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poems by Omar Willey
poems by Omar Willey
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Bond Hermitage Amber Prints Spiral Sub Rosa The sun now rising Vibration Recognition (In a Bookstore) The progress of my scars Unpublished Caesura Bow Twilight Muse
9 10 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 23 25
Stigmata Changes After youth is Disparate ideologies in the rain Humble origins Snowfall 11 by 14
27 29 30 31 32 33 34
A poem for Henry Grimes A Void Moire Aleph Null Compound Work For Hire Utterance What passes is not time Blonde antipode 35 37 38 39 41 42 43 44 46 Alto Nine Crows Tintinnabulation Photo Op Eschatology The Subject Was Motörhead Post-ironic non-detachment Trochaic monologue Sarcophagus Elephant talk Broken limbs The reformed hippies’ children Before the condos are planted As so often you leave Walking Rauschenberg. 48 49 50 51 53 54 57 58 59 60 61 62 66 67 68 5 .
Unseen hunter Scrabbles 69 70 Baritone Myriad metaphors Silent Night Splendour Ribbon Voice of the Brahma If Intangible Solstice London Midnight moonlight Connection Eve Reminiscence 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 80 81 83 85 83 83 6 .
still. 7 . crossed out. words smudged. because twenty years is not too long to forget a promise I made I hold in hand this book my life: Full of errors. This tale of life uncertain ends— I give this tome and quill to you. Pages blank and torn. promise shows:— Mysteriously incomplete Where you are woven in its yarn.for Aaron Greenreich.
Soprano 8 .
a lone silent empathy. Time cloven hearts. their words its sole motion: there. warm with the blush of blood. Serene communications. his youth (so youthless) no obstacle. They stretch now their arms toward an embrace that is not felt. no stolid masques enacted. Two share the bond of separation. 9 .Bond Two share the bond of separation. naked and real— shared: "We shall meet at the horizon. forever. invisible to mortality. no numerals mar its eternal concomitance. solemn upon their hearts. quiet words exchanged for silent thoughts— her beauty was never a question." Friendship should be so binding as vows repeat their memories. all is memory. he recalls how in a touch the world would seem again: darkened gloams at riverside. where heaven meets the plain. no assuage for them. As she. Parallel they held near each other and shared imaginings of a time eonic in its stasis. horizons know terra and ﬁrmament ﬁssure. No sadness. no love.
Still minutes drown inside my blood. I wake.Hermitage The cold gray sunshine light that pierces Through the shadow drapes' shimmer ﬁlls The air that clings my ﬂesh with emptiness. 10 . I dream deposed on tinctured shroud. and staring see the silence. I lose myself within the why Encircles my scarred isolation. I want to rest within your realm. The dust. But you are silent and withhold from me Your purifying word and touch. In this still solitude there is nothing. still. Your apparition. To feel your nearness. Within the dampened caesura I wish The touch to synchronize our souls. Escape—into the luminous: Your evanescent vision warms With life. recurs. Footfall rain resounds within The vacuum of my silent room. feel your pulse— Is that love?—awake within the dream. I want your touch illume the beauty Sleeps entombed in jade memory. the stench. In blackness sink in mute reﬂection. I long to leave my desert chamber. you offer no resolution. this soul infuses ecstasy. Still. Murmur broken words in fading haze And try to touch your speechless image As it ﬁnally dies away. the hermitage.
A single shadow conjoin us: I hold my hand to you through darkness. I close my eyes: hesitation.I cannot leave this dream to die alone. Trembling in your light I whisper. 11 .
now free ﬂy away 12 . coolly sealed in time's preserve poetic metaphor for eternality i think of the beauty of seeing the amber slowly melt away as dew recedes from petals and watching the bee unenthralled.Amber some admire the beauty of a bee trapped in amber.
I killed a hunter I had become. old traces of blood where we loved. I wonder as my misery turns to the numb of dying and crimson trickles life away—if I had not loved. my ﬂuid and your ﬂuid in pattern of a voluptuous ﬂower. I ﬁnd no passion remains. strands of hair. cold in the light and begging warmth only your body could provide.Prints I ﬁnd still your spoors about my den.. This wilderness engulfs me. 13 .. perfumerie. and. I cannot here live nor feed. instinct to kill now bound. for love that gnaws vapidly within. still could prey on those. cast like demon out. But yours are the prints impressed upon my barren environ where I am dying there is no other. all as broken branches from my life's tree where you have trespassed. Love. one as I would give to you. now I am bitten where frost turns hoary and blue my ﬂesh. ﬁngerprints in talcum. all is ice and dust. I am rendered as a waning man. where all about is nothing.
recoiling attack. the vortex pitch swirls about the eye glowers at me. A cyclone spiral. destroys all. preserving alone the I of the whorl.Spiral Alone staring into the dark above: no moonbeams. 14 . And like still night. seeing no razing. no subtle brilliance crack stark helix shell where frightened curls this idiot spirit. cold soul. shadows former love. listens no noise. stars interrupt the black jejune.
