#5726 Jan 22, 2013
Why my worn out eyes?
barely have they observed reality
and they blink
they don’t want to know more.
To what purpose this succession of colors?
The spread out hand for a new face,
the precise answers
the same nothingness
and the room with shadows
without any of those faces,
all reduced to constant
reflections on the mirror.
A feeling of seeing
and turning the lights off.
No one can suddenly drive away
the shadows that dwell deep down;
scraps of so much,
on that which we are
#5727 Jan 23, 2013
I have forgotten the symbols
The forms of the letters
The sound of phonemes to cut the silence
I do not know how to write her name
And much less how to pronounce it
Motionless, on a desert beach
She is wearing the dress of salt given me by destiny
There are no signals or tempests during the day
And at night multitudes of stars silently ignore the need I have
To know their names
Wet sand daily buries my bare feet
Do not remember the grass, nor the cement, or the shoes
My hands in an effort to grasp the air
Lost the mobility of long ago
Long ago when I knew little and felt little
I knew of love in the sea
Of the salt skin in my mouth
Of the warm present of her silken body
Not mattering the sarcastic gaze of the fish
Long ago I knew that her saliva sated my thirst
And that my greatest possession was in the fine silver threads that crowned her head
I have forgotten the words,
The phonemes, the numbers, the dates
Like a child coming back to the world
The emerald green iris she had have come out from the orbits to look for the code with which I deciphered the world.
#5728 Jan 23, 2013
Just as I wonder
whether it’s going to die,
the orchid blossoms
and I can’t explain why it
moves my heart, why such pleasure
comes from one small bud
on a long spindly stem, one
blood red gold flower
opening at mid-summer,
tiny, perfect in its hour.
Even to a bright eyed
blonde haired craggy poet,
it’s purely erotic,
pistil and stamen, pollen,
dew of the world,
of earth, and water.
Erotic because there’s death
at the heart of birth,
drama in those old sunrise
prisms in wet cedar boughs,
in washing evening dishes
or teasing my lover,
who grows, yes,
because one of us will die.
#5729 Jan 23, 2013
Dozing, I go over the human face with microscopic eyes. I go over a nose lightly sloped, sweating near the nostrils.
I am a look on a face with a nose that thinks. I am some millimeters away from the skin that shines, my eyes are the eyes of an ant, and the face a mountain range.
In front, under, up, submerged in itself, absent-minded. Indifferent, without imagining being looked upon by something minute.
And I,—the inconceivable—, know, that this crease near the nose on which I am now walking belongs to a face.
Astonished, I freeze: how can this line, this sweat, this sketch of a cheek, be a face and even a name, a history, a period of time?
How can, at the same time, this portion of grease and heat go further than a name, a history, a period of time?
#5730 Jan 23, 2013
So many absences all the time
that I can no longer name them.
Rain falls behind the tears
and from the courtyard rises an odor
of damp earth and apples.
Only ghosts live now
in this house
that have shed their flesh
and their silence-.
I cross the bridges of time,
while memories fall
changed into murmurs of stone.
#5731 Jan 23, 2013
What sounds are those, that are heard
from the pale forest
of your drenched mouth?
What potent fruit nourishes
you in your city
of empty time?
What stone dares shout for you
from that Herodes of straw and salt
which stirred your blood?
What saint about to fall
collapses now between warm veins
that tear open your wound?
by owl- light,
my imagined life goes on
by the power of someone death,
precarious prince at the sky’s edges,
who permits me to speak at the fire of war,
to tell my shadow in the alchemy of water
where to name a light is to picture the night,
to open a chalice at dawn’s intention.
Here the dead hold sway,
where someone, maybe a god,
slave of rain,
a melancholy ruler of what was,
avidly opens the silence of blood
in the night’s vertigo and its fear
so that he might say what is, what burns endlessly
in the cups of dust that drizzle his thirst into vacuity.
This is the hour when I may know
what was torn from my history,
the fragment chiseled over a cold surrealistic night.
#5732 Jan 23, 2013
An instrument, waxed and shiny,
Can stick to moisture on a naked chest,
With strings taught and ready,
Gripped by one and caressed by another.
He drove to the garage and let himself in,
With the guitar resting snug on his shoulder,
Endless hair obstructing all but his fingers,
With only the beeping fridge,
And dripping tap as accompaniment,
In the dead of night.
He strummed to coke cans,
Chocolate bars and porn,
Ignoring the aching in his back,
As the chords cut the silence,
In the back of the stockroom,
A rodent audience gathered curiously,
In the shadow of his lover.
