Polyphony

poems by Omar Willey

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Polyphony
poems by Omar Willey

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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse

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9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 25

Tenor
Stigmata Changes After youth is Disparate ideologies in the rain Humble origins Snowfall 11 by 14

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27 29 30 31 32 33 34

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

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. most certainly. silent. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. but this makes numbers. is always time. this parting.Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. So it begins. this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. refuses to be stirred. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. There will be more. hands into a pleasant haze while there is still time. and broken red chaise draped with camisole— The tousle of vacant clothes bedside slowly takes your form and figure full of life and recent love still etched upon your breast. small joys. 21 .

Caesura branches rustle panes rattle carpet forms impressions of feet anticipation of you wind a shiver on skin grown cold stiff flesh shuddering erratic pulsations benediction of you 22 .

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

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. 24 . where I dwell. in presence of your beauty. in still reflection wonder.

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.

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Tenor

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Stigmata
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
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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.
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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. above all else: our flesh may change and must. but is not us. the well a part of thirst. are beauty. ever brighter— 29 . thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. it is our one true sacrament. intimations. for we are love. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. reflections. of course. our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others. taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. experience of all the world. and we are spirits first. and even its emotion.Changes I have heard that people change from you. where the heavens are.

that you are beautiful above all things is all that matters. your beauty shall fill up my life. what I am or was. 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. and give me rhapsodies forevermore to sing. 30 . now the act of reaching is the vital thing. the life within your breast. while the light remains a spark upon your eye. 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. while knowing we will never touch. become what i could not be certain. i would wait to see you every day. and as we touched. if i were young. if only en passant your graceful glide. I seek the touch itself no longer. I know that now the universe does not for any second care about my soul's eradication. my queen. my hands. my eyes. the meaning of it all or anything. and i would know that this is sufficient. Yet I shall reach my hand. gone what was me once. no matter that my wisdom contravenes. if i were— but I am not. i would dissolve into the meaning of annihilation. my reason. 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. to you. and while I retain my voice. i'd sing about the light within your eyes. and talk about the scope of love and love's desire.

and i unenlightened breeder male. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. 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. because your flesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. who does not. and that this is all that matters. madness to suppose. and then. 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 surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. their words of us are self-pitiful. 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. 31 . and i probably the great-grandson of the slave of your pioneer kindred— matters nothing when the rain drives you to shelter next to me.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke.

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

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

in life or death. and met each the other's eyes. 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. nor consider all the possibilities of what would happen if they looked just one more time. These two will never know that they have met in gaze. more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather. she stops. 34 . Eyes are crusted dry. lifting his long hair into a moire before his eyes driving by. he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze. though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list. Her hands twitch.

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

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

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

Moire each drop holds a mirror upside down. broken city itself reflecting rows of Ezra Pound petals pass swiftly by and by to others I am one such strange passenger: without so much as root wherever my feet pause—or stop 38 . 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.

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

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

41 . Innocent as black sheep. their preserve. they consecrate the hours' sacrifice. 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. Nothing is caught. Architects imprison these in their makeup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

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

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

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

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

We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 . but not at all surprising. was scrawled.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. supposedly. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. great. 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. It's a little lonely in my age to look around and see the smiles of vapid yuppies who used to smoke pot and the Republicans with mohawks. no. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. 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. Oh. and wave to mom from outer space.

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

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

The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail. blinded by blood. the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe. 57 . contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. there is only the emptiness it always hid. when all they show is the vacuum tube not only sucks but supplants an intellect that might be used for something other than garbage repository: maybe some existence in a world where there are leaves and conversations grow. The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others.Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge.

58 . Now. Any trailer park can spawn a brood of drooling Morons who will probably run for office While they fuck up all they touch in taking Places from the ones who actually might Make another's life worth living and spread Beauty. Everyone. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. too. Ergonomics. this day I call forth: People. 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. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. Jailtime. lameness. grain rotation.Trochaic monologue Truly. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. joy and love instead of beer cans.

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

though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. then went and got tattoos. and who could argue with such mighty. put scarrifications across our flesh. we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor films replace our actual thoughts—that is. if we ever had any. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. since Derrida said we didn't. 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.

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

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. 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.

whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. cocaine potatoes. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. the school where his two children toil daily.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him firmly in his late afternoon ritual. now he returns to a suburban 63 . Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. riddled Reaganʼs effigy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies. 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. espresso and glossy. how in college kicked a television set down six flights. Reflecting from the image of the SUV window.

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

What does it say for CSI Miami tonight… His mug perched on the teak.for just a moment. the light. the old embers in his night-brown eyes flicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun. 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.

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

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 .

by capture tranquilized. beneath glass and wire rim. of course. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. wow. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. what makes you (for you are made.Walking Rauschenberg. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not flush. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. rape (all in sight. such a mystery 68 . thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. 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. 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. care) No.

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the flux of your diffracted symmetry. recall our sympathy. delineate your figure beneath the peignoir silk touched fluorescent green. this picture memory. Suspended moment: this vision. of eyes grown dusky with reflection as they avert. 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 amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. 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.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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