Tuesday, August 22, 2017

In Calumniator Green

He travels in a fine ceramic carriage,
freshly painted as if just this afternoon dowsed

in calumniator green, after a blood-red shower.
He wouldn’t tell us where we were,

Perhaps he lacked the power of speech.
Perhaps he didn’t know.

But he wasn’t out of reach.
He blinked as if to say, “come on, let’s go.”

And go we climbed into his
car and did. And now we’re gone.

As far as we can make it out, we’re somewhere
in the kind of Dark that just precedes the Dawn.


Sunday, August 20, 2017

Another Verge

Something shrugs inside you: tugs at you
to draw yourself. You aren’t very good at that,
but acquiescently your pencil dips itself
and what capacities it’s got to stipple, jot
and lyricize into your folderol – and something,

after many careful minutes, slowly forms itself
upon the page. Mildly smiling, not unhappily
(perhaps because he knows the paper’s
acid-free), he wakes and sighs. You blink,
surprised: it isn’t you but doesn’t have to be

for you to like it. And you do! Canopied in chaos,
sticky with the chthonic mud from which
you wish you could have watched him 
with a liquid “plop” emerge, he’s clearly here
to bring you to another verge. And oh, you’ll go.


Wednesday, August 16, 2017

This Noetic Lustrous Fuss

Everything's a poem. Poems
are the DNA of being. I grabbed
a handful of the stuff today
but it was so beyond enough

that I was forced to let it go
and send it fleeing. So many
syllables in throes of numinosity!
Today I watched as tasteful

consonants and vowels became
a graceful ABCB rhyme-schemed
tree – others coalesced into iambic
stresses which, if pressed, I’d

have to say looked not completely
unlike me, before they morphed
into two milkmaids who, when
they put on their bonnets, creamily

churned into terza rima sonnets.
That all is made of poetry becomes
quite something for a creature
just discovering the fact to see.

At every turn we learn we always
always face the hiss and crack
of this noetic lustrous fuss that
makes, and is made up of, us.


Tuesday, August 15, 2017

Obfuscatory Peroration on Red Grapes

In the course of eating red grapes
one has frequent occasion to notice
presumably unintended esthetically pleasing
configurations of the bunched fruits appearing
at unpredictable intervals which attain
to the condition of Art. I see it as a main task
remaining to me in these last two or three decades
allotted to me of life to make what record I can

of these happy accidents and to report on them
in an ever-increasingly baroque syntax
and involutedly nuanced timbre, tone & manner
so that as we proceed the contrast
between the evermore impenetrable
and the frankly accessible indeed by comparison
simple beauty of the revealed grapes will act

to frame them so ornately that we shan't be able
to see them as anything but the unforced paradigms
of a new category of organic allure so astonishing
in impact that we shall have to alter the way
we think and to investigate heretofore unquestioned
assumptions about who and/or what
allows creation at this elevated level to transpire
which will prepare us to examine the likelihood

that what we imagined to be evidence
of agency or intention may not after all be more
than an obfuscatory psychic ploy to distract us
from the real event whose methods & effects
do not remotely follow any system of production
we have ever known. I would continue like this
till the grapes and all trace of the space
I take up are entirely gone.



Monday, August 14, 2017

Aristocracy of Spirit

Back when I was a cricket cricketeering
chirrup cheer-up chirrup!
I assumed in insectival innocence
an inner sense that there exists an aristocracy

which has no truck with densities of provenance
or centuries of family or fancy balls or noses
held up in disdain, to which the best souls
in the cosmos gladly train their hearts

and heads to pledge allegiance:
an aristocracy of spirit. You know it
when you’re near it. You recognize its members
when you are a member, too: there is no surer

proof of who is in this special realm.
No one’s lording her or his good fortune
over anyone who doesn’t have it; in fact,
quite otherwise: you subtly influence those souls

who never knew that in their deepest being
they belonged: and then, as when
I was a little cricket, suddenly they did.
The aristocracy of spirit blew its lid too long ago

for anyone to have the barest notion
of its genesis. But when the sis-boom-bah of it
resumes its generous hooray, attracting
every soul its way, we lose our thirst for herstory

and history. If we were a church, we’d be
the clerestory: windows looking out onto the sky.
Although thank heavens (if that’s whom to thank)
we’re not a church: that would be a lie.

The aristocracy of spirit likes to undermine
all solemn premises and tends when
in the presence of a vaulted arch to lurch away
and out into the bright and unimpeded day.

Unless it’s cloisonné.
Spiritual aristocrats
(why we cannot say)
slaver over cloisonné.


Saturday, August 12, 2017

Plus It Had a Funny Smell

I used to laze about in Xanadu
and ask what there was damn to do
in Xanadu
and found there wasn’t damn to do.

Xanadu was not so swell.
Plus it had a funny smell.
And so I called someone in Personnel
to tell

me what was what. “We need to spell
it out? Xanadu is hell.”
At least, at last, some bell

rang true
about this stinking boring Xanadu.
Then I thought: so what? – and pew!
How much does that help me or you?

Got the scent, the view, the crux.
Eternal acid reflux.
Stuck here till it self-destructs.
Which it will never do. That sucks.


Friday, August 11, 2017

Affectionate Contrivances

Whenever she bends over he performs a standing leap
up from the floor and gently lands upon her spine.
She doesn’t mind him there. He’s as light as air and she
enjoys him; he has a predilection for the warm affection
with which she provides him transport, so it’s fine.

Last night she dreamed of being interviewed by Charlie
Rose about their bond – what made it so absorbing
and enlighteningly fond. The tv lights were hot and bright.
“What do you do to get along?” asked Charlie Rose.

“We traffic in affectionate contrivances,” she said,
as she’d rehearsed the line. But no, that was all wrong,
that labored coyness; it niggled in her spine. But she’d
no other to supply. Charlie smiled and said goodbye.

Abashed that she agreed to being questioned on tv, she
woke and rose up from her pillows – when like a breeze
through Weeping Willows, her companion leapt back up
onto her back and filled again whatever lack she might
have thought she’d had. With him, she’s never sad.