It was no sooner set to the ground,
As it was in his arms again,
Each time the notes grew stronger,
More lucid, more extravagant, more overpowering,
Strings eager to improve on their last.
The Guitarist played until his fingers were hard,
Ridged and yellow from smoking and strumming,
And practising, and adjusting and perfecting,
Endlessly, as he had no timepiece to adhere to.
He continued every night and every day and every night,
Until his scent was that of his muse.
#5733 Jan 23, 2013
I don’t have a theory of it. It is just an analogy
with a huge lake with ample inlets and outlets.
This lake is a canvas for clouds that drift away,
slowly, like the leaves fallen.
Or say, it’s more like a girl
whom I’ve never known and I’m sure
I’ll never know.
This girl secretly leaves an infant
on a pavement and disappears from sight.....
And the crying baby is picked up
by a kind couple.
This is easy and hard, two in one scheme.
But I don’t have a theory of it. It is just an analogy
with the lake where the boy stares
at his still reflection, and where
he gains a tremendous strength.
it is the stone he hurls into the lake
to distort its trancelike quality.
It is the instant
when the ripples lap
his rumpled reflections.
#5734 Jan 23, 2013
she liked her men
spare and sparse
lean of words
without flowers in their hands
their shirt sleeves rolled up
to show the world
how hard they lived,
their legs tucked into boots
as thick and dark as calluses
she liked them sprawled
elbows on the table
their forks demanding her attention
spearing the meat
like clean kill
chewing with the gusto
of young rams
their teeth reminding her
of how devouring was
a holy act
and she would dream
of those hands
curious beasts of prey
skin freckled with the grit of stars
and gravel from wrong turns
making paths across her blouse
pulling her skirt up
to meet their questions
and of how her throat
like it had no will
at the whisper of her name.
#5735 Jan 23, 2013
At my reading
down my nature
on the podium
in stolen words
in a roll
of my tongue
with a scrappy
in a blunted alembic
of a life sentence
soon to be
and then translated.
by the ice pond
escaping parental storms
in a ninth year,
of the used bookstore
by tall shelves
digging out chapters
with an itinerary
of large silences,
red eyes half open
by unseen volumes
under a solitary light
the young hand
climbs up the ladder
beneath the stammer
of a forgiving nature
with a a few coins left
from an allowance,
and you, Dylan Thomas
all in blue under cover
is taken home
to read in private
when no one
#5736 Jan 23, 2013
Actually, we call you an idiot, Sybil.
#5737 Jan 23, 2013
Discordant the piano
spears through the Gauloises cigarette haze,
allowing her scarlet words to ooze through,
with their promises
and everything in between.
She sings to me, though every man in here will tell you the same.
They’re lying, of course.
The barkeep chases a three legged dog
through the open door.
It turns back to look at him contemptuously, before trotting, free, into the night.
Thoughtfully, I draw circles on the table with my shot glass.
Would that the easy flow of cheap scotch could carry me away from here and to your door,
Or maybe you’ll find this poem…
this cry for help,
and come for me.
She runs her slender, perfectly manicured fingers across the piano lid and looks at me,
though every man in here will tell you the same.
They’re lying, of course.
I briefly squeeze my eyelids tight together,
and pour another.
#5738 Jan 23, 2013
I live my life inside my patio window.
It’s here, at my business desk I slip
into my own warm pajamas and slippers
never seeking Jesus, but comeing to terms
with my own cross and brittle conditions.
Outside, winter night turns to winter storm,
the blue jay, cardinal, sparrows and doves
go into hiding, away from the razor whipping winds,
behind willow tree bare limb branches
they lose their faces in somber hue.
Their voices at night abbreviate
and are still, short like Hemingway sentences.
With this poetic mind, no one cares
about the seasons and the slants
the wind or its echoes.
I live my life inside my patio window.
#5739 Jan 23, 2013
Perhaps it is the birds,
their small bright humors,
bleated notes, masks,
as they swirl about the house
Or the sky not yet ruined by rain.
The whirr of small planes,
pampas grass in straw air:
all light & airy
as a place that hasn’t seen tragedy.
Three yellow apples
hang as in dementia
upon the tree, its last leaves scraped clean
This bird, and this, and this,
thrice happy, their own Burleske—
in nook & cranny.
The willow emptied of tear-shaped leaves,
the wires hung with pigeoned iridescence.
When to break off?
When spare a bright, high-spirited mood
for one’s lover, when all’s dressed down—
lake gray, sky gray,
the mood closed, remote?
I stare down the barrel of a gun, he said.
A bulky bird, buff-breasted, fine streaking.
