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poems by Omar Willey
poems by Omar Willey
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Bond Hermitage Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse
9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 25
Stigmata Changes After youth is Disparate ideologies in the rain Humble origins Snowfall 11 by 14
27 29 30 31 32 33 34
A poem for Henry Grimes A Void Moire Aleph Null Compound Work For Hire Utterance What passes is not time Blonde antipode 35 37 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 Alto Nine Crows Tintinnabulation Photo Op Eschatology The Subject Was Motörhead Post-ironic non-detachment Trochaic monologue Sarcophagus Elephant talk Broken limbs The reformed hippies’ children Before the condos are planted As so often you leave Walking Rauschenberg. 48 49 50 51 53 54 57 58 59 60 61 62 66 67 68 5 .
Unseen hunter Scrabbles 69 70 Baritone Myriad metaphors Silent Night Splendour Ribbon Voice of the Brahma If Intangible Solstice London Midnight moonlight Connection Eve Reminiscence 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 80 81 83 85 83 83 6 .
Pages blank and torn. crossed out.for Aaron Greenreich. promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. still. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you. 7 . words smudged. because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors.
Soprano 8 .
their words its sole motion: there. solemn upon their hearts. Parallel they held near each other and shared imaginings of a time eonic in its stasis. a lone silent empathy." Friendship should be so binding as vows repeat their memories. They stretch now their arms toward an embrace that is not felt. naked and real— shared: "We shall meet at the horizon. As she. quiet words exchanged for silent thoughts— her beauty was never a question. forever. horizons know terra and ﬁrmament ﬁssure. Two share the bond of separation. 9 . his youth (so youthless) no obstacle. where heaven meets the plain. No sadness. no assuage for them. Time cloven hearts. no stolid masques enacted. all is memory. warm with the blush of blood.Bond Two share the bond of separation. he recalls how in a touch the world would seem again: darkened gloams at riverside. no numerals mar its eternal concomitance. no love. invisible to mortality. Serene communications.
Within the dampened caesura I wish The touch to synchronize our souls. Footfall rain resounds within The vacuum of my silent room. To feel your nearness. The dust. recurs. In this still solitude there is nothing. and staring see the silence. I lose myself within the why Encircles my scarred isolation. the hermitage. feel your pulse— Is that love?—awake within the dream. Your apparition. I want to rest within your realm. this soul infuses ecstasy. Still minutes drown inside my blood. you offer no resolution. 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 wake. Still. Murmur broken words in fading haze And try to touch your speechless image As it ﬁnally dies away. the stench. 10 . In blackness sink in mute reﬂection. Escape—into the luminous: Your evanescent vision warms With life. I want your touch illume the beauty Sleeps entombed in jade memory. I dream deposed on tinctured shroud. But you are silent and withhold from me Your purifying word and touch.
11 . Trembling in your light I whisper.I cannot leave this dream to die alone. A single shadow conjoin us: I hold my hand to you through darkness. I close my eyes: hesitation.
Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber. now free ﬂy away 12 . coolly sealed in time's preserve poetic metaphor for eternality i think of the beauty of seeing the amber slowly melt away as dew recedes from petals and watching the bee unenthralled.
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. all as broken branches from my life's tree where you have trespassed.. now I am bitten where frost turns hoary and blue my ﬂesh.. cast like demon out. 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. I cannot here live nor feed. 13 . and. old traces of blood where we loved. perfumerie. I ﬁnd no passion remains. strands of hair. I killed a hunter I had become. where all about is nothing. ﬁngerprints in talcum. still could prey on those. cold in the light and begging warmth only your body could provide. I am rendered as a waning man.Prints I ﬁnd still your spoors about my den. This wilderness engulfs me. instinct to kill now bound. all is ice and dust. one as I would give to you. Love.
seeing no razing. no subtle brilliance crack stark helix shell where frightened curls this idiot spirit. A cyclone spiral. destroys all.Spiral Alone staring into the dark above: no moonbeams. 14 . shadows former love. And like still night. preserving alone the I of the whorl. recoiling attack. cold soul. listens no noise. the vortex pitch swirls about the eye glowers at me. stars interrupt the black jejune.
