wind from across heaven’s white, unerring breast,
rustling weeping trees , as though between two mirrors-
the rolling green under your bare feet—
Sisyphus gets predictability, at the very least.
but what sand sticks to the feet of we lesser mortals?
the up and down and lilting violins play.
should we count in years?
should we stop there, satisfied?
at a dreadful, imperfect integer?
under this same sun,
forgive this penitent beggar
with kind words
and the promise of sleep.
Never hereafter
your amber trembling lips
bust against the floor
—-
the white liquid death
did not threaten, as death does-
it stood, defiant –
—-
we see just the sky
our dreams continue like this–
but love me the same.
—
what color are tears?
what color abject sadness?
pebbles in the road
—
blue in the evening,
how is it you could have died?
the babel goldfish
—
as the cardinal flies
i am again a child
roguish, impious
—
—————–
to be added to later. the muse has suddenly departed.
“what became”, she says, “of those years?”
and i feel my eyes slowly pumping the boiling tar,
filtering into my throat like burned coffee
is it truly so inhumane
to hate
to desire the fall of another human?
the sky itself ennervating, salient fucker
gloating while i wonder silently
if my aorta has clogged for good this time
and i will regret,
and i will consider,
and consideration will remain my constant inquisitor.
outside of what i am stands a glass,
and on the other side of the glass stands the all of you,
but no matter how i tap, punch, gnash my teeth,
i remain as silent as that asshole on the other side.
slow drop
no bottom
no sharp suggestions
i can look at the sky for as long as i want.
Daft gods! discovering, clearing, allowing us to falter:
what minotaur must we escape this glowing day?
we shall deign consider our quandary, afixed to this cold chair-
trusting only ourselves and our simplest machinations.
unto our inglorious hill to be taken against slaughtering machine gun-
we tread, indefatigable for wear, fixed on a solemn prize: an azure flower
the only warmth found in this azure flower, clearing the be-milked world
from the pain of a hardened mind, a dulled wit-
ye men of singular flavor – of no other consideration but your singular aim!
how trustworthy you, one without else in goal, can be – edging ever closer
to the sinking ship you term “purposefulness”
have you bespied the azure flower?
“hapless he remains-
after the death of his only companion,
but he knows the beauty of companionship, of love,
and he has bespied your azure flower, this perfect imperfection as he is.”
“now leave me be – i do not want to be bothered any further.”
gray among earlier reds,
the flattened head of the venturer sits alone,
a penitent reminder of the beauty of times
now long ended.
he does not move
he can no longer, as it is not his power.
lifeless and shapeless, he has found no reason to continue-
but upon his breast, warm like the memories of kisses,
warm and ever fresh, never fading at all,
lays across his breast the azure flower.
and there it remains, never to be profaned.
we should dance how we want
it’s not the morning that is terrible
it’s the day, the time when everything is so visible!
stretching hands up up UP UP UP
to the place where you have _no ears_
you can’t apologize faster
you just LISTEN and hope for the best
When does the cloud come to cover the painful sun?
oh
but i really shouldn’t….
what time is it now anyway?
is it time to think about the past?
is it time to consider the faltering expressionlessness
of the heart i have yet to leave behind?
ma- warukatta noni,
gomen. hontouni gomen.
sorekara, nande tayoruno?
kokoro ga ittakatta n jyanaino?
sekai no junbi
is still evading
as my hands clasp tightly
painfully
convulsingly
tout rien.
tsuzuketa
dokodemo
kimi ni aita tokoro e
to jump and jump and keep on jumping
you never go fucking ANYWHERE
but you keep jumping
and one day the ground stops being the ground
and then you’re free, when the rules are no more
like the air blowing out of a reed instrument
without finishing the note
without the painful staccato of concision
but who did you think about when you sang
about walking through fleming, alone?
who is this dark and wonderful man
who caresses the forest of your dreams?
and the swell
the swell
and YELL IT
tell logic where to stick it
tell them about your broken heart!
tell anybody who will listen!
tell strangers who will not understand
tell the inanimate of soul who will not cling to your words
and will only cling to your gently swaying hips
who will cling to your words?
and your shy smile
and your determined look
and your twitching passion
and your simple, clean, pure and beautiful
tender
careful
melodious
warm
hope?
am i worthy of such passionate lament?
Behold! the soldier’s death:
terrible, powerful,
too sudden to feel weighty-
a sinking throat
reborn as a rising voice
the martyr of hastings, the sergeant of Normandy-
the grass under him does not heed his tragedy
nor the sand which collects his blood
in brittle clumps
know the hymn his mother sang
on Tuesday afternoons.
but once, and now forever
with ammunition clutched tight on his breast,
with sword shaking in pale schemes,
he hears the voice of Mars
of Anann’s terse elegy,
of the strings of the Valkyrie,
calling him to fight forevermore.
pierced heart
or lung
detached and leaking spinal chord,
the part of his brain he loved so tenderly with, sliding out
washed out like his ball-turret
fading like a train’s departure
“Glory” he thinks
he knows
“is to have performed,
to have shown that fear in death
is miserable and ineloquent.”
“glory is only useful to the living.”
“hi! my name is Anna – my mother said to come over here and play with you –
you seemed lonely.”
a collection of poems and thoughts 