A silent covenant To sanctify our unity.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.
your eyes not spangled with dewdrops' autumnal gleam. These imaginings are squander. no poet to fashion and from your truth ﬁgure metaphors and prostitutions.The sun now rising does not paint the sky magent and carmine nor its light like rivulets of molten silver erode the darkness passing. are such. between other moments we might live—another moment we may lose in impresent contemplations of that which we are not. this moment between us. tender with ineffable emotions. 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. and I. sensuous. 16 .
returning to you the palpitation of my heart.Vibration Your voice reverberates upon my ﬂesh. lost within the damp air that surrounds us and bears to each the other hesitant shiver. These vibrations pass silently away. 17 .
Instead. I think. the way you brushed against me so gently that I stopped. but had come together for an instant. but all of my breath trembling with excitement and the know. All these things felt. and merge me into you. 18 . 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. we smiled to turn away with civilized politeness and potential death where there would have been. We knew nothing of each other. I wished our careless touch would go forever on and into both of us. exchanged electricity. The slight blush behind your smile and apology.Recognition (In a Bookstore) It was an accident.
underneath the old. I shed this scab and keep a scar. memories of hurt that tell me quietly that my travails show consequence where I have grown. as lines within our palmistry (these. but unity 19 . there is only healing.The progress of my scars I watch the progress of my scars. Open wounds ooze and bleed to form upon my rend an armor cold— this dries and cracks and tears away revealing. it writes all human destiny. what my ﬂesh shall not know again without pain and grim reﬂection—perhaps this is the knowledge never hid. too. all sigils on its palimpsest. One cannot forget the claw that blazons history into soft skin and bone the character of all mortality. an index not of suffering. with scrawl and scratch and deep impression that we may always recollect. yet still at root a scar. One more milestone on the path of myriad. new wounds: each time more shallow. No way to bind this. as certainly as we are life the hands of time shall notate us. are markers of our future). closer to a whole.
when I lose sight of who and where I am. *** 20 . future. for life. a cleaving—present. past in continuity.with all that lives within and out. my earthly thread. these insignia recall for me.
Unpublished Impressions of a passage since covered with memory: the carpet spangled with evening sequin and pearls drawn through with gold into a carcanet. small joys. stillness fallen gently so rebukes all dialogue. hands into a pleasant haze while there is still time. the looking-glass shows mere abstract shapes and shallow focus of the slightly weeping dawn through shut Venetian blinds. refuses to be stirred. this twilight rite of sometimes necessities. straps and bands of worn elastic reach around and gird your morning modesty. this parting. There will be more. and broken red chaise draped with camisole— The tousle of vacant clothes bedside slowly takes your form and ﬁgure full of life and recent love still etched upon your breast. of veils and sleeping lovers becomes your dignity while keys and spreads of the mundane are your immediate return. but this makes numbers. 21 . most certainly. is always time. So it begins. silent.
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 .
Head gently bowed (hide the eyes from sidelong glance). you stand in light. I am quiet in the dim banality. untold to you. to hide how my quietude longs for feeling breast to breast our heartbeats' rhythm. your hair a sable veil whose threads protect your beauty. to hear me speak. unguarded—without artiﬁce. your eyelids close. some phrase not trite. from you a subtle emanation—all the sound is silent. This seeking shiver 23 . to call poetry. and I am dumb to let this moment (as so many) die. you would think me mad. your blue folds in blue. truth: Truth. you dissolve in private rhapsody.Bow Another day begins. but for your quiet weary meditation. as any other. The dawn illuminates me as it reﬂects your delicate ﬂesh. maquillage and dishes: daily glamour. I watch. and the light is gone: from me. truth. Alone. Trivialities. and see. as if these minute observations were a truth—yes. You would ﬁnd it mundane. unknown to me. I search my pitiful mute vocabulary for brilliant wit. The dull awakening. ﬂowing iridescent swirls upon perspiring ﬁngers. to stiﬂe my yearning to be held— but I am beyond words.