A silent covenant To sanctify our unity. The shadows of our souls are mute In glow of holy light.Sub Rosa I hold to you a rainbow blossom. 15 . Alone we bind our solitude.
and I. this moment between us. are such. tender with ineffable emotions. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. I am but a lone human being as you. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. These imaginings are squander. sensuous. 16 . No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now.The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing. no poet to fashion and from your truth ﬁgure metaphors and prostitutions.
returning to you the palpitation of my heart. 17 .Vibration Your voice reverberates upon my ﬂesh. These vibrations pass silently away. lost within the damp air that surrounds us and bears to each the other hesitant shiver.
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 smiled to turn away with civilized politeness and potential death where there would have been. Instead.Recognition (In a Bookstore) It was an accident. The slight blush behind your smile and apology. All these things felt. and merge me into you. but had come together for an instant. the way you brushed against me so gently that I stopped. I think. exchanged electricity. but all of my breath trembling with excitement and the know. 18 . We knew nothing of each other.
as certainly as we are life the hands of time shall notate us. an index not of suffering. memories of hurt that tell me quietly that my travails show consequence where I have grown. closer to a whole. there is only healing. One cannot forget the claw that blazons history into soft skin and bone the character of all mortality. it writes all human destiny. new wounds: each time more shallow. with scrawl and scratch and deep impression that we may always recollect. but unity 19 . yet still at root a scar. No way to bind this. too. what my ﬂesh shall not know again without pain and grim reﬂection—perhaps this is the knowledge never hid.The progress of my scars I watch the progress of my scars. One more milestone on the path of myriad. I shed this scab and keep a scar. are markers of our future). as lines within our palmistry (these. all sigils on its palimpsest. underneath the old. Open wounds ooze and bleed to form upon my rend an armor cold— this dries and cracks and tears away revealing.
with all that lives within and out. past in continuity. future. when I lose sight of who and where I am. for life. these insignia recall for me. *** 20 . my earthly thread. a cleaving—present.
21 . but this makes numbers. this parting. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. is always time. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue.Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. most certainly. this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. refuses to be stirred. hands into a pleasant haze while there is still time. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. 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. So it begins. silent. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. small joys. There will be more.
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 .
The dawn illuminates me as it reﬂects your delicate ﬂesh.Bow Another day begins. ﬂowing iridescent swirls upon perspiring ﬁngers. you dissolve in private rhapsody. I watch. to hear me speak. you would think me mad. but for your quiet weary meditation. I search my pitiful mute vocabulary for brilliant wit. you stand in light. your eyelids close. This seeking shiver 23 . your hair a sable veil whose threads protect your beauty. I am quiet in the dim banality. to stiﬂe my yearning to be held— but I am beyond words. as any other. to call poetry. unknown to me. Alone. from you a subtle emanation—all the sound is silent. maquillage and dishes: daily glamour. Head gently bowed (hide the eyes from sidelong glance). your blue folds in blue. untold to you. some phrase not trite. to hide how my quietude longs for feeling breast to breast our heartbeats' rhythm. truth. unguarded—without artiﬁce. The dull awakening. You would ﬁnd it mundane. as if these minute observations were a truth—yes. truth: Truth. and see. and I am dumb to let this moment (as so many) die. Trivialities. and the light is gone: from me.
waititing still for the fastening of your last button.of my empty hands will force a paper to record by token and quill this lapse and that will be all: this unspeaking becomes a vacuum. in still reﬂection wonder. void aspect of a warm alienation. 24 . where I dwell. in presence of your beauty.
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.
taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. and even its emotion. for we are love. our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others. but is not us. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. intimations.Changes I have heard that people change from you. where the heavens are. are beauty. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. of course. it is our one true sacrament. ever brighter— 29 . and we are spirits ﬁrst. above all else: our ﬂesh may change and must. reﬂections. experience of all the world. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. the well a part of thirst. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture.
i'd sing about the light within your eyes. no matter that my wisdom contravenes. while knowing we will never touch. and this remind me of the youth i lost in being much too long without you near. and talk about the scope of love and love's desire. while the light remains a spark upon your eye. my hands. if i were— but I am not. your beauty shall ﬁll up my life. I seek the touch itself no longer. my reason. 30 . gone what was me once. Yet I shall reach my hand. that you are beautiful above all things is all that matters. become what i could not be certain. now the act of reaching is the vital thing. and give me rhapsodies forevermore to sing. and as we touched. i would wait to see you every day. i would dissolve into the meaning of annihilation. I know that now the universe does not for any second care about my soul's eradication. to you. my queen.After youth is if i were young i would idolize you: the most beautiful girl in the world. what I am or was. and while I retain my voice. 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. if only en passant your graceful glide. the meaning of it all or anything. my eyes. if i were young. the life within your breast. if i were still young i would sing to you a myriad of drunken rhapsodies and tell to you above all how gorgeous aurora is upon your azure eyes. and i would know that this is sufﬁcient.
