poems by Omar Willey


poems by Omar Willey


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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse

9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 25

Stigmata Changes After youth is Disparate ideologies in the rain Humble origins Snowfall 11 by 14

27 29 30 31 32 33 34


48 49 50 51 53 54 57 58 59 60 61 62 66 67 68 5 .A poem for Henry Grimes A Void Moire Aleph Null Compound Work For Hire Utterance What passes is not time Blonde antipode 35 37 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 Alto Nine Crows Tintinnabulation Photo Op Eschatology The Subject Was Motörhead Post-ironic non-detachment Trochaic monologue Sarcophagus Elephant talk Broken limbs The reformed hippies’ children Before the condos are planted As so often you leave Walking Rauschenberg.

Unseen hunter Scrabbles 69 70 Baritone Myriad metaphors Silent Night Splendour Ribbon Voice of the Brahma If Intangible Solstice London Midnight moonlight Connection Eve Reminiscence 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 80 81 83 85 83 83 6 .

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

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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

Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber. 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

what my flesh shall not know again without pain and grim reflection—perhaps this is the knowledge never hid. One cannot forget the claw that blazons history into soft skin and bone the character of all mortality. new wounds: each time more shallow. 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. are markers of our future). but unity 19 . an index not of suffering. too. all sigils on its palimpsest. there is only healing. yet still at root a scar. One more milestone on the path of myriad. as certainly as we are life the hands of time shall notate us. it writes all human destiny. closer to a whole. I shed this scab and keep a scar. underneath the old. with scrawl and scratch and deep impression that we may always recollect. memories of hurt that tell me quietly that my travails show consequence where I have grown.The progress of my scars I watch the progress of my scars.

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

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

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 .

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

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. void aspect of a warm alienation. where I dwell. in presence of your beauty. in still reflection wonder. 24 .

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.

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

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

absence of care: human flotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. but i've heard worser. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. their words of us are self-pitiful. 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. 31 . and that this is all that matters.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. because your flesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. 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. 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. who does not. and i unenlightened breeder male. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing.

a fleshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche.Humble origins A broken bone. yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. 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. if only for awhile. and you into something greater 32 . the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. the butterfly form of first menstrual blood. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity. but rather the gift of taking. but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me. a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eyes that do not blink. A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes.Utterance Wheels grind. the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns. accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. and there are clouds. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. wrought hands. Could she feel this if I touched her? Would she regain her innocence? And transform me into electricity? Thought— 43 .

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

their claws dictation.Nine Crows Nine crows gather in the naked trees. glass and shredded steel. 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. 49 . wings outspread. then all is still. their cabal breathes intimate and dark billows of thin fog. They preen and nod so knowing each in their sequester: their bills silent. as leaves. a maze of broken concrete. fall just between their overseen: the new-laid baseball field.

cell phones. until silence once more has value there— 50 . and sense of suffering. and the inanities of college students. no listening. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. eager for their first drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones. dying in nostalgia for a time that sucked his dreams down like a toilet sucks urine neon lights barely flickering the oldest corner of marble and cobblestone in the city. and no one finds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. 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. weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak.

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

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

53 . and teeth scattered like dice— for you. 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.Eschatology For all who have had their hearts lacerated by the flak of glass shard. legs where arms should be. I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good.

no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 . 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.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. 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. neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. and wave to mom from outer space. was scrawled. 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. great. Oh. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. no. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy.

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

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

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. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance. there is only the emptiness it always hid. 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. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. 57 . contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. blinded by blood. The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail.

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

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

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

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

his brother sharing the gaiety his mother unamused and stern walks just ahead of his father who squints behind his spectacles.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. 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.

cocaine potatoes. and floated garbage bags with hydrogen down its halls and the all night concerts that staved off the nights of wonder where the next meal came from and what would be left after nuclear winter and mutual assured destruction. now he returns to a suburban 63 . he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. riddled Reaganʼs effigy with darts and monstrous questions beside (all the while unanswering the questions about the hash brownies.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him firmly in his late afternoon ritual. Reflecting from the image of the SUV window. the school where his two children toil daily. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. espresso and glossy. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. how in college kicked a television set down six flights.

and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. 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. everyone should fight such resignations. or of course not like them. sure. principles are now thought with interests in mind. 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. bed bath and beyond… None of this was planned in marijuana haze and chats around the Poor Manʼs James Bond pipe bombs slipped into the neighborʼs Brand names and leather interiors. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. rate and time the measure of life for the children.

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

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

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

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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