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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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

words smudged. Pages blank and torn. 7 . promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. still. crossed out. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you. because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors.for Aaron Greenreich.

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

are such. tender with ineffable emotions.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. and I. No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now. 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. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. this moment between us. These imaginings are squander. 16 .

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

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

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

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

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

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 .

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

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

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.

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

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

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. and i unenlightened breeder male. and that this is all that matters. madness to suppose. but i've heard worser. absence of care: human flotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. and all i think is how very beautiful the curvature of your lips and the fullness of your form beneath the water speckling your hardened leather jacket. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. 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. because your flesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. their words of us are self-pitiful. and then. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. 31 . somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely.

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

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

he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze. lifting his long hair into a moire before his eyes driving by. she stops. Eyes are crusted dry.11 by 14 The window opens upon the world and limits nothing now three floors up. and met each the other's eyes. Her hands twitch. in life or death. nor consider all the possibilities of what would happen if they looked just one more time. 34 . though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list. These two will never know that they have met in gaze. more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather. City life is more than the sum of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes.Utterance Wheels grind. Could she feel this if I touched her? Would she regain her innocence? And transform me into electricity? Thought— 43 . 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. eyes that do not blink. 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. wrought hands. and there are clouds.

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

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

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

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

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

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. supposedly.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 . going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. Oh. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. 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. was scrawled. and wave to mom from outer space. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. great. but not at all surprising. no. No one ever read in my hands the years of sloth and pointless toil it took to get this much closer to the end of my life without so much as a single bit of fortune. so full of wonderful.

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

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

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

Trochaic monologue Truly. Now. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. 58 . Jailtime. Everyone. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. lameness. grain rotation. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. too. 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. 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. Ergonomics. 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. joy and love instead of beer cans. this day I call forth: People.

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

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

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

his brother sharing the gaiety his mother unamused and stern walks just ahead of his father who squints behind his spectacles. his face has no memory of smiles a little-sized jacket with The Doors logo: he cannot be more than nine years old as they all climb back into the Volkswagen Eurovan.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. fashionably red and modern 62 .

the school where his two children toil daily. whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. riddled Reaganʼs effigy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. how in college kicked a television set down six flights. espresso and glossy.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. Reflecting from the image of the SUV window. 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. now he returns to a suburban 63 .

sure. everyone should fight such resignations.Dorian Grey reversal film now: old images of self beatified obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. rate and time the measure of life for the children. 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 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 vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. and 64 . or of course not like them. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. principles are now thought with interests in mind.

reflection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic 65 . the light. What does it say for CSI Miami tonight… His mug perched on the teak. the glass reflex and then returns to reading The Village Voice article about Ani DiFranco and the politics of approval.for just a moment. the old embers in his night-brown eyes flicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun.

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

turned on sworld like a revolution that will not flush. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. rape (all in sight. beneath glass and wire rim. self-stylish as if it were (grand creation to imbibe the dross of your dying world and forth spew from your mouth this shit once from assholes of corporations who shit it first on you. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. such a mystery 68 . pomade glazed goatee and wry (never vapid) self-satisfaction like the ankh that dangles emptily above upon your second-hand Nehru) flares digging Tony Bennett on designer headphones. on lost costumanity. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. by capture tranquilized.Walking Rauschenberg. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. what makes you (for you are made. of course. care) No. wow.

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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. heavy with your perfume. nor the lineament of the air that. cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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