madness to suppose. 31 . and then. 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. and i unenlightened breeder male. absence of care: human ﬂotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. who does not. and that this is all that matters.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. their words of us are self-pitiful. because your ﬂesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. but i've heard worser. somewhere it deﬁes a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. and all i think is how very beautiful the curvature of your lips and the fullness of your form beneath the water speckling your hardened leather jacket. and i probably the great-grandson of the slave of your pioneer kindred— matters nothing when the rain drives you to shelter next to me.
the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity.Humble origins A broken bone. all creation—a body of work to ﬁll ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical. a ﬂeshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche. if only for awhile. and you into something greater 32 . but rather the gift of taking. a mis(sed) direction: the warmness radiant in your parted lips as you breathe ﬁrst life is not a spiritual gift. 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 butterﬂy form of ﬁrst menstrual blood. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art.
Slow regeneration in a bud. a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked. 33 . a tap. a bloom. but an opening into the future. as humus needs the moss the cycle begins in death.Snowfall the ﬁrst season is not spring but fall. and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest. not a door that closes. there is something before the nothingness that must decay to bring forth life.
she stops. though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list. 34 . and met each the other's eyes. in life or death. 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. nor consider all the possibilities of what would happen if they looked just one more time. Her hands twitch.11 by 14 The window opens upon the world and limits nothing now three ﬂoors up. These two will never know that they have met in gaze. he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze. Eyes are crusted dry. lifting his long hair into a moire before his eyes driving by.
its unit structures of walking unwalked. white unmoved by your arco gliss. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). Monk knew.A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) ﬁddles. accompany to witnesses. You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit)) 35 . You call. 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. Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. They shall die. silence cleaves us of ourselves. but all unnoticed. You were more than your destiny. evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule.
the vacuum. opaque as death. prana of nothingness where once had been your eye gazing black to all.there was only. after Tauhid. now whitened. 36 .
only care. remain a void. the same. mystery that reveals not. you would be who you say not who you refuse. Denial is protection. that it is enough. Not to know.A Void You would never understand that we are never that which we say we are. 37 . If I could will. not to change. your eyes in their reﬂection glow with wonder. as you are. I cannot in bright rhapsody tell you how the sun pales against your silhouette. your charm voluptuous ﬁlls with electricity—none of these. and that this is of no consequence. I to you. For you. as all the rest: nothing special. This is not given to me. a prison. when there is comfort within the walls.
Moire each drop holds a mirror upside down. broken city itself reﬂecting rows of Ezra Pound petals pass swiftly by and by to others I am one such strange passenger: without so much as root wherever my feet pause—or stop 38 . turvy-topsy bent incidences streak across the glass bent incidences sparkle where reﬂections freeze— inverted miniatures of mirror beads eyes glass and rain beyond this moire.
the past rules all too crawl at that perimeter and plead entrance. the center me. Mute genesis. universal. cacophonous choirs of undead unwanted things All hope is false) hope. attending mind concentrate (Dust will not remain undisturbed the emptiness of me. wilderness. old words. moribund. voice of the as yet unfelt idea— nothing. a focus. nothing 39 . purged of all language masks. to strangle thoughts yet unspoke rotting notions. around me. Lenten. am whole again. where. inside this ring. the cipher around me carved of stones Cinders are scars of a dead ﬂame is the bourn of my temptation. Dead thoughts there scream. screaming stiﬂe the calm silence.Aleph Null As nature. I create a silence. drawn. I am pure.
without motion. stasis is order crosses. the beginning. 40 . here. without water. No knowing (the vase without ﬂowers. the invisible hieroglyph of the spirit) There is only the breath primeval. ruptures my solitude.Nothing changes. all are powerless All change is chaos.
