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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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

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

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

I am but a lone human being as you. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. sensuous. 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. are such. tender with ineffable emotions. and I. no poet to fashion and from your truth figure metaphors and prostitutions. this moment between us. 16 . your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. These imaginings are squander.

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

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

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

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

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

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 .

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

in still reflection wonder. where I dwell.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. void aspect of a warm alienation. 24 . waititing still for the fastening of your last button. 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.

thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. above all else: our flesh may change and must. and even its emotion. of course. it is our one true sacrament. reflections. 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. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. where the heavens are. experience of all the world. the well a part of thirst. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. but is not us. for we are love.Changes I have heard that people change from you. and we are spirits first. ever brighter— 29 . our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. are beauty. intimations.

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

and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. absence of care: human flotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. 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. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. 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. and i probably the great-grandson of the slave of your pioneer kindred— matters nothing when the rain drives you to shelter next to me. madness to suppose. who does not. and then. 31 .Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. and that this is all that matters. 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 unenlightened breeder male.

the butterfly form of first menstrual blood.Humble origins A broken bone. but rather the gift of taking. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity. 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. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy. 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. and you into something greater 32 . the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me.

33 . Slow regeneration in a bud. a bloom. a tap. a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest. leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked. not a door that closes. but an opening into the future. 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.

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

You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit)) 35 . 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. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. You call. They shall die. silence cleaves us of ourselves. 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. evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule. You were more than your destiny. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). but all unnoticed. white unmoved by your arco gliss. its unit structures of walking unwalked. whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Utterance Wheels grind. eyes that do not blink. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. and there are clouds. accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang. 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. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. wrought hands. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution.

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

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

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

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

flesh pierced through by iridescent shards of steel to bleed out vitriol the snap of bone against aluminum and the lifelessness of muscle revealing ghastly mortality. 53 . I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good. 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.

but not at all surprising. Oh. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. and wave to mom from outer space. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. no. was scrawled. so full of wonderful. 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. great. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 . going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. supposedly. 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.

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

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

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

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

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

and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. 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. then went and got tattoos. and who could argue with such mighty. if we ever had any. we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. since Derrida said we didn't. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. put scarrifications across our flesh.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion 60 .

eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town. and the smell of death and shit. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills.Broken limbs Eight officers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent flesh. blood veins with shrapnel islands. The cute police statue erected moves every ten years because no one can stand to be reminded of the depths of human idiocy and cruelty of so-called organizations— this. and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. and more. except that they work for a living seven death sentences and life imprisonment is the vengeance of blind law (thank god for the old testament enlightenment that demands death for more dead): their names lost. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 .

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

everyone should fight such resignations. and wife one must sacrifice all sorts what was worth fighting for that he cannot recall the time his parents visited and left him with his childhood Holy Bible and a foul taste. rate and time the measure of life for the children. principles are now thought with interests in mind.Dorian Grey reversal film now: old images of self beatified obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. or of course not like them. and 64 . bed bath and beyond… None of this was planned in marijuana haze and chats around the Poor Manʼs James Bond pipe bombs slipped into the neighborʼs Brand names and leather interiors. and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. sure. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness.

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

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

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 .

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

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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