Polyphony

poems by Omar Willey

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Polyphony
poems by Omar Willey

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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse

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

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

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27 29 30 31 32 33 34

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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 .

Pages blank and torn. crossed out.for Aaron Greenreich. still. 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. promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. 7 .

Soprano 8 .

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 .

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

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. in presence of your beauty. void aspect of a warm alienation. 24 . 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.

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Tenor

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

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

Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. and i probably the great-grandson of the slave of your pioneer kindred— matters nothing when the rain drives you to shelter next to me. because your flesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. and then. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. and i unenlightened breeder male. 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. somewhere it defies a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. absence of care: human flotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. 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 that this is all that matters. but i've heard worser. madness to suppose. 31 . their words of us are self-pitiful. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing.

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

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

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

evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. but all unnoticed. You call. white unmoved by your arco gliss.A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) fiddles. silence cleaves us of ourselves. its unit structures of walking unwalked. They shall die. whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit)) 35 . 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. Monk knew. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). accompany to witnesses. You were more than your destiny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns.Utterance Wheels grind. eyes that do not blink. wrought hands. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. and there are clouds. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. 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 .

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

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

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

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

flesh pierced through by iridescent shards of steel to bleed out vitriol the snap of bone against aluminum and the lifelessness of muscle revealing ghastly mortality. legs where arms should be. 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.

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

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

Silent thoughts. 56 .on by. I look down at my well-lined palms. I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead. whose eyes never saw me. or how I hated every day of waking up to faces. oblivious to all. and think. 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. beautiful to me. The breath of wind that blows through trees across.

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

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

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

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

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

fashionably red and modern 62 . his brother sharing the gaiety his mother unamused and stern walks just ahead of his father who squints behind his spectacles.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 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.

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. cocaine potatoes. 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. Reflecting from the image of the SUV window. 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 . the school where his two children toil daily. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream.

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

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

some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel. again. he has scurried slowly across the field to watch his swamp world filled with the vacuity of forms and ideas of progress. 66 . subdivided theirs. metal teeth chew the earth become asphalt. 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.

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 .

by capture tranquilized. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. of course. beneath glass and wire rim. care) No. what makes you (for you are made. on lost costumanity. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not flush. thinking if (it's called that anymore you are. self-stylish as if it were (grand creation to imbibe the dross of your dying world and forth spew from your mouth this shit once from assholes of corporations who shit it first on you.Walking Rauschenberg. such a mystery 68 . rape (all in sight. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. pomade glazed goatee and wry (never vapid) self-satisfaction like the ankh that dangles emptily above upon your second-hand Nehru) flares digging Tony Bennett on designer headphones. resold to you no longer a sel(l))(cell)—self. wow.

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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

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

and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form. scattering prism reflections. but you —you could take me in your hands like a dewdrop in the morning sunlight. 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. and so it blinds them all to the soul within. dissolve into your divine radiance.Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. the fruition of cosmic design. 74 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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