Abrupt, well-spaced notes—
two high, ear-bursting.
then choo choo choo, three in a row,
ended with the song bird’s amen: a trill.
And the land beneath the land—
a sewer of water
through Lethe’s redundant rivers.
The great hall of winter, its drowned
Ophelia arranged in portraiture.
Not meant to be seen nor heard.
suburban homes besieged.
As Ben stands
below water in The Graduate,
wearing scuba gear.
Youth this time.
Loneliness is always in the middle…
What body to ear the unceasing.
Dirge-drum, thrum of water pooling in eave,
sifting down to gutter, droplets
on greened wood, moss-faced.
Fracture of sky & lake, bird scratching.
The cricket with its bow,
the hemi-facial spasm in my right eye.
Dirge, triplet, waltz of the waters
over houses in January.
Each droplet caught
in its own physics—
to thrall and thereby dissolve.
#5740 Jan 23, 2013
Skewered like St Sebastian
by the savage purity
of line and angle
his arcing off is clean-cut
as tempered steel, her anger
worn too smooth to bite.
Their hearts pinched
to the practised hardness
of a fossil
each orbits a void
they both deny,
of those small kindnesses
that once defined their love.
Yet there is passion
in their symmetry,
a cruel precision
complex as any genome,
of noughts and crosses
implacable as a glacier
in living rock.
#5741 Jan 23, 2013
A night of turgid dreams leaves me
with Marilyn Monroe’s autograph
written in a ghosted memoir.
The signature bristles and preens
as if writhing with ego.
I’m sure it’s authentic although
the memoir appeared years after
she died of excessive marriage.
Suicide was an afterthought.
Her famous marriages bent her
backward till her spine warped
and her overexposed breasts popped
like paper bags. She regretted
certain roles, but not the last,
in The Misfits—her co-stars,
like her, doomed before the film
earned the audience it deserved.
If I dreamt up this signature
in this book with orange cloth binding
it seems real enough in daylight.
Fondling the memoir I detect
the pain of composition raving
still in the unconscious ether
to which she consigned her spirit.
Would an autograph dealer pay
full value for a signature
that however authentic occurs
years after the subject’s death?
I’m keeping this to myself.
Without touching I trace a finger
over the graceful holography,
certain I couldn’t have forged
this elegant scrawl in my sleep.
Everyone believed her murdered,
perhaps by government thugs.
But the way her autograph fell
from the dark suggests how gently
she entered it—her name, although
not her own, derived from a species
we love all the more when extinct.
#5742 Jan 23, 2013
It was a cloudy, humid night that I found her,
dark with no noted star in the street-
only a streetlamp's glare,
blurring its attention on her,
or perhaps a movement caught my glance.
There, a thickly huddled clump
of slow compacted shadow, many limbed
in the light; blotch-bellied and centred firm.
She'd stopped (with all her legs), sure as shadow.
The surprise of being met perhaps equal to mine,
for there she held, giving nothing away,
remarkable in her concentrated poise.
Her wariness didn't last, as with a sudden urge
she mounted forward, advancing with a rower's ease-
the whole current of her body oozing forward...
Careful though, as she steered to one side,
then checked, as if to slip from near presence:
away from the wall, each leg a careful fluent aim,
caressing air in its angled fall...
Artful in her walk, almost a ballerina.
The lamp showed up her tousled body:
a grossly bobbled thorax bunched with reddish hairs
tart as pollen, delicate as flower filaments.
Finding grass, she assumed anonymity-
conscious, it seemed, of a watchful form;
and there, startled back to myself, I left her.
Stray leaves leered over her shadow.
#5743 Jan 23, 2013
Several extremes of pleasure and pain
(one for the road, two for the show)
Hopefully I can see you again?
(three in the park, four in the dark)
Or maybe, you’ve missed the train?
(five odd phone calls, six new curve balls)
Which I think would explain….
(seven old ways, eight great days)
....your change of heart.
#5744 Jan 23, 2013
valentine’s day omelets
and egg one, egg two
knew the story
as the vowels sang out
from our eyes over the cappuccinos,
two hot plates
rubbing against one another
on the tiny table
#5745 Jan 23, 2013
one hundred per-cent off
the bliss I was in
when you said
that your heart was
a once in a lifetime
super sized special offer
with extra love thrown in
you did have
credit where credit’s due
the sex was fantastic
but all spent out
your pillow talk
became a rich irony
of sweet nothings
about no obligations
shame I can’t return your offer
as ‘unfit for purpose’
I hit the supermarket
with red puffy eyes
buy one get one free
but there was only one left
or two for eleven quid
I can’t seem to refuse."
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