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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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