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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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

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

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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

now free fly away 12 . coolly sealed in time's preserve poetic metaphor for eternality i think of the beauty of seeing the amber slowly melt away as dew recedes from petals and watching the bee unenthralled.Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber.

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

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

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

are such. 16 .The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing. this moment between us. sensuous. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. tender with ineffable emotions. I am but a lone human being as you. These imaginings are squander. and I. No thought but when the wind bristles the hairs of this extending hand touching your perfume we are now. your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. no poet to fashion and from your truth figure metaphors and prostitutions.

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

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

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

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

this twilight rite of sometimes necessities.Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. silent. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. refuses to be stirred. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. So it begins. most certainly. small joys. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. is always time. this parting. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. 21 . There will be more. hands into a pleasant haze while there is still time. and broken red chaise draped with camisole— The tousle of vacant clothes bedside slowly takes your form and figure full of life and recent love still etched upon your breast. 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 .

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

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

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.

our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others. reflections.Changes I have heard that people change from you. above all else: our flesh may change and must. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. of course. experience of all the world. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. 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. are beauty. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. but is not us. and we are spirits first. the well a part of thirst. it is our one true sacrament. for we are love. intimations. ever brighter— 29 . where the heavens are.

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

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. but i've heard worser.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. and that this is all that matters. 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. who does not. 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 then. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. 31 . and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. and i unenlightened breeder male. their words of us are self-pitiful. and i probably the great-grandson of the slave of your pioneer kindred— matters nothing when the rain drives you to shelter next to me. madness to suppose.

the butterfly form of first menstrual blood. if only for awhile. a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy. all creation—a body of work to fill ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical. a mis(sed) direction: the warmness radiant in your parted lips as you breathe first life is not a spiritual gift. the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity. but rather the gift of taking. a fleshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche. and you into something greater 32 . but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week.Humble origins A broken bone.

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

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

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

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

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

Moire each drop holds a mirror upside down. broken city itself reflecting rows of Ezra Pound petals pass swiftly by and by to others I am one such strange passenger: without so much as root wherever my feet pause—or stop 38 . turvy-topsy bent incidences streak across the glass bent incidences sparkle where reflections freeze— inverted miniatures of mirror beads eyes glass and rain beyond this moire.

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

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

41 .Compound History is made in glass. they consecrate the hours' sacrifice. 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. Nothing is caught. Architects imprison these in their makeup. their preserve.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

no listening. until silence once more has value there— 50 . and sense of suffering. cell phones. and the inanities of college students. 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. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola.Tintinnabulation he wears a cell phone hands free (in the other ear an iPod bud) pretending vapidly to listen to his own bullshit blather and the trite screamings of the dumbass on the other end the bus drives into darkness wizened. and no one finds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. eager for their first drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect.

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

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

I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good. 53 . and teeth scattered like dice— for you.Eschatology For all who have had their hearts lacerated by the flak of glass shard. legs where arms should be. flesh pierced through by iridescent shards of steel to bleed out vitriol the snap of bone against aluminum and the lifelessness of muscle revealing ghastly mortality.

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

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

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

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

Ergonomics. too. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. 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. grain rotation. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. Everyone. Jailtime. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. this day I call forth: People. 58 . lameness. 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. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. joy and love instead of beer cans. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. Now.Trochaic monologue Truly.

dumb as a veil. no longer (words were once the sigil. 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.Sarcophagus skeletal beneath the flesh where shivers in a (here broken. 59 . there (inclement mortality. where beginnings are foresworn.

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

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. 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. eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 .Broken limbs Eight officers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent flesh. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills. and more. blood veins with shrapnel islands. and the smell of death and shit.

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.

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

and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. or of course not like them. everyone should fight such resignations. rate and time the measure of life for the children. principles are now thought with interests in mind. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. and 64 .Dorian Grey reversal film now: old images of self beatified obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry. 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. sure.

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

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

As so often you leave mundane traps your vision does not see and my wishes are silent therefore you will not know how how a how long ing how timid how warm how much how I no you will not because you see clearly before you the press of your days dull routine and all that you or I would want is so much less than the duties of your imagining 67 .

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

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

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

Baritone 71 .

nor the lineament of the air that. cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life. heavy with your perfume.Myriad metaphors Myriad metaphors—all are mute: none describe the light that shimmers reflections of the mauve setting sun's light upon the darkness of your eyes. 72 .

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

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

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

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

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

delineate your figure beneath the peignoir silk touched fluorescent green. of eyes grown dusky with reflection as they avert. 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 . Suspended moment: this vision. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. recall our sympathy. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. this picture memory. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the flux of your diffracted symmetry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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