Wednesday, August 31, 2011
All she wanted was somebody
who would look her in the eye. Then
one evening as she spindled, clumped,
defied, massaged and spun striated clay,
a blooming creature suddenly
and readily made way, loomed up –
achieved gaze-level height – then
in a trance, advanced: held her in sight –
and ever since they have prolonged
the yearned-for night. Neither one’s
begun to fade: they’re too content
whoever made them made them.
Pygmalion is Galatea: an estuarial
translation of existence and idea –
of chance and fate. Maybe we would
rather meet our maker than our mate.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
It wasn’t long ago
you caught him filching intimacies
from your psyche’s beat-up portmanteau:
that weren’t his.
It ended everything in one
large heart-dissolving fizz.
But now you wonder
if he didn’t have a right
to your light.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
They tell you: light a candle in the darkness –
so you found an old squat Christmas one
in preparation for the possibility that the impending
hurricane might turn your lamps out. You lit
the thing which sputtered as it crackled up
the dust. You tamped it out. Its measly wick
engendered far more smoke than fire. But:
wisps of it seduced the space. Faint wiry tendrils
formed a face. And though it wasn’t quite
your ghost of Christmas Past it helped you recollect
the first and last time you expected holidays
to satisfy. You were seven: sitting on a window seat,
late, twenty-fourth December 1958 – wondering
when you would feel what you supposed
you were supposed to feel. For most of your
ensuing life you blamed your parents that you didn’t.
And now you’re sitting watching smoke evoke
the resignation of a stranger who had long ago
ceased thinking of a manger or a tree or Christianity
when he imagined joy. This made you stringent
with the boy you’d been: you wouldn’t
coddle him. He had to learn he had to make
a story up to conjure glory up. The lesson loomed,
upfront, declarative: the mind must give.
It’s got to find, then live, its narrative.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Inside a private wide and wise repository of epiphanies,
two monks – Ignatius and Alphonse – reside whose light responsibilities
include the gestured passing of a silent code – a mode of messaging
with which, it’s said, the two of them can tell the future – presaging
our destiny with such unerring bright reliability, we’d quake
to see how right they always are. That secret handshake
may conceal, however, even more than Alphonse’ and Ignatius’ pokes
of thumbs in palms convey about our fate. Their fingers tell salacious jokes.
A clue (among more than a few) came from investigating someone’s charge
that every time they meet, the middles of their golden robes grow large.
Friday, August 26, 2011
There’s very little left of him
that isn’t cosseted by –
caught inside –
the swirl and fold of her –
this emanation with which
he can’t not concur.
She knows how to bestir
him into melancholia
whose rich persuasions cast
a vast inarguable spell.
Perhaps not all our guardian
angels guard us well.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Formed of cloud and carrying faint vestiges of sun,
the wonder is how many skeins strained
from attenuations of the rain she’s spun –
this empress of late summer storm
who waits for that exquisite physics
when the air is optimally warm
and palpable to summon a fine violence of weather –
woven into terrifying power from a shower
with the instigating lightness of a feather.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Hot heaven’s charms swarm; harp, horns croon –
far more voluptuous than June –
this blue, blue August afternoon –
whose azure light incites the moon
to gather us for night, to swoon:
invites delight to slow and stay; then go, too soon.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
We’d like to say
we know what's
going on, but
we do not.
What have we got?
could it possibly
avail us to discover?
We must recover.
bolt of lightning
it’s all meant
to amuse. Some
of humor. We
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
In the stricken throes of an expectancy
where exits open up along with ecstasy –
the rumbling imminence of ends
when summer’s swelling sun suspends
all motion in a glowing splurge of heat –
slow dance where nobody can find the beat:
it’s harrowing to see just how extreme
the least sensation can become: a dream
made sweating flesh whose senses reel:
wherein each fiber can be made to feel.
How can this blasted blessing not survive?
Late August comes excessively alive.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The next time you creep naked through
the underbrush at midnight with a pet,
shush yourself: inhabit hush: investigate
the wealth of stealth: imagine you are
after prey: your animal already will react
this way – take heed of her wise lead: try
to get a bead on what’s disseminating
scent, or scratching in the dirt, or whirring
in the air, or otherwise emitting faint
and subtle evidence that it is there.
Monday, August 15, 2011
What blunders out at first
so foolishly, soon wakes you up;
creates, then slakes, a thirst for more.
How we ache
Today I hopped the fence to knock upon a random door which opened
to let pour the deluge of a water realm – an oligarchy at its helm
of multi-featured creatures who appeared adept at running everything.
I saw no reason to object: I’m now their willing, loyal subject –
undergoing an amphibious corrective rigorous
Which I will do, that is, till I decide to skew the works and surface
to the shore to knock upon another door to jerk into another realm
that more befits my endlessly mutating station.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
awaiting signs –
triggered to pursue your next
unprecedented moment –
whose aperture they’ll dart into
and alchemize –
to bump you
to another size.
The instant that you pivot
they’ll be at your side
like spies –
to plunder wonder:
over – over –
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Oh, not the brute mechanics – though they can be a pain.More the undermining, overweaning ego-ridden strain of trying
everything you can not to appear the least bit plain. Birdies know
they’ve got to grow the plumage to attain the prize: so muchis aimed at eyes. The urge to propagate is strong enough to foster
wonderfully erotic lies: stiletto heels, for instance, can show off
with irresistible appeal the calves and butt and thighs: as if
the woman they prop up held an unending promise of lascivious
surprise – ever on the make. But then arrives the ache.
