Dedication: For my wife
Message:
“One may say courage
and one may say fear”
-George Oppen
[1]
It is the time of night
when worlds slip
in and out of focus
When the pulsating
fourth dimension
opens its gabardine jaws
White swans float still
on black lakes
sometimes plastic ones
and I cannot tell
which ones are real
and which ones are fake.
[2]
I saw you smile
one moment
while you
stopped singing
glared at the river
as it tamed our hearts
I broke down
tore off your clothes
and carried you
to the burial ground
If only
you’d have kept singing
you would know
about the silence
echoing between
each note –
those years
are gone
into the fire
and back
through the doorway
of miserable silhouettes.
[3]
Certainty – breaks you
into fragments
I fear – when dosed
with your metallic emblems
Your grace – passionate
Laughter – coming and
Calling, to hither,
the Grave is – a soft collapse
And the doorway to the unknown is
Here and a leap
from a Stone – to
Walk over water
and become the
Exchange rate
between alone, and
Becoming obscured
There is only
an Illusionist on the stage
Hypnotizing and
Mesmerizing us
into partaking
In his childish games.
[4]
The blackbird crawling
on the left side of my skull
started clawing
I opened my eyelids, and he flew out
and proceeded to wreck the room,
as he flew between
the bookshelves
causing them
to crash magnificently to the floor –
I became overwhelmed trying
to capture this manifestation
of my pain
and slipped on a glossy paperback,
losing consciousness for several days
When I came to my senses
books were everywhere, shaking with fear.
I saw the blackbird stuck beneath a book of unwritten poetry
and quickly clasped the pages shut.
[5]
I give a name to the void
that stirs me –
From sleep, it is not the same breathe
of life – but
the emergency of reality –
I do not know
its face – but
somehow it sure knows me.
[6]
When the swallows return to their towers
they will attempt to die between pages
trying to become immortal
ink will bleed from the pages
they will have kindle around their heads
they will have rose colored cheeks
and remember the intimate details of the plague
the muse died long ago
boiled up while sleeping in a frozen pale death –
[7]
Because a horse is being beaten
I will become who I am
I will spread out my intentions
liquidating all of them –
Because a horse is being beaten
I will stare into its eyes
I will lose myself like a child
in a world of disguise
Because a horse is being beaten
I will cast myself aside
I will work for evil
and be the apple of its eye
Because a horse is being beaten
I will finally know
Why I said we were guilty
Of killing off that innocent man again.
[8]
In Einstein’s time
there were rhetorical theories,
with rational pathos of logic
A gold cat opened its eye
After Einstein’s time
there were concept with holes,
trapdoors of logic,
and an expanding space
The gold cat opened another eye
With the arms of Atlas
Einstein threw the rock, to
disrupt the still
lukewarm water
of fixed neutrons
The gold cat
yawned –
there
was nothing
left in the world
he could do.
[9]
Fog
settles
in my bones
I woke up
this morning,
and couldn’t
move
I was never
taught,
how to think,
only what to think.
They spit
the party’s motto
into my face
Later I spit it right back,
like a bloody tooth,
beaten loose,
from my jawbone.
[10]
Once I saw
the whole world
was on fire –
and I tried
to put out the
flames with my
single drop of water –
until I remembered
I was the whole ocean –
and I could
put the fire out
whenever I chose.
[11]
I fear little
when dosed
your light is passionate
I feel a laugh
coming on
calling the gravedigger
to hoe
I am walking
on stones
across a dark ocean.
[12]
People
are molded
into forms
they do not sign up for
The world goes
mad for reasons
no one
bothers
to understand
She listens to the rain,
because it speaks
to her
Everybody
wants to be
her friend
Everybody
has their ideas
sewn into their
hearts
I uprooted
my crops
this morning
because I knew
it would
make her laugh
I undid
the curtain
because
I knew she
was
in the bath.
[13]
I feel a great
sadness
I must not say
I see a great
injustice
I must not think
I cannot say
what needs
to be said –
I cannot think
this –
I cannot know this –
Consequences
are waiting
the thinker
at the end
of a rope or
a gun or
an unmarked grave –
It is closing time
for the mind
get your
consciousness
nice and
happy.
[14]
I woke up
found your lips –
just a moment before
I was writing a poem
It was easy to
close my eyes
knowing
I would see you again –
‘Peachy’ was the color
that I saw I had written
it was the color of your lips
The poem made
the harvest grow
and we made love
every morning –
The rows were planted
with words
and in early May they came alive.
[15]
On the canvas
there are no clusters
of paint
but only a series
of misfortunes –
And all I know
of these moments,
are my own obscenities
They are dead faces
losing lotto tickets
wrecked cars
empty bank accounts
funerals
failures
diseases
The composition
is not so random –
at times
It accurately
depicts
the solidarity
of the people
within walls of their own creation
come
through
and go.
No comments:
Post a Comment