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. void aspect of a warm alienation. 24 . waititing still for the fastening of your last button. in presence of your beauty. where I dwell. 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.
for we are love. are the brilliant light eternal—this cannot change: it only grows as we must grow. are beauty. reﬂections. and even its emotion. of course. where the heavens are. above all else: our ﬂesh may change and must. but into what? Some dream of peace and mercy known to none on this here earth.Changes I have heard that people change from you. intimations. and we are spirits ﬁrst. but is not us. thought— yet these are us so much as soil is part of grass and tree. or wings the stuff of wind and sky. our path through life and gate divine that opens us to others. the well a part of thirst. or into whisps that one might fashion into some steam sculpture. experience of all the world. it is our one true sacrament. ever brighter— 29 . taking form of that which traps it? Spririts are without such substance as a bronze that melts and is remade at will by craft.
and talk about the scope of love and love's desire. if only en passant your graceful glide. and this remind me of the youth i lost in being much too long without you near. 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. my queen. that you are beautiful above all things is all that matters. if i were young. i would wait to see you every day. and give me rhapsodies forevermore to sing. Yet I shall reach my hand. gone what was me once. no matter that my wisdom contravenes. the life within your breast. i'd sing about the light within your eyes. I know that now the universe does not for any second care about my soul's eradication. to you. 30 . and i would know that this is sufﬁcient. my hands. my reason. 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. while the light remains a spark upon your eye. become what i could not be certain. while knowing we will never touch. i would dissolve into the meaning of annihilation. the meaning of it all or anything.After youth is if i were young i would idolize you: the most beautiful girl in the world. now the act of reaching is the vital thing. my eyes. what I am or was. your beauty shall ﬁll up my life. I seek the touch itself no longer. if i were— but I am not. and as we touched. and while I retain my voice.
somewhere it deﬁes a dogma to tell: who might think less of you simply for being told that you are lovely. to escape the shallow loneliness of stiff indifferent whispers. because your ﬂesh is creamy and your blue eyes peer through hard spectacles. their words of us are self-pitiful. but i've heard worser.Disparate ideologies in the rain because you are a dyke. but the only way out is to tell you that you have come into my life and transﬁgured it without so much as knowing or try. and surely voices prattle in the 'hood for my noticing. who does not. and i unenlightened breeder male. and then. and that this is all that matters. 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. absence of care: human ﬂotsam crests on silent soundwaves of the fear of truth and personal touch— who cares. 31 . madness to suppose. 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.
yet we are told to look beyond—what? These humble origins have beauty: the truth of a sleepless week. a mis(sed) direction: the warmness radiant in your parted lips as you breathe ﬁrst life is not a spiritual gift. the butterﬂy form of ﬁrst menstrual blood. a strawberry scar are the anchor of philosophy. but rather the gift of taking. all creation—a body of work to ﬁll ten billion life times— How could one see past the physical. the mortality of a an orgasm—such things are foundation for all art. the pain in the chest begin our quest for humanity. if only for awhile. a ﬂeshly form between your arms and gently grant a wish not from some abstract soul or insubstantial psyche. and you into something greater 32 . but heart and blood that rises ever so slightly in temperature within your embrace and transforms me.Humble origins A broken bone.
and branches shaking off the dead— winter rest. Slow regeneration in a bud. 33 .Snowfall the ﬁrst season is not spring but fall. a bloom. a splint of green promise preceding the golden age. leaves revealing their carotene gold uncloaked. not a door that closes. as humus needs the moss the cycle begins in death. there is something before the nothingness that must decay to bring forth life. but an opening into the future. a tap.
she stops. 34 . nor consider all the possibilities of what would happen if they looked just one more time. City life is more than the sum of streets paved with rain and the gait of grim pedestrians. lifting his long hair into a moire before his eyes driving by. and met each the other's eyes. These two will never know that they have met in gaze. more than make-up in the rear-view mirror and cell phone blather. he looks out at nothing: only wind replies to his vacant gaze. in life or death.11 by 14 The window opens upon the world and limits nothing now three ﬂoors up. Eyes are crusted dry. Her hands twitch. though one forgets such things when there is work and child care and thousand small items on the the honey-do list.
its unit structures of walking unwalked. the bass pedestal on which Cecil stands (murmuring enter. Who might threnody the not-yetdead as us. They shall die.A poem for Henry Grimes Darkness is history and we are black who feel the dust and are second (thoughts) ﬁddles. accompany to witnesses. and Newk (his silence famous unlike others). You felt The Call unanswered and (with (exit)) 35 . whisps of obscurity—you might know how the thirty years are a blade. Monk knew. 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. but all unnoticed. white unmoved by your arco gliss. silence cleaves us of ourselves. You were more than your destiny. You call. evening) in the Smithsonian pale vestibule.
prana of nothingness where once had been your eye gazing black to all.there was only. now whitened. 36 . the vacuum. opaque as death. after Tauhid.
I cannot in bright rhapsody tell you how the sun pales against your silhouette. you would be who you say not who you refuse. a prison. For you.A Void You would never understand that we are never that which we say we are. only care. Denial is protection. your charm voluptuous ﬁlls with electricity—none of these. when there is comfort within the walls. as all the rest: nothing special. your eyes in their reﬂection glow with wonder. not to change. and that this is of no consequence. 37 . This is not given to me. as you are. I to you. mystery that reveals not. If I could will. remain a void. that it is enough. Not to know. the same.
