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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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