poems by Omar Willey


poems by Omar Willey


This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/ or send a letter to: Creative Commons 171 Second Street, Suite 300 San Francisco, California, 94105 USA


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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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. 7 . promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. words smudged. still. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you.for Aaron Greenreich. crossed out. Pages blank and torn.

Soprano 8 .

Serene communications. no numerals mar its eternal concomitance. solemn upon their hearts. Time cloven hearts. As she. no love. he recalls how in a touch the world would seem again: darkened gloams at riverside. No sadness. quiet words exchanged for silent thoughts— her beauty was never a question. 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. their words its sole motion: there. 9 . invisible to mortality. his youth (so youthless) no obstacle.Bond Two share the bond of separation. no stolid masques enacted. naked and real— shared: "We shall meet at the horizon. warm with the blush of blood. horizons know terra and firmament fissure. where heaven meets the plain." Friendship should be so binding as vows repeat their memories. all is memory. a lone silent empathy. forever. Two share the bond of separation. no assuage for them.

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

11 .I cannot leave this dream to die alone. I close my eyes: hesitation. A single shadow conjoin us: I hold my hand to you through darkness. Trembling in your light I whisper.

now free fly away 12 .Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber. 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.

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

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

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

These imaginings are squander. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. no poet to fashion and from your truth figure metaphors and prostitutions. are such.The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing. 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. this moment between us. tender with ineffable emotions. sensuous. and I. No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now. 16 .

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

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. All these things felt. but had come together for an instant. I think. exchanged electricity. The slight blush behind your smile and apology. I wished our careless touch would go forever on and into both of us. Instead. but all of my breath trembling with excitement and the know. 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.Recognition (In a Bookstore) It was an accident. and merge me into you. We knew nothing of each other. 18 .

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

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

So it begins. There will be more.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. refuses to be stirred. silent. is always time. this parting. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. but this makes numbers. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. 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. most certainly. this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. 21 . 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 .

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

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

but is not us. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. of course. and we are spirits first. intimations. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. are beauty. experience of all the world. and even its emotion. the well a part of thirst. ever brighter— 29 . are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. it is our one true sacrament. above all else: our flesh may change and must. reflections. where the heavens are. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree.Changes I have heard that people change from you. taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. for we are love. our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others.

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

but the only way out is to tell you that you have come into my life and transfigured it without so much as knowing or try. and then. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. absence of care: human flotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. their words of us are self-pitiful. and all i think is how very beautiful the curvature of your lips and the fullness of your form beneath the water speckling your hardened leather jacket. and i probably the great-grandson of the slave of your pioneer kindred— matters nothing when the rain drives you to shelter next to me. but i've heard worser. because your flesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. 31 . who does not. and that this is all that matters. and i unenlightened breeder male. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. madness to suppose.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke.

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. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. but rather the gift of taking. the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. 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. all creation—a body of work to fill ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical. a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy.Humble origins A broken bone. the butterfly form of first menstrual blood. if only for awhile. and you into something greater 32 .

a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. there is something before the nothingness that must decay to bring forth life.Snowfall the first season is not spring but fall. not a door that closes. 33 . a tap. as humus needs the moss the cycle begins in death. but an opening into the future. Slow regeneration in a bud. leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked. and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest. a bloom.

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

evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule. You call. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). They shall die. Monk knew. silence cleaves us of ourselves. but all unnoticed. white unmoved by your arco gliss. You were more than your destiny. 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. You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit)) 35 .A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) fiddles. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. accompany to witnesses. its unit structures of walking unwalked. Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us. whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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 . eyes that do not blink. the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns. and there are clouds.Utterance Wheels grind. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. wrought hands. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread.

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak. and the inanities of college students. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. 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. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. and no one finds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. until silence once more has value there— 50 . eager for their first drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). no listening.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. cell phones. sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola. and sense of suffering.

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

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

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. and teeth scattered like dice— for you. 53 . flesh pierced through by iridescent shards of steel to bleed out vitriol the snap of bone against aluminum and the lifelessness of muscle revealing ghastly mortality. legs where arms should be.

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

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

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

smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. there is only the emptiness it always hid. 57 . contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others.Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there. the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. blinded by blood. when all they show is the vacuum tube not only sucks but supplants an intellect that might be used for something other than garbage repository: maybe some existence in a world where there are leaves and conversations grow. The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail.

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

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

though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. since Derrida said we didn't.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound. and who could argue with such mighty. if we ever had any. school-trained intellects like that—we let dialogue become the words of characters in piss-poor films replace our actual thoughts—that is. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. put scarrifications across our flesh. since someone on the Internet said so. 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. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. then went and told our parents we needed the keys to the car to continue our rebellion 60 . then went and got tattoos.

enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 . eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town. and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. and more. and the smell of death and shit. The cute police statue erected moves every ten years because no one can stand to be reminded of the depths of human idiocy and cruelty of so-called organizations— this. 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. blood veins with shrapnel islands. 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.

fashionably red and modern 62 . 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.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.

LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. 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. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. now he returns to a suburban 63 . how in college kicked a television set down six flights. riddled Reaganʼs effigy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies. cocaine potatoes.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him firmly in his late afternoon ritual. the school where his two children toil daily. espresso and glossy. whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. Reflecting from the image of the SUV window.

or of course not like them. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. 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. sure. rate and time the measure of life for the children. everyone should fight such resignations. 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. and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. and wife one must sacrifice all sorts what was worth fighting for that he cannot recall the time his parents visited and left him with his childhood Holy Bible and a foul taste. and 64 .

reflection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic 65 . 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.for just a moment. the light.

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. subdivided theirs. again. 66 . theirs.Before the condos are planted the croak of the lone tree frog reminds pastoral is dead. theirs and maybe some space we are absorbed.

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 .

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

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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. heavy with your perfume. 72 . cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life.

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

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

75 . as myriad strands of sunlight reflecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand. and. before all thought and perception.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. at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. in this in the moment. no future tense only present. perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful