Breeze
Zephyr concertos stream dark melodies
Over the swells of a luminous sea
Two pairs of footsteps are beating their course
Everything goes and all is innocent.
Two walkers cued together like wandering planets,
Wings of rain tossing wildly,
Flick the switch of time, beside frozen tides
Stop to study each others' eyes,
Forgiving,
Thus reaching a wordless peak,
Thoughts ceasing,
But for a teasing tune from an ancient music box,
Through their worlds synchronously passing,
And there they stand...
As near as they will ever be.
Be.
Then begin their descend,
Step to step...
Across the sand,
Steps the waves at once wash away...
Step to step...
Unmemorable.
Beside each other and away from.
A long passage into the woods,
Unfamiliar ways,
Where all are bound to get lost...
Solitude... Death...
For all, again, again...
Leads them towards atoms' separation:
An anxious feeling at the base of the neck,
And a parting throat lump...
Unmappable on any old lattice of days,
The ungraspable tragedy of being human.
Again... Again...
HD POUND
Ezra Pound now lives at Yale
283 Beinecke boxes
And a mouthful of teeth behind glass
Reads the long-perfected catalogue
Times whispers in the night
HD's deathmask
(She compiles top ten lists of local grotesques
But defends Pound,
Noting
"I had never heard of vers libre until Ezra
Ezra
Was beautiful about my first authentic verses
He sent my poems in
For me
To Miss Monroe (of Poetry)
He signed them
For me,
"H.D., Imagiste")
Modern eye winces
The male control scheme of this patronage
As questionable
- 2017
*"""*"*
The strange icy garlands ...
And the touch
Of thy dead blue mistress:
What's that gotta do with you?
Catastrophic collisions,
The church bells of happiness
A lying harlequin who stayed
Too true.
To love with us would mean a greater fix
The oppressing roll of situations
And that drowning mermaid
From the bottom sending a final kiss
To your gray station.
We swell as we fall
Gasping for the light
Life's systole: none better
For my soul, the trite
see-through engine of tears
And such a big forgetter!
Her swollen eyeball's rotten core
Is Ripped by silver divides...
And tis all,by my ripped out ways,
That is all we'll ever find.
Smile on Dust
All ends,
Even fails
A mechanical core
A mechanical star
(What remains when we go?!)
So dustless eternalAnd lonely
Would peer
At infinite dust-flail
The vast shimmerer
Who watched smashing dramas of quivering dust
In far away theaters of scattering past
Heards gossips of simmering shuddering dust
Passed when blustering dust
Would be scampering by,
Restlessly
Fleeting along, with no glory,
On lulled time's shattering dustways
AND LIFE's Powdering pestering
Neighboring gesturing... gathering
Muttering/mirroring selves,
We're losing, meandering ,
Littering loitering, crying, decrying
The lingering dance,
Linger, oh, shimmerer!
Lover, oh, lingerer!
Lettering the secret light sway.
Linger while whispering,
Glimmering
Fluttering flustered as hell, far away,
Fleeting, sad,flitterer
Flicker thy flowers, sing!
Aw, to the wind, to the wind!
Feathering festering faltering...
Mastering!
In self-empowering aways...
Doctoring, differing
Cowering, sniffling...
Conjuring, coloring thy days!
Clamoring, clustering
Brokering, blustering
Blunder away, head on high!
Bettering bantering
Authoring altering
Mattering...
Faltering...
Every repeating yourself, fail away!
But make thy stand
At the end of the day.
Slash at the past
And the feature will writhe.
Grains of the infinite dust screams the light!
Flattering dust met a well-flattered dust...
And the whole's chatting warmly and freely!
- 2016
THE CURTAIN
I'm a dusky lace curtain
Passively flinging
Where the wind
Is swirling locusts exploding
A dirty moment's
Ghost with a despairing belly
Striking itself with daggers
Of hazel sunshine,
To nurture that friendly pain
Into a sizzling family of gaping soul holes,
Which spin midnight plabet lpsilhouette
Glowforms into one's true emblem,
A feastive gathering of wells
Refracts to the chatter of siblings...
And a midnight toast for the ships s
Soon arriving,
Is a
"Here I am!"
For at last arriving is one's own
One
True vision
A vision that snaps to
A flickering moment
of Flesh
That, thrown into war - the cold -
Grasping and shivering -
And long-exiled
From the dream caravan -
Seeks a home
To turn empire,
A storm of rusty light
Feeding on its own
Brain marrow,
And all just to ask: "WHYwhy?"
Smiling frail light
Crashes on the concrete
And sings -
This Trembling Rotting Flesh -
Sings you fresh snowy airs
With a tongue of its own melting
Foaming loose smiling canvasses
On the carcass of situation
And all around hang
Brute screaming normas...
The rushing pageants
Maim grate quarter
Into a violent four-sitter
Nervous veins flailing screams
Scraps of song from a concrete Scarecrow of city
We drift, as the sun hides,
And if only a warm star
To clutch forever in a pocket coat...
If only even a wee nova of Silence!
But total is the rule
Of tapestried screaming
The baselines of concrete
Square gaps
Frame the shouting
But it stops
Deep in the gaps
Some can't step on
The real gaps wherefrom
A last bit branch
Drifts forth
All chewed on
By locust industrial windchimes
The last of the earth is in its bend
Snd from each feeble bud sprout Starved crooked fingers
Skin on graceless flute bones
Lovingly shorn by earth
Formed from the last of her stillness
In a secret doomed studio
Beneath a mask
Of dirty stone pretty face unraveling
Just so
From the ground
Passively flinging
Like a dusky lace curtain
- 2011/2016
Arcanum Astrum
The Big Book says it's the loss of Control Power:
Circular desire to costume chance
While enabling a continuous binge upon
the morphing Broadway Plaza fronts of sugartongued obsolescence.
Sparkling fresh biographies of Laforgue and Unica Zurn
Pre-attached to British A-list biopic releases cynically planned to coincide with birth-death anniversaries
Of your favorite celebrity poets
Working your circular desire to consume change;
To cosplay genius
And to hit IT,
To start off, to hit every dart mark on your custom bored of contention
With yar famous outrageous phallically piquant arrow of I.
Course, t'aint so easy, kid
For behind the archer hovers a physical demon,
A pretty thin singer of a thing in the end quite harmless. Punk. Snob.
But notice, in a top Google images photo, the singer's gaze,
Under a top-hat's pale shade,
Is a rocky cove
Where no light strays,
Green hardened stool,
The yearnings of an idiot toddler,
And when he sings
All he does is fling around in that dumb cemetery breathing space squirting fluids,
Moaning one-syllable obscenities,
Desecrations...
Imagine the public NME dischord of his mere electric finger poking the eye-hole of some normie in a tattered Renaissance apothecary shawl...
And yet, the right singer always wins:
Obscured by the virtual postiron curtain,
He exits as smoothly as Bowie
Into an inspiring casket
Wit all further afterlie concerns simply demurred.
"Why why why!"
We lick our sweetongue lips,
Then peer at our screens in disbelief,
The screen is an old wretched mirror
Our nails bitterly scratch and scratch
While ears go insane from the noise.
At last we stab at the mirror...
Only to find it was, all along,
A stillpool of our beloved's half-awakend eyes.
And our beloved yawls in pure agony,
Eye liquid dripping down trembling face cracks.
And so, when we join in,
Rolling in joint ecstatic emancipated pains
Over sweat-drunk beds.
When we yearn merely to squeeze a hand and feel it squeeze back...
Shit gets complicated.