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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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