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 .
drawn. nothing 39 . purged of all language masks.Aleph Null As nature. am whole again. to strangle thoughts yet unspoke rotting notions. universal. voice of the as yet unfelt idea— nothing. old words. around me. Lenten. the cipher around me carved of stones Cinders are scars of a dead ﬂame is the bourn of my temptation. cacophonous choirs of undead unwanted things All hope is false) hope. I create a silence. screaming stiﬂe the calm silence. moribund. Mute genesis. where. attending mind concentrate (Dust will not remain undisturbed the emptiness of me. inside this ring. I am pure. the center me. Dead thoughts there scream. a focus. the past rules all too crawl at that perimeter and plead entrance. wilderness.
the beginning. without motion. all are powerless All change is chaos. the invisible hieroglyph of the spirit) There is only the breath primeval. stasis is order crosses. without water. No knowing (the vase without ﬂowers. ruptures my solitude. here.Nothing changes. 40 .
there nothing lost in reﬂections: the machicolations guard nothing but shadow on the sundial numerals and the silence of a zephyr. Innocent as black sheep. 41 . Architects imprison these in their makeup. Nothing is caught. their preserve.Compound History is made in glass. they consecrate the hours' sacriﬁce.
Renderings of lead and china white will be remains. nameless but for the lines in which we write our anonymity. Many more famous than I have passed. doing "a good job. as we worked in our quietude. the rest was asides. We could not complain. ideas— they shall outlast the work and worker who was mere creator. not to breed stars. only work. then decay. 42 . The studio was for the studious. Others are lost to time. and shall pass again. Living: living was what we knew. where pages turn slowly yellow." We had no leisure to discuss our artistry. the chewing of time. and I have lived. each beside the other. they will wear laurels. trying only to survive in such times where heroes only could thrive in the images.Work For Hire (for Sheldon Moldoff) A single bristle makes no brush. Our work was ours.
the cling of clothes: another pair of thighs are shape— sparks of memory: summer patterns. Could she feel this if I touched her? Would she regain her innocence? And transform me into electricity? Thought— 43 . A brick high school without windows and a wrecking ball— dissembled eyes. idle clenched hands folded upon laps adorned with sequin and thread. eyes that do not blink. wrought hands. accord of soft machines and oil hum Turn away— In the ring of tired clang. Wind breathing through the avenues of lost infatution. it is hard to focus my resolve— upon the bright brown eyes and bra strap peeking through the shoulder. and there are clouds.Utterance Wheels grind.
His rapt attention would be enough to let you know him harmlessly.. if they could talk—no. just part of the routine—not so for him: that bit bore deeply in his grain. Mostly it was words he wanted. echoing in the hollow: too many memories unmade of you now.What passes is not time Ten thousand nights since you caught the light and scattered it with dance. If he could sit and gently gaze through wisps of winter coffee into your eyes. and if you asked he'd say. if he could ﬁnd them: some rhapsody of how in trance he held you—this would not do. with you.. incomplete in history and form. "I wish we could be friends 44 . evasive mystery.he could listen. no prose but simple conversation. You could tell him things. all would blur senseless in the fog: it would be kind to see your beauty through the haze so much like his mind years past. you would talk. No way to reverse that ﬂow of time. No outstanding day for you. No poetry.
if only he could speak. given ﬂesh and voice. You would know. So many ifs are lost in silences. and still you're only good with words on paper." he'd say. if only..yet I do not know how to ask in plain words. You could tell him. "Do not underestimate the power of memory recurring.if only. and mock him gently.. "So many years gone by." You would smile softly at his bashful reticence.. 45 ..
split open. and not her self. typical. Reﬂections not complete. All is still. And so my mask. once past. So. the water is calm and clear. it was a mask. the drool of insincere mouths and the pain in my chest when I wake. the sear of jealous tempers. When the poet wrote about the dancing girls. 46 . just some approximate me. This only seems contradiction if you believe all you see. not to be. but these are not me—even if I knew who I really am. Pieces of this and that. The weather wanes.Blonde antipode The trick is to seem. like the silt stirred up by storms outside Sarehole Mill. if I cared about that sort of thing. if only to make it all subside into silence. But typical of what? Myriad stereotypes to assemble into some kind of me. and I am therefore typical. Being is for people who can afford the frosty gaze. There is safety in the mundane.
and I shall don my cloak to weather it once more. not into your images of me. Can you see more? Can you peer deep. there is still time. I will remove with you I say to you such wild things and hope you will believe not what I have said. soon become opaque. But beautiful. 47 . not looking through me. if you will believe my words. too. I shall be typical. You have told me you admire them. too. Water soon will turn to mud. The storms begin again. or theirs taken from People magazine and television talk show tripe— but me. but what you feel within. for you to ﬁnd and prove me that you think your search is worthwhile. beyond cliches. brilliant. I will stand out. the slightly fearful child who wants to love and be loved now for all of me.I know you see my veil and guise. and I will make my marks. the girl without and the dormant goddess within? I shall hide these like an Easter egg. if you will have me. their patina of stale normality. but know: for those who wait. like the moon upon the harvest grain.
