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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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