Feb 12, 2015 | Uncategorized
202.
Could I have heard another when I
thought was now
leave every I out and see what it
means
real presence split the log he is
there
drink salvation from an empty glass
too many voices for so few words
we suffer from the vice of versa
they marched into battle with The
World Turned Upside Down
revolution only benefits the
landlords old or new
would she kiss the icon of a
commissar?
at some point or no point it will get
tired of me
then what will you do
not even the wind in your ears?
203.
Starting and stopping is the same as
love
properties of archaic Tocharian
guide me grammar through the spiel of
trees
obscure selvedge of a vast weave
a carpet made of sand
flowers half faded dinky here and
there
your footsteps rearrange the floor
walking and talking like a blessed
Greek
they didn’t know how lucky they were
pagans are the only ones left
laughing
after the grimoire of the bank
accounts
the Grand Guignol of local government.
Feb 10, 2015 | Uncategorized
200.
Don’t put up more signs
I hear them hammer their stakes in
for sale signs by the frightened
houses
how poignant to move among the living
how her body leaps to welcome
circumstance
word the editor put in place of ‘God’
haunted by temple friezes a harlot in
heaven
noble souls entrusted to my care
catch a reflection of the rising sun
outline with pencil the shadows of
the leaves R.H.
till all the trees are written down
then sleep beside it till the rooster
crows.
201.
I hear him over the hill or is that
the sun in my eyes
a picture long enough to wrap around
your waist
and go romancing in an old book
slippery pavement on the road to
Neaux
in this cicada year the moon says
less
moon no bigger than a mosquito
moon buzzing in my eyes
till the cock crowed and here I am
cicadas fuguing with the buzz-buzz in
my ears
with one hypnotic pass I wake me up
look Robert there are days inside the
day
the birds are gone but the sky is
still there.
Feb 9, 2015 | Uncategorized
The only thing that can’t go on is
going on
every perceptual quantum begins it
all again
only the qualia sometimes linger
o Abelard o quanta qualia
the golden sabbaths of the wounded
heart
wanting to know how to make it go
don’t let the children come in
all birds belong to you and fish are
mine
pale wild-eyed ones swimming in my
cavern
we who walk along the ground the
strangest are
misshapen by desire bent over a bad
book
our whole lives pictured there in
code.
199.
Muybridge photos of a breaking heart
a daffodil in haste a monkey in a
window
a dreary paper they call The Daily
Olds
deer are watching from the new-ground
woods
how many years have they been here
looking, crashing into our cars,
waiting for something
waiting for us to do something about
ourselves
units of intelligent remorse
all the broken answers
war is never an option war is never
bring me your hand to hold at least
the old man’s sword used to cut
bread.
Feb 8, 2015 | Uncategorized
196.
How heavy the weight of blank paper
carried all my life in blunt
photography
spiritual effluent of Eusapia
Palladino
the crux of psychic plausibility
does all this light come out of one
woman’s body
is there any other source for
splendor in the world
om tare tutare ture soha
she is sixteen still green in the
ways of men
and she alone can save us from
calamity
or tell us who can
listen to the green girl at last
the ever-virgin the truth the wisdom
sleeps beside me.
197.
As if in mime an elegant body told
the whole story from grass to
cathédrale
innumerable declensions of her single
noun
the dancer absolute
so the mild persistent taste of
moving anywhere
from lawn to grass again the poor
smell of money too
we live in poverty we shadows of some
great wealth
the potentates whose kingdoms fit in
their wallets
they rule the world but we could too
as this lone dancer springs up from
the sounding floor
and with a single swerve of movement
changes space forever in the way we
see.
Feb 7, 2015 | Uncategorized
193.
The stones begin to speak now
tell me all I know
long ago but all too close the pines
whose house is that with one light
showing
I dug a well where no water was
I built a staircase down to solid
rock
no root cellar no smell of winter
apples
spread the table with no cloth
on each empty plate a spoon of dust
don’t waste the fuel of breath on
flames
sit quiet with the shivered memories
of your life
now you can do nothing but listen and
no one speaks.
195.
Posthuman is to be beyond desire
to want no more than wood does
standing in the sunlight in the snow
making more of us by being so
and those stones know us too
one day calcium will have a voice
garnet in the Adirondacks speak
red wisdom to the risen poor
be enough the other side to be!
this is politics the throb of music
Bartok Beethoven Bruckner Bach.
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