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. Architects imprison these in their makeup. 41 . their preserve. they consecrate the hours' sacriﬁce.Compound History is made in glass. Nothing is caught.
the rest was asides. where pages turn slowly yellow. Our work was ours.Work For Hire (for Sheldon Moldoff) A single bristle makes no brush. doing "a good job. only work." We had no leisure to discuss our artistry. then decay. they will wear laurels. trying only to survive in such times where heroes only could thrive in the images. The studio was for the studious. Renderings of lead and china white will be remains. the chewing of time. nameless but for the lines in which we write our anonymity. not to breed stars. as we worked in our quietude. 42 . We could not complain. Living: living was what we knew. Others are lost to time. Many more famous than I have passed. ideas— they shall outlast the work and worker who was mere creator. and shall pass again. and I have lived. each beside the other.
accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang. and there are clouds. Could she feel this if I touched her? Would she regain her innocence? And transform me into electricity? Thought— 43 .Utterance Wheels grind. wrought hands. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. eyes that do not blink. the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution.
No way to reverse that ﬂow of time. His rapt attention would be enough to let you know him harmlessly. if they could talk—no. You could tell him things.What passes is not time Ten thousand nights since you caught the light and scattered it with dance.he could listen. no prose but simple conversation. if he could ﬁnd them: some rhapsody of how in trance he held you—this would not do. you would talk. "I wish we could be friends 44 .. No poetry. and if you asked he'd say. echoing in the hollow: too many memories unmade of you now. Mostly it was words he wanted.. incomplete in history and form. with you. just part of the routine—not so for him: that bit bore deeply in his grain. 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. If he could sit and gently gaze through wisps of winter coffee into your eyes. No outstanding day for you. evasive mystery.
You could tell him.yet I do not know how to ask in plain words. given ﬂesh and voice.. and still you're only good with words on paper." You would smile softly at his bashful reticence. 45 ..if only. You would know. "Do not underestimate the power of memory recurring.. So many ifs are lost in silences. if only. and mock him gently.. if only he could speak." he'd say. "So many years gone by.
typical. but these are not me—even if I knew who I really am. This only seems contradiction if you believe all you see. But typical of what? Myriad stereotypes to assemble into some kind of me. 46 . the sear of jealous tempers. if I cared about that sort of thing. So. There is safety in the mundane. When the poet wrote about the dancing girls. once past. Reﬂections not complete. the water is calm and clear. split open. the drool of insincere mouths and the pain in my chest when I wake. All is still. if only to make it all subside into silence. it was a mask. and not her self. just some approximate me. and I am therefore typical. And so my mask. Being is for people who can afford the frosty gaze. not to be.Blonde antipode The trick is to seem. like the silt stirred up by storms outside Sarehole Mill. Pieces of this and that. The weather wanes.
but know: for those who wait.I know you see my veil and guise. 47 . But beautiful. or theirs taken from People magazine and television talk show tripe— but me. their patina of stale normality. and I shall don my cloak to weather it once more. I will remove with you I say to you such wild things and hope you will believe not what I have said. soon become opaque. beyond cliches. too. the slightly fearful child who wants to love and be loved now for all of me. if you will have me. You have told me you admire them. like the moon upon the harvest grain. but what you feel within. and I will make my marks. I shall be typical. the girl without and the dormant goddess within? I shall hide these like an Easter egg. brilliant. there is still time. I will stand out. too. not into your images of me. The storms begin again. for you to ﬁnd and prove me that you think your search is worthwhile. Can you see more? Can you peer deep. if you will believe my words. not looking through me. Water soon will turn to mud.
Alto 48 .
their cabal breathes intimate and dark billows of thin fog. their claws dictation. glass and shredded steel. surrounded with barbed wire fence: this will be the site of lost childhoods and numbers run. where minds are spent like wet ammunition and dead ends are plainly visible. then all is still. as leaves. They preen and nod so knowing each in their sequester: their bills silent. fall just between their overseen: the new-laid baseball ﬁeld. wings outspread. a maze of broken concrete.Nine Crows Nine crows gather in the naked trees. 49 .
two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). until silence once more has value there— 50 . and sense of suffering. and no one ﬁnds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola.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. no listening. cell phones. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak. eager for their ﬁrst drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. 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.