Alto 48 .
as leaves. where minds are spent like wet ammunition and dead ends are plainly visible. their claws dictation.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. They preen and nod so knowing each in their sequester: their bills silent. then all is still. glass and shredded steel. 49 . their cabal breathes intimate and dark billows of thin fog. a maze of broken concrete. fall just between their overseen: the new-laid baseball ﬁeld. wings outspread.
and sense of suffering. idiophones creating shields of noise to nullify all reception. cell phones. until silence once more has value there— 50 . and no one ﬁnds it odd when people will not shut the fuck up when there is no one. sheltered from the elements by the wrought-iron pergola. eager for their ﬁrst drunken screw the driver breaks into Motown songs Grim pedestrians with headphones.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. crotchety old bastard mumbling to himself how the young lack all respect. no listening. and the inanities of college students. two talentless bands in different bars playing the same Led Zeppelin riff (white boys think this is the blues). weathers the din of Marty Robbins muzak. dying in nostalgia for a time that sucked his dreams down like a toilet sucks urine neon lights barely ﬂickering the oldest corner of marble and cobblestone in the city.
and my sense the world has gone quite mad? Could they take this loneliness and soften it with love and random kindnesses? Probably not.Photo Op Another night on the M1. Too young to remember. Would they have shared my causes. nor quite on a lark. the naive contestants in the people pageantry. Mirror. but of them as a hermit crab is of his hermitage. and slowly spraying spring rainbows that decay into the wind. Photogenic. together. I too lose myself in the haze. not in the pictures somehow. I was never there to be famous. who's the biggest. mist from wheels capturing the halogen blue of auto lights. It was just clariﬁcation. 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. too young to be in awe of the simple gifts. mirror: who's the fairest. Even this one you remind me: I recall. I think about the separation. always. so it is said. but not entirely there. a not-so beauty contest. What is beauty? What matters? Theses for poets and philosophes to debate in books I will never read. 51 . Likely they would drift from me with jealous words and petty notions of security. who's the quickest one to be through with it all. holding ourselves for all to see. But we were there.
Lights ﬂicker still through the torrents. 52 . all smiles.My ﬁfteen minutes past. This is my exit. and the rain washes quickly over the glass and it all fades in again: the road is uncertain tonight. All I wanted was to sink into my chair and be able to sit upright. Such is the ﬁckleness of taste and chance and circumstance. you hold the paper in your hands and memory. It was only clariﬁcation. not feeling the burden anymore. too. It's okay. What I missed was chance. brought together by some ﬂuke of biology but now inseparable. and bared myself to the world as a trio (or quartet. pasted then cut out and (mercifully) become a news footnote. and didn't have them bestowed on me. That. You remind me of it all. I didn't expect a title or congratulations. Fame is not my thing. I could have stood with all of us. has past. I just smile in echo of that moment. if she'd have us) of friends.
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. and teeth scattered like dice— for you. legs where arms should be. 53 .Eschatology For all who have had their hearts lacerated by the ﬂak of glass shard. I'll put fourteen letters on the back of my plush new Escalade and call it good.
neato stuff: going to be an astronaut. 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. no one read in my blooded palms the suicide attempts or cracked bones and plaster from punching the goddamned wall. going to be rich and famous for doing something indeterminate—such are the words of psychics from my youth. and wave to mom from outer space. We always talked of traveling time to make a better present while 54 . The only fortune ever smiled upon me was that I grew up impervious to promise and kept a warm heart beneath all my bitten skeptic skin. It's a little lonely in my age to look around and see the smiles of vapid yuppies who used to smoke pot and the Republicans with mohawks. going to have a girl awaiting me with piping hot dinners and promises of intimacy.The Subject Was Motörhead Somewhere along the lines of my palm my future. great. was scrawled. Oh. supposedly. so full of wonderful. but not at all surprising. no.
I remember you from school. I still." when I hated your sorry ass then and now. Just don't come up to me and say. and that would be a bummer. I hold still to my ideals of youth. "Gee. you cannot ask me how. except a very long killing spree that would lose its fun quality after the ﬁrst ﬁve years or so. from shelter. I'll tell you that I do not know. 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. Only. always tempered by encounters with stupid assholes in my life. believe. because you don't know how it felt to see you coast 55 . I still.everyone forgot the future. I know only that I have no other option. I hold this love I've always held for friends who most probably think that I've forgotten them. in spite of all that life presents. especially the clean-up time.
