost. slight. love me for my invisibility—she sinks. and all (I desire) only. pure desire unite and merge their esences (calm her lover upon) her breast: pure love. nor the dilation of your eyes. Silent as the mountain snow drives through the vale. and what then? she) knew none of this .
your beauty is you. and perhaps is right. 84 . She draws close the curtain.touch your hand—not for the berry brown of your areolae.) Such might he say. she thinks. her bosom to his. than this—I could not— I cannot love the absence of the space. love. and shares with him an invisible moment. or the sharp hard bone of your mouth beneath your kiss—I —no other way. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty.
your sweet perspiration. We were twice ourselves then. How this world. A ﬂow of electric excitement creates vision. and we are real as the ﬂesh that touches now. its drama written. emotions sightless. This is now. A spittle mote more important than a blush or perspiration. Two have known this. connection: remote as they are twain in the mystery. All sight unseen. formulae. nightly slipping through our hands. and this is knowledge: indices. We did not know. these words' place upon your lips. our ﬁngers creating the real from the intangible made this: tangible. eyes. Passes from light to digital motion through chemistry are not words. digit to digit. invisible feeling become palpable through these palms. Sensations are all. Striking light upon ﬁngers. intricate movement. receptive.Connection Twelve chimes distant toll. against all possibility. as myriads now. No longer no closer than the line between: no more detached protocol. and sends from each to each our identity. 85 .
86 .Eve The cloak night shrouds your Cynthian form. Shining endow with silver radiance The universe cleaved with your velvet.
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