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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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