I stomped it dead while listening to Motörhead. or how I hated every day of waking up to faces. But here: take this orchid to show that I can turn the other cheek. and think. The breath of wind that blows through trees across. The falling of a full moon night. I look down at my well-lined palms. beautiful to me. oblivious to all. 56 .on by. whose eyes never saw me. That past is dead. Silent thoughts.
the cruelty of one who knows so much less than one thinks about the universe. contempuous carapace to keep from feeling human— after irony. when all they show is the vacuum tube not only sucks but supplants an intellect that might be used for something other than garbage repository: maybe some existence in a world where there are leaves and conversations grow. The life turned inward like a snake gnawing its own tail. there is only the emptiness it always hid. blinded by blood. but no: just hiding in the bleak belief that snide pop culture quips are some sort of genuine knowledge. smug and snug in the armor of ignorance.Post-ironic non-detachment Too many tongues-in-cheek stuck like they had some reason to be there. 57 . The cold brutality of one unable to feel the pain or joy of others.
this day I call forth: People. Now. lameness. and because our Human dread of death and sympathy for Fellow kind has driven us to many Tries of immortality: medicines. Bring back natural selection's vengeance. worthless lives whose death would Certainly be swift without compassion Stemming from the cool desire to save us. too. Ergonomics. I am saddened by the knowledge Darwinism nowadays is helpless In our evolution. 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 . grain rotation. joy and love instead of beer cans. Jailtime. Nothing must be done to save the stupid. when some deserve to reap the Fruits of their own idiocy. Everyone. vital Minerals for natural longevity— All the things that stave off tragic dying All preserve. 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.
there (inclement mortality. 59 .Sarcophagus skeletal beneath the ﬂesh where shivers in a (here broken. where beginnings are foresworn. where numbers did not) sufﬁce—these now insensate things hidden. for)) quiet solitude as mysteries of the Stone: mute. dumb as a veil. yet transcendent) shroud the limits of an ineffable—end. no longer (words were once the sigil.
and we paid a hundred thousand bucks of our parent's money to learn such wisdom. put scarriﬁcations across our ﬂesh. 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 . we measured knowledge by the amount of bullshit seen in music videos. coins and shit in our earlobes and mouths (which didn't have anything to say. if we ever had any. since someone on the Internet said so. anyway—so why not?) because some funky-looking nigger folks had them. though the tattoo artists were all middle-class crackers like us. since Derrida said we didn't. then went and got tattoos. only with less opportunity to grow deeper in our grand and easy whiteness. and who could argue with such mighty.Elephant talk sharing only the trivial (as if recognition of surfaces were somehow depth) and armed with absolute proof that the shallow is profound.
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. 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. and the smell of death and shit. and more. The cute police statue erected moves every ten years because no one can stand to be reminded of the depths of human idiocy and cruelty of so-called organizations— this. eight arrested with absolutely no connection to anything or anyone in town. and drink beer while their demon spawn play croquet in the yard— yeah. so that two hundred million pale bourgeois can roast weenies over their George Foreman grills. blood veins with shrapnel islands.
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. 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 .
how in college kicked a television set down six ﬂights. he often tells them tales of regalia: how he brought a cow to its rooftops. espresso and glossy. LSD) something kids and everyone should live without the prison of nostalgia without the slavery of sentiment— this was the dream. now he returns to a suburban 63 . the school where his two children toil daily. Time told by the wheels of trendy mini vans. cocaine potatoes. whining sounds of soccer kids and fast food. 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. 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.Reminiscence The chaise longue holds him ﬁrmly in his late afternoon ritual.
principles are now thought with interests in mind. and vow that he would never be like them…no one ever becomes exactly like his parentsʼ dreams of an insulated world. and wife one must sacriﬁce all sorts what was worth ﬁghting for that he cannot recall the time his parents visited and left him with his childhood Holy Bible and a foul taste. rate and time the measure of life for the children. worn album covers—markers of young rebellion buried in coziness. sure. and 64 . everyone should ﬁght such resignations. or of course not like them. 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.Dorian Grey reversal ﬁlm now: old images of self beatiﬁed obscure the rot of here and now so slipped away like scraps of poetry.
the light. the glass reﬂex and then returns to reading The Village Voice article about Ani DiFranco and the politics of approval. reﬂection distorted in the drops trickling and ready to evaporate into the thin air of ethic 65 . the old embers in his night-brown eyes ﬂicker with approval before the clouds wash away the sun.for just a moment. What does it say for CSI Miami tonight… His mug perched on the teak.
