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Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse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. words smudged.for Aaron Greenreich. promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn. crossed out. 7 . still. because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors. Pages blank and torn.

Soprano 8 .

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

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

I cannot leave this dream to die alone. 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caesura branches rustle panes rattle carpet forms impressions of feet anticipation of you wind a shiver on skin grown cold stiff flesh shuddering erratic pulsations benediction of you 22 .

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

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

Twilight Muse Sunset sky stained amber silver: Thunderstorms, near the fractured horizon; Then all in a moment is still, serene. He sits gazing the mirror pond: The shuddering trees down cast their leaves, Gild gold its periphery. Silent spread peace like a veil adorned: A supplicant libation in the still; A waiting repose for the pulse. A breath wind gives life this animate world, Trees, glass reflection his wandering soul: The breath stirs her sacrament kiss: It alone inspires earth and sky.




As words unspent are ineffable, mute the white light that refracts red, green, blue upon your eyes is, too, invisible; unseen would die starved of appreciation: I must tell it to you, your beauty. Pensive, you sit; darkness upon your mantle, you turn your eyes away in stillness, to tell me you have lived, with your beauty (I shiver with wonder to think of you then); how the darkness was your protector as it veiled you in its invisible pitch— beyond comment and reach of the blank stares, the murmur of dumb voices and the wounds that sunlight inflicts as your eyes reflect in the void of their gazing. You wished then your beauty die, and cut yourself from yourself, away, as though cursed leprotic; fresh scars now hide deeper scars so irremediable, your compromise: scars to displace thy stigma, concealed. Still they stare. I— could not, you say, I cannot be beautiful.

In the silences between our words our thoughts lurk

easily. So much is knowledge we do not know—I thought this once. Thoughts, my thoughts: to show the world that sees only a calm smile and affable visage emotion would chill their marrow. I could have shown you then, before your eyes, the cut seldom heals. Diamonds, crystalline, beautiful as your limpid eyes in the mauve sunrise light—they show no scratches on their hardened faces then shatter completely. What gem scars easily yet never shattering—such beauty reveals always the flaws of its cuts, but cannot hide; this Platonic beauty has been glimpsed by same eyes, tongues have whispered it to tell how; but these glances vile, words been obscene, become my stigma, never quite dead. I cannot yet die, or would, perhaps, to kill pain. Light and silence are the curse of those disowned by their reflections, still beautiful beneath all veils. Our denial is a bond that draws us together as it chains us to our pasts if we choose to deny. No reparations now for these unnatural, no repeal of scars. I bear to you my hand, its stigma still bleeding— touch me.

and even its emotion. experience of all the world. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft. above all else: our flesh may change and must. the well a part of thirst. of course. 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. it is our one true sacrament. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. for we are love. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. and we are spirits first. reflections. but is not us. intimations. ever brighter— 29 . where the heavens are.Changes I have heard that people change from you. are beauty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moire each drop holds a mirror upside down. turvy-topsy bent incidences streak across the glass bent incidences sparkle where reflections freeze— inverted miniatures of mirror beads eyes glass and rain beyond this moire. 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 .

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

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

41 . 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. their preserve. Architects imprison these in their makeup. Innocent as black sheep. Nothing is caught.Compound History is made in glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alto 48 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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. lameness. Everyone. Jailtime. joy and love instead of beer cans. Ergonomics. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. 58 . 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. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. 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. 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.Trochaic monologue Truly. grain rotation. too. Now. Bring back natural selection's vengeance.

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

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

and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. and more. enjoy your Labor Day weekend blah blah blah motherfucker 61 .Broken limbs Eight officers of the alleged peace litter the Chicago square with their rent flesh. 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. 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. 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. blood veins with shrapnel islands. 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.

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

and 64 . or of course not like them. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. 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. principles are now thought with interests in mind. sure.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. 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. rate and time the measure of life for the children.

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.for just a moment. What does it say for CSI Miami tonight… His mug perched on the teak. the old embers in his night-brown eyes flicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun.

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

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 .

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

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

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

Baritone 71 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

love. and perhaps is right. she thinks. your beauty is you.touch your hand—not for the berry brown of your areolae. She draws close the curtain. her bosom to his. 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. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty. and shares with him an invisible moment.

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

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

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