Oct 14, 2014 | Uncategorized
1.
Liturgical responses of all
wind and rain are answers
let an island be a proposition
in Euclid. Parse the rapture.
Words that need to be said over and over
no measure
if you can’t count them are they really there?
Who is the enemy in the epic?
Is it the king or the thought of the king?
Cold knees of chivalry
brooms for breakfast and a horse
hawk aloft small birds will flee.
Oct 13, 2014 | Uncategorized
Was that a yellow bird that flew across the yard
into the wind it went so not a leaf
now when leaves are yellow? Some bird
unknown, a newfound cave in Celebes
where a woman with a long slim hand
(an Air hand we palmists say) pressed
her hand against the wall forty
thousand years ago and calcite covered it
so we can feel her touch still, long
pinky slender thumb, so prone to love
and art, that other wonder thing.
Was she our mother? Too many
questions I ask, keep asking. Where
are the answers I used to tell?
Oct 12, 2014 | Uncategorized
7.
But am I sure?
Why do I see a crown
idling over her head,
is
she a queen of it
or even more?
Did I hear her first
in the wilderness,
Old
Mill, Murray Hill, Joshua Tree?
The crown persists,
her forehead fits
so this must be the one,
I pull
with all my night
the
stone from the stone
and veer hard
into her royalty.
Because
these stories
live us still.
And not just me.
Oct 11, 2014 | Uncategorized
6.
It meant an island where the rabbits ran.
No island anymore, no bunnies. No wolves
to eat them.
I listened with my eyes
to the words of your journey
on the silent glossophone,
it rang around me, dark as I was,
the
spurs
of words caught in my trouser cuffs.
I am far
away
in place but in spirit a pine tree
nearby lets a single clench of needles on my
table,
here, I’m writing around it,
four needle fingers
on one hand,
I
spread out and count them to make sure.
Oct 10, 2014 | Uncategorized
4.
But um,
the light changed,
her thigh beside you
safe beyond the crevasse of machinery,
her thigh you imagine beside you,
imagine.
Desire
is like a windshield wiper,
comes
and goes,
obliterates
all
that it has seen,
swipes clean.
You have seen
nothing.
No
image left.
5.
So the sea was natural enough
to come to
in its way—
phasellus
a yacht or little sailboat,
by Catullus, young poet frequently marvelous.
Sail away with me she said you thought.
The grammar of analytic languages
perplexes with contingency.
Who said?
Who thought?
We were speaking
we were young,
speaking
something
like Chinese in Coney Island.
Or was it Brighton Beach.
Or
was it raining.
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