66 . he has scurried slowly across the ﬁeld to watch his swamp world ﬁlled with the vacuity of forms and ideas of progress. again. some dream drown in car cacophony and the pneuma of mechanical chisel. metal teeth chew the earth become asphalt. subdivided theirs. 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 .
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. turned on sworld like a revolution that will not ﬂush. 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. by capture tranquilized. a rebelde an individual patchwork martyr. surely didn't believetoohipgottagono believe what was left (implying. on lost costumanity.Walking Rauschenberg. rape (all in sight. what makes you (for you are made. of course. fucked with a poison and you die)) surely you. beneath glass and wire rim. wow. care) No. such a mystery 68 . thinking if (it's called that anymore you are.
Rain.Unseen hunter Spoors of industry. these concentric circles begin. Open wound. pierced with points of stone. Blue into dull puce. unseen hunter. Blue. golden brown. and gold to pale amber against the black rocks. then gold. A small and silent trickling becomes a ﬂux. Metal quarry. then red. anemic red. Prey. 69 . The brilliant colors bleed.
meretricious. eyes deep in shadow regret their vigilance. twelve fourteen bones beneath the unwrinkled green sigil. and are still. withdrawn. 70 . nine. six.Scrabbles Scrabbles at the denim. Blood ﬂows there. and marrow but the hand. Three. now mere ornament. hieroglyph that once marked warriors. offers not.
Baritone 71 .
nor the lineament of the air that. 72 .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. cleaves us together as it emanates from your breast and gives me life. heavy with your perfume.
lie like moonlight. leave to me your backside turned. see the rivulets of crimson not. beneath dusts of time. fallen.Silent Night Ten thousand past specters denude themselves beneath a blanket darkness. A human hand might hear and heal its silent melancholy song. lost as mystery. This choir of blood now pale within your radiance—a plaintive vocalise. Beside me. and unseen face away this moment. numb bears a not quite invisible. Held to you. No fear there to strangle secrets. Eye unblinking. But no ﬁngers reach in counterpoint: I am a cappella. 73 . never see this uncertain reach before it dies in down. unstirred passions wither and are unmoved. its dissonance. a wound where once I wiped away my mouth: it no longer murmurs words to cry the twinge of memory. My hand now curled. do not turn your sleeping smile to me and gaze upon my visage. no untidy retributions from a whisper light. where scars unseal themselves as mute mouths now. warmth of night. but for your touch: still unto death. by light of Eve. The question fades and dies: unanswered call. no. unpursed lips telling deaf ears tales of soft and liquid history: how.
Splendour Ten thousand years and thirteen billion bodies rough sketches. scattering prism reﬂections. but you —you could take me in your hands like a dewdrop in the morning sunlight. dissolve into your divine radiance. 74 . No glass sufﬁcient to reﬂect the magnitude of your heavenly body. the fruition of cosmic design. 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. and I would change as each ray changes into ether without mass or form.
75 .Ribbon Time is a bright black ribbon in your hair unwinding the opposite of the clock— ﬁngers slow extend to touching at the contact is all stasis: each impulse of electric apprehension alone. as myriad strands of sunlight reﬂecting back expose the truth as they are undone by your gentle hand. perfect. in this in the moment. no future tense only present. at the knot where time after time contrives itself to hold no past. before all thought and perception. and.
create sculptures of ﬂesh or metal or marble to raise swords in justiﬁcation. and punctuate the air with your signature. 76 . I am no magician—nor will words. this is the breath of us.Voice of the Brahma Divine words cannot change the curls of your hair. and let a light radiate forth by scratching the patina of banality that hides you from me. or color your skin reﬂects (all races mere reﬂections of light. Do not feel this rationalization. yourself. small or polysyllable. of that we form into the future. 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. Fly into the billowing. All these can do is try: to reach that which within us is genius. awhile.
If I want to dream of you and all sensations that clothe you suddenly reveal your naked beauty. 77 .
delineate your ﬁgure beneath the peignoir silk touched ﬂuorescent green. your spine caress against the cedar shutter door—I pause. to my eye returns an apparition: incandescent billows shudder shimmering in each wave modulation the ﬂux of your diffracted symmetry. of eyes grown dusky with reﬂection as they avert. this picture memory. your amber tresses glisten with bare shoulders' perspiration. Darkness alone holds time in this moment of the mystery. Hourglass sands reverse their cascade.Intangible White burning metal illuminates the burnish teak where your consolation lies before me: the glow of your image. recall our sympathy. Did not this wind hover about us and waft between us where the perfume of our bodies mingle surround with the other essence each of us. did not your napeskin tremble then with blush beneath the shadow silent—no love would resonate my hollow cavity where syncopates 78 . Suspended moment: this vision. Your frame absorbs the soft lambence.