Mirror. but of them as a hermit crab is of his hermitage. holding ourselves for all to see. I think about the separation. the naive contestants in the people pageantry. and my sense the world has gone quite mad? Could they take this loneliness and soften it with love and random kindnesses? Probably not. always.Photo Op Another night on the M1. What is beauty? What matters? Theses for poets and philosophes to debate in books I will never read. so it is said. But we were there. but not entirely there. who's the biggest. It was just clariﬁcation. together. Even this one you remind me: I recall. and slowly spraying spring rainbows that decay into the wind. too young to be in awe of the simple gifts. 51 . I was never there to be famous. mist from wheels capturing the halogen blue of auto lights. Too young to remember. Would they have shared my causes. Photogenic. nor quite on a lark. Likely they would drift from me with jealous words and petty notions of security. mirror: who's the fairest. In the reﬂection of the reﬂections I see a gallery of images surround me: pictures to mark the moments of my life where I could smile. who's the quickest one to be through with it all. not in the pictures somehow. a not-so beauty contest. I too lose myself in the haze.
if she'd have us) of friends. pasted then cut out and (mercifully) become a news footnote. all smiles. has past. and the rain washes quickly over the glass and it all fades in again: the road is uncertain tonight. It was only clariﬁcation. and didn't have them bestowed on me.My ﬁfteen minutes past. Such is the ﬁckleness of taste and chance and circumstance. too. This is my exit. I just smile in echo of that moment. and bared myself to the world as a trio (or quartet. All I wanted was to sink into my chair and be able to sit upright. Lights ﬂicker still through the torrents. I could have stood with all of us. Fame is not my thing. You remind me of it all. I didn't expect a title or congratulations. What I missed was chance. 52 . not feeling the burden anymore. you hold the paper in your hands and memory. That. It's okay. brought together by some ﬂuke of biology but now inseparable.
53 . I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good. and teeth scattered like dice— for you.Eschatology For all who have had their hearts lacerated by the ﬂak of glass shard. legs where arms should be. 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.
going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. It's a little lonely in my age to look around and see the smiles of vapid yuppies who used to smoke pot and the Republicans with mohawks. Oh. no. supposedly. great. No one ever read in my hands the years of sloth and pointless toil it took to get this much closer to the end of my life without so much as a single bit of fortune. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 .The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. and wave to mom from outer space. 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. so full of wonderful. but not at all surprising. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. was scrawled.
everyone forgot the future. except a very long killing spree that would lose its fun quality after the ﬁrst ﬁve years or so. I remember you from school. I still. especially the clean-up time. I know only that I have no other option. believe." when I hated your sorry ass then and now. you cannot ask me how. I still. I'll tell you that I do not know. in spite of all that life presents. Only. from shelter. 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. dude. because you don't know how it felt to see you coast 55 . I hold this love I've always held for friends who most probably think that I've forgotten them. I hold still to my ideals of youth. "Gee. always tempered by encounters with stupid assholes in my life. and that would be a bummer.
or how I hated every day of waking up to faces. I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead. beautiful to me. 56 . whose eyes never saw me. The falling of a full moon night.on by. The breath of wind that blows through trees across. I look down at my well-lined palms. and think. oblivious to all. Silent thoughts. That past is dead. But here: take this orchid to show that I can turn the other cheek.
there is only the emptiness it always hid. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. blinded by blood. the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. 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. 57 . The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail.Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there. contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others.
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. Now. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. Jailtime. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve.Trochaic monologue Truly. Ergonomics. grain rotation. 58 . joy and love instead of beer cans. lameness. Everyone. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. this day I call forth: People. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. 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. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. too.
yet transcendent) shroud the limits of an ineffable—end.Sarcophagus skeletal beneath the ﬂesh where shivers in a (here broken. for)) quiet solitude as mysteries of the Stone: mute. 59 . where beginnings are foresworn. where numbers did not) sufﬁce—these now insensate things hidden. dumb as a veil. there (inclement mortality. no longer (words were once the sigil.
Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. and who could argue with such mighty. since Derrida said we didn't. if we ever had any. put scarriﬁcations across our ﬂesh. we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. then went and got tattoos. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor ﬁlms replace our actual thoughts—that is. since someone on the Internet said so. 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 60 . though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us.
Broken limbs Eight ofﬁcers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent ﬂesh. blood veins with shrapnel islands. and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. and more. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 . 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. 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.
The reformed hippiesʼ children Their legs and arms in a constant bounce bounce as though they do not care about gravity His red hair lifted carefree by the quayʼs zephyr. his 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. fashionably red and modern 62 .
now he returns to a suburban 63 . the school where his two children toil daily. Reﬂecting from the image of the SUV window. how in college kicked a television set down six ﬂights. 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. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. 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. cocaine potatoes. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him ﬁrmly in his late afternoon ritual. espresso and glossy.
sure. 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.Dorian Grey reversal ﬁlm now: old images of self beatiﬁed obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. and 64 . worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. or of course not like them. principles are now thought with interests in mind. everyone should ﬁght such resignations. 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.
the old embers in his night-brown eyes ﬂicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun.for just a moment. reﬂection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic 65 . the light. 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.
