Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Perhaps in Search of You


If the world were always sexual –
and let’s decide it is today –
then it must be much like
the raven-haired improbably fleet
lean young dancer whom I saw this
morning on the subway – keen black

irises and alabaster skin and ebon
eyebrows like two painted wings –
Egyptian iconography made blood-
warm flesh: the world would dip as
freshly, deeply, gracefully as the plié
with which he entertained his rush-hour

audience astride a silver pole
obligingly provided by the MTA:
it would play the role he played
as he engaged my eyes as we got off
our ride at Twenty-Third Street –
and I told him how delightfully I thought

he’d danced for us – and he asked
in accents of some middle-eastern
country I could not decipher
what I did – and I forbade myself
to answer that my occupation was
to linger full to brimming everywhere

to find such finds as him – so I just
smiled as he stood waiting for a cue –
which I denied him: ah, New York!
I knew of course I had to minister instead
to you. Meanwhile I sighed to watch him
glide away – perhaps in search of you.


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Monday, February 20, 2017

The Bible They Wrote that No One Has Read


Long after the Serpent had transmogrified
into something that looked like a man – but not
yet what he would conceive on his ride to
the Devil we know would be damned – he was
yellowish, brown-haired, and bore piercing eyes,
and otherwise seemed far less evil than wise. 

Long after Adam lost interest in Eve, by the time
she’d become a thrice-over grandmother,
he wandered off daily to murmur the yearnings
he’d long since accepted would never be heard.
While Adam pined after one thing or another,
Eve found her companionship elsewhere.

The damned simulacrum of man-not-yet-devil
had caused Eve to dream and believe again.
It’s not that they talked; no, they walked and they
paused and they walked and they paused,
and between them arrived at the conscious
awareness that each was the other’s deliverance.

It was love mixed with reverence: quite like
the solemn gestalt of a Protestant church which
of course wouldn’t lurch into being for eons.
Eve called him Leon; he took her in hand
and she took him to bed and the rest you can find
in the Bible they wrote but that no one has read.


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The Trick


What is the provenance of you?
Were you ladled steaming out of hydro-carbon stew into a cradle?
Or did you pop into all this from the abyss – with the hiss

that frozen words-made-flesh, fresh from frigid nothingness,
must make when they encounter air?
And who are those two, looking at us with reluctance?

Is she the other’s mother? What meanings ought we to inductively
construe about their purple-orange hair – what do the changeful
hues of what they wear suggest about why we are here

and they are there? What is their news? What is news?
What is elemental? Points-of-view we take as sentimental
often are the ones we like the best.

They stir us into place: let us rest in their embrace.
Mommy loves her daughter or her son;
her daughter or her son loves her.

Unless it isn’t mommy but a metallurgic engineer, costumed
like Jane Eyre, to whom her wild suspicious lover, shorter
than a child, menacingly clings, waiting for us to advance.

Unless they’re what they least inarguably are – like us,
the chance detritus from a shattered star. But let’s not carp
or wail. Let’s opt for points-of-view that tell a gladsome tale.

There! That was satisfying,
wasn’t it? Doesn’t that regale?
It doesn’t, does it.


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Sunday, February 19, 2017

Some Sunday Mornings


Some Sunday mornings find you waking
undermined – as if Existence were a thief, taking
from you every last belief. Suddenly you know:
all that you’d relied on for relief just isn’t so.

Surely this impurity would pass,
reflexively, like gas,
or vertigo.
But no.

The best that you can make of anything
can’t bring
more than the supposition
that another wave of superstition

would wash over you just like the last one did: repair
another of your raveled sleeves of care
and once again deliver you into an indefatigably new
persuasive view of The Self-Evidently True –

a swift eleventh hour save
from this abyss, this gaping grave
of a calamity, this precipice –
into another reassuring prejudice –

to tell you all is well
again.
and you are not in hell
again.



Saturday, February 18, 2017

Schooled to be Promiscuous


As I half-wake into the confines of my bed, forsaking
sleep to meet the mandate of the dawn - ritually
microwaving coffee I made yesterday - obediently
padding to the toilet to release the pee backed up
in me since sometime just before the hour of three -

within a gathering complexity of other organized
attempts to stay and stem what I am evidently sure
would otherwise be psychic mayhem - some spirit
like Rapunzel sits inside a little room atop the buttressed
thick-brick locked-up tower of my head, and waits.

She knows for all the gates and barriers I put around her
she will get her kiss. Some rogue she's never met will
find an opening that I have missed through which
she can let drop the golden braid of her deliverance.
Schooled to be promiscuous, she's gotten used to this.


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Thursday, February 16, 2017

Another Theory


Comic verse, mildly cursed – armed with the grace
and alarm of quantum space but – lacking backing: lived
by reflex – impulse – born in anxious memory – raveling
woolly thought, mesh of fuzz, timorous cranial buzz:

countering doubt with lust – to eat, perchance (at last!)
to beat insomnia – or fuck – or otherwise go after luckless
dancing bank clerks in the dark – sharks in the deep:
to whom do we owe what? Seeping radioactive bits,

or floating about like senseless twits, entirely sure they’ll
last, some heedless souls appear to know what’s going on
behind the show put on between the future and the past –
and somehow grasp from that what we ought all pursue.

You long ago stopped wondering if they do.




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Nirvana & the Void




Nirvana doesn't keep you
from the void.
It puts you in it,
unalloyed.





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