preserves only a moment past.your pulse with mine: this is all we know. if it could. No kiss. 79 . I hold alone an image. no taste upon our tongues the salt of passion quiets my bristling thoughts. delicate. this intangible reﬂection gives life to this lifeless would picture. no blood pulsates suddenly wordless against our cold lips. This frame silences the motion. no frame. the spirit animate that surrounds your body corporeal. this moment binds. no captured silence before words becalmed to nothing—still it lives. these uncertain ﬁngers retract perspiring from your heat.
invisible to the eye. this day is yours alone to share with all who live. for you. your nativity. dust will dissipate. molten frost turns to dew. who love. who wait and wish for spring as surely as they shy from winter gray. exactly each as this (we mark them all with candles)—why should this day be different from all others? Your life goes on. and honeybees dance the silent message: You bring with you Spring's inspiration. you are the star of all. time stands still: for a moment. and ﬂowers will grip the soil and stone to bare their blossoms before the light. As you are reborn. this celebration. leaves grow green again. stands in your shade. so the season brings renaissance to all things—this is your gift. the sun will arise from low behind snow-spangled mountain peaks. stamens. In your aura. high above the spinning earth now bathed in luminescence. The sun stops in the sky. If you could stand and be aware of heaven. 80 . for all. pistils sweet intercourse with each other. Ten cycles of the sun. three times. as west wind swirls about your form to caress you with its felt formlessness and move your fabric to gorgeous delight. you would see how. eclipsed. each year another blessing. have passed before.Solstice As any other day.
London Youth that dreams of nothing else dreams to see herself in silver and glass that projects rising stars. sequin and decolletage are truth where Eros is love. sororities. through shuttered reverie: private resorts. cliche redheads and cute hot tub hookers. cut where I am consigned to Flatland and mere memory: memories— yes. something less: a masquerade. and dumb inanities. The lens—a black moon rising. Two decades staring. lines and lines of repetition. Darlings all. They become one 81 . solicitations. These pale. Here I am. these images. Tinsel. no longer selves—no. free no more but slave shackled to the bland mint where dreams are pressed dead green. these I know. and blue motels—dim domains all. soft smiles. with never a glimpse of me. soulless shadows searching. caught in glass. Yet they do not die. 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.
now. Not for the line draws your calf to thigh. beside her self. and all (I desire) only. for whatever you (have. eyes averted. a woman. will) see of me. slight. as I 83 . searching. pure desire unite and merge their esences (calm her lover upon) her breast: pure love. love. for all these impressions do not love them. curl about your ﬁngers these tresses that veil me—for these. beneath the moisture of his breath she feels (the words): You are. Her skin shivers beneath the furrows as his ﬁngernails bite softly into her shoulders. In this her love's ﬂesh. unquestioned questions. Now only the question. but what lives within: love me. a life: these are not known until lost. She would have no form. supine. spent. she lies beside her lover. then (a lady. The shadow (of snow upon the wall)—turns her lips toward him with whisper: You see of me many images. and what then? she) knew none of this . Silent as the mountain snow drives through the vale. her mortality forgot. love me for my invisibility—she sinks. midnight moonlight cobalt blue uipon the curve of her ilium. her visions: (A girl. into thought solitude. inward she turns.Midnight moonlight Silken. You kiss gently this form. nor the dilation of your eyes. present. so may questions so may (with stone opacity) youth.
she thinks.touch your hand—not for the berry brown of your areolae. her bosom to his. 84 .) Such might he say. your beauty is you. or the sharp hard bone of your mouth beneath your kiss—I —no other way. and shares with him an invisible moment. She draws close the curtain. and perhaps is right. than this—I could not— I cannot love the absence of the space. love. the light your body absorbs: Do not fear your beauty.
We were twice ourselves then. and we are real as the ﬂesh that touches now.Connection Twelve chimes distant toll. Striking light upon ﬁngers. nightly slipping through our hands. No longer no closer than the line between: no more detached protocol. Sensations are all. your sweet perspiration. intricate movement. 85 . our ﬁngers creating the real from the intangible made this: tangible. connection: remote as they are twain in the mystery. How this world. as myriads now. emotions sightless. A ﬂow of electric excitement creates vision. Passes from light to digital motion through chemistry are not words. digit to digit. formulae. and this is knowledge: indices. and sends from each to each our identity. against all possibility. All sight unseen. receptive. eyes. This is now. A spittle mote more important than a blush or perspiration. its drama written. invisible feeling become palpable through these palms. We did not know. Two have known this. these words' place upon your lips.
Eve The cloak night shrouds your Cynthian form. Shining endow with silver radiance The universe cleaved with your velvet. 86 .
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