Before the condos are planted the croak of the lone tree frog reminds pastoral is dead. 66 . he has scurried slowly across the ﬁeld to watch his swamp world ﬁlled with the vacuity of forms and ideas of progress. subdivided theirs. again. some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel. theirs. theirs and maybe some space we are absorbed. metal teeth chew the earth become asphalt.
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. 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. care) No. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. of course. what makes you (for you are made. on lost costumanity. beneath glass and wire rim. by capture tranquilized. 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. wow. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying.Walking Rauschenberg. rape (all in sight. such a mystery 68 . thinking if (it's called that anymore you are.
unseen hunter. Open wound. Prey. and gold to pale amber against the black rocks. these concentric circles begin. anemic red. Rain. A small and silent trickling becomes a ﬂux. Blue into dull puce. Blue. then red. golden brown.Unseen hunter Spoors of industry. Metal quarry. 69 . then gold. The brilliant colors bleed. pierced with points of stone.
nine. and marrow but the hand. now mere ornament. meretricious. hieroglyph that once marked warriors. eyes deep in shadow regret their vigilance. twelve fourteen bones beneath the unwrinkled green sigil. and are still. 70 .Scrabbles Scrabbles at the denim. Three. six. Blood ﬂows there. withdrawn. offers not.
Baritone 71 .
Myriad metaphors Myriad metaphors—all are mute: none describe the light that shimmers reﬂections of the mauve setting sun's light upon the darkness of your eyes. nor the lineament of the air that. heavy with your perfume. cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life. 72 .
My hand now curled. no. leave to me your backside turned. A human hand might hear and heal its silent melancholy song. unstirred passions wither and are unmoved. warmth of night. The question fades and dies: unanswered call. do not turn your sleeping smile to me and gaze upon my visage. never see this uncertain reach before it dies in down. no untidy retributions from a whisper light. This choir of blood now pale within your radiance—a plaintive vocalise. numb bears a not quite invisible. fallen. but for your touch: still unto death. a wound where once I wiped away my mouth: it no longer murmurs words to cry the twinge of memory. lie like moonlight.Silent Night Ten thousand past specters denude themselves beneath a blanket darkness. 73 . Beside me. lost as mystery. unpursed lips telling deaf ears tales of soft and liquid history: how. by light of Eve. see the rivulets of crimson not. its dissonance. where scars unseal themselves as mute mouths now. But no ﬁngers reach in counterpoint: I am a cappella. No fear there to strangle secrets. Eye unblinking. and unseen face away this moment. beneath dusts of time. Held to you.
scattering prism reﬂections. before nature perfected the form of beauty cut out of the light and deﬁnes you. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form. dissolve into your divine radiance. No glass sufﬁcient to reﬂect the magnitude of your heavenly body. 74 . 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.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. the fruition of cosmic design.
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.Ribbon Time is a bright black ribbon in your hair unwinding the opposite of the clock— ﬁngers slow extend to touching at the contact is all stasis: each impulse of electric apprehension alone. and. before all thought and perception. perfect. in this in the moment. no future tense only present.
of that we form into the future. create sculptures of ﬂesh or metal or marble to raise swords in justiﬁcation. no meaning. yourself. and let a light radiate forth by scratching the patina of banality that hides you from me. awhile. 76 . 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. All these can do is try: to reach that which within us is genius. Do not feel this rationalization.Voice of the Brahma Divine words cannot change the curls of your hair. and punctuate the air with your signature. small or polysyllable. if only for us. I am no magician—nor will words. Many people think because they are powerless to do these things they (like them) have no life. Fly into the billowing. this is the breath of us.
77 .If I want to dream of you and all sensations that clothe you suddenly reveal your naked beauty.
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. of eyes grown dusky with reﬂection as they avert. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. delineate your ﬁgure beneath the peignoir silk touched ﬂuorescent green. recall our sympathy. 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. Suspended moment: this vision. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade. 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.
delicate. these uncertain ﬁngers retract perspiring from your heat. 79 . I hold alone an image. no frame. if it could. the spirit animate that surrounds your body corporeal.your pulse with mine: this is all we know. this moment binds. This frame silences the motion. no blood pulsates suddenly wordless against our cold lips. this intangible reﬂection gives life to this lifeless would picture. no captured silence before words becalmed to nothing—still it lives. No kiss. preserves only a moment past. no taste upon our tongues the salt of passion quiets my bristling thoughts.
the sun will arise from low behind snow-spangled mountain peaks. In your aura. each year another blessing.Solstice As any other day. stands in your shade. invisible to the eye. leaves grow green again. If you could stand and be aware of heaven. you would see how. this day is yours alone to share with all who live. for all. high above the spinning earth now bathed in luminescence. The sun stops in the sky. this celebration. eclipsed. exactly each as this (we mark them all with candles)—why should this day be different from all others? Your life goes on. As you are reborn. 80 . dust will dissipate. stamens. Ten cycles of the sun. time stands still: for a moment. and ﬂowers will grip the soil and stone to bare their blossoms before the light. pistils sweet intercourse with each other. you are the star of all. so the season brings renaissance to all things—this is your gift. as west wind swirls about your form to caress you with its felt formlessness and move your fabric to gorgeous delight. your nativity. who love. molten frost turns to dew. and honeybees dance the silent message: You bring with you Spring's inspiration. three times. for you. have passed before. who wait and wish for spring as surely as they shy from winter gray.
these images. and dumb inanities. with never a glimpse of me. these I know. sequin and decolletage are truth where Eros is love. Tinsel. The lens—a black moon rising. through shuttered reverie: private resorts. and blue motels—dim domains all. solicitations. cut where I am consigned to Flatland and mere memory: memories— yes.London Youth that dreams of nothing else dreams to see herself in silver and glass that projects rising stars. soulless shadows searching. no longer selves—no. cliche redheads and cute hot tub hookers. These pale. something less: a masquerade. Yet they do not die. caught in glass. free no more but slave shackled to the bland mint where dreams are pressed dead green. Two decades staring. Darlings all. Here I am. lines and lines of repetition. but hide beneath the stately ivy carapace that clutches for dear life to that which fuels its fuse. They become one 81 . sororities. soft smiles.
my shell: a genius symmetry—and know my lone invisibility. 82 . See.and live together where a separation kills.
midnight moonlight cobalt blue uipon the curve of her ilium. Not for the line draws your calf to thigh. her mortality forgot. as I 83 . love. a woman. now. and what then? she) knew none of this . eyes averted. Silent as the mountain snow drives through the vale. The shadow (of snow upon the wall)—turns her lips toward him with whisper: You see of me many images. her visions: (A girl. into thought solitude. so may questions so may (with stone opacity) youth. spent. unquestioned questions. beneath the moisture of his breath she feels (the words): You are. curl about your ﬁngers these tresses that veil me—for these. searching. She would have no form. but what lives within: love me. and all (I desire) only. supine. 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. You kiss gently this form. Now only the question. for all these impressions do not love them. slight. will) see of me. In this her love's ﬂesh. a life: these are not known until lost.Midnight moonlight Silken. present. inward she turns. beside her self. she lies beside her lover. love me for my invisibility—she sinks. nor the dilation of your eyes. for whatever you (have. then (a lady.
84 . and perhaps is right. your beauty is you.touch your hand—not for the berry brown of your areolae. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty.) Such might he say. she thinks. She draws close the curtain. and shares with him an invisible moment. or the sharp hard bone of your mouth beneath your kiss—I —no other way. her bosom to his. than this—I could not— I cannot love the absence of the space. love.
All sight unseen. invisible feeling become palpable through these palms. and we are real as the ﬂesh that touches now. 85 . receptive. against all possibility. No longer no closer than the line between: no more detached protocol. A spittle mote more important than a blush or perspiration. Sensations are all. emotions sightless. and this is knowledge: indices. its drama written. intricate movement. We did not know. eyes.Connection Twelve chimes distant toll. Passes from light to digital motion through chemistry are not words. your sweet perspiration. This is now. We were twice ourselves then. and sends from each to each our identity. Two have known this. these words' place upon your lips. our ﬁngers creating the real from the intangible made this: tangible. as myriads now. A ﬂow of electric excitement creates vision. formulae. nightly slipping through our hands. Striking light upon ﬁngers. How this world. connection: remote as they are twain in the mystery. digit to digit.
Eve The cloak night shrouds your Cynthian form. 86 . Shining endow with silver radiance The universe cleaved with your velvet.
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