That he’s eschewed habiliments –
that he, prevailingly, is blue
as well as nude – that he plays
Chopin, Franck and Bach etudes
with tiny pinkish hands, his mood
subdued to shrewd insouciance:
an un-abating offhand attitude – that
little pyramidal horns of hair adorn his
pate, and drooping straight mustachios
extrude like Fu Manchu’s – isn’t news.
Look: he’ll profligately give you views.
One wonders, though, what
unseen light or fright ignites
his fuse. What does he do because
he has to? What does he choose?
Thursday, August 11, 2011
It’s strange to find someone who’s interested –
who sits there listening and asking questions
that make sense. You think it’s what you want.
Perhaps it is. But it’s as if what you create
in the exchange is something quite apart
from either of you – conjuring new possibilities
proceeding from a curiosity which doubles from
this doubling of attention you both pay to it –
bringing new intensity to what comparatively
small and separate propensities for passionate
investigation you had each once known alone –
you stumble into realms that don’t quite
seem your own. To accept that there’s an Other
means to find out there’s another way of seeing,
which has eruptively immediate effect on
your experience of Being. You risk dissolving
both of you – in scintillating existential fizz.
You think it’s what you want. Perhaps it is.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
It isn’t that they didn’t know the orange pen was magic – or that
behind the curtain of pelagic blue that certain seas of mystery
accrue it couldn’t conjure up a tragicomic aperçu or two.
Oh, they had summoned up more than a few. But nothing like this
shady and degraded lady ever dared before to barge so largely
and so rudely into view. What else would blunder through?
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Today we’ll tackle form –
grapple with its superimpositions
and the swarm of specious unities
it warms and prods us to accept –
its crazy-goose modalities –
inept realities – its sleight-of-hand –
the precious little evidence it grants
for what we think we’re sure
we understand – and which it seems
to think sufficient to remand us
gracefully to Fate: well, here’s
the deal: intending to, I’ve dropped
a lot of weight – there is a hole
as big as Henry Moore inside me:
I am light as all inconstancy;
I’ve shifted to another shape.
Its contours quake: they do not
know yet if they’re fake.
Monday, August 8, 2011
You’d lay your cards out on the table
but you haven’t any cards.
Bad economic news bombards.
Something seems about
to smash the world to shards.
You’re un-persuaded anybody’s able
to resuscitate tomorrow.
Nobody will lend or borrow.
But sit with friends and pout.
There’s camaraderie in sorrow.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Sometimes, when August’s
humid humors stun
you with their heaviest
experience of sun,
and everything feels done,
and you discover you’re
the one the Universe
finds wonderful, you find
you cannot quarrel
with its dispensation:
in the volupté of perspiration,
you embrace it as appropriate
and dutiful to understand,
as deeply as you can,
that you are beautiful.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Where do I end up
and you begin? What is out
and what is in? Are we a random
wanton glut of quantum
probabilities? Are we in a rut
of DNA-decreed explicabilities –
predictable as prison life:
trapped in our impermeable cells?
Are the rife and ardent swells
of love we’ve felt significant
beyond hormonal flush – involuntary rush
and belt of moan and squeal
and capillaries filling with reflexive zeal
and bodily inconstancy?
Can you know me?
Can I know you? What is true?
Does it matter?
Thursday, August 4, 2011
We can’t know what travails assail.
Sentient beings obfuscate. Unfamiliar
perfumes may arrest: leave trails;
eyes may hint at lies – and sometimes
there is no surprise: nothing urgent
seems to stir beyond the breathing shape
of general expectancy. But oh! – detect
the mission underneath the skin: the thing
we don’t know, burbling a decision
from within – watch the apparatus
of a driven body come to life and undergo
the friction and the fission of intention –
move a little closer to the darkness
or the light: dramas idle, then burn bright –
if virtually out of sight. Let’s sidle down
the street: imagine what we’ll meet.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?
No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,
But by reflection, by some other things.
act 1, sc II, “Julius Caesar,” Shakespeare
The face comes first, as if to test its welcome –
knowing it is prey to half-delighted, half-impatient,
volatile analysis too tumbled inward to be trusted
past a few quick hints of instinct: but the face comes,
burrows in, as it knows how, as it’s allowed, to find
a place to settle in and look back – at and out.
The words come now, sometimes un-vexed –
sometimes perplexed – at having yet again to wed
another medium whose rules make fools of anything
not it. But words are used to fumbling, and their
stumbling sometimes makes a nice distraction, opens
like a lotus, now and then attracts the face’s notice –
before inevitably it looks back – at, out – unnervingly.
It seems so absolutely sure it ought to be. Meanwhile
everything acquires style – held up backward to the light,
it shows me where to make corrections. Words
make more and more of their procedural inspections
until finally the whole morass is past redeeming.
Seeming's done, wad is shot.
What have I got?
Something that looks back at me.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Circumlocutionary curvilinearities –
repeat that six times fast,
and if you last,
you may soon grow to know
that spouting broad syllabic
curves resembling art nouveau
can put you in an irresistible
benignant flow of imperturbability,
where all the Universe appears to be
an elegantly rolling ride,
a rhythmic glide through
mild wide distractions – smooth
enactions of the meaningless –
leaning less to shore
than to a vast accumulating
More where nothing ends.
There’s something to be said
for swells and bends.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Symbiosis is a fine pragmatic way to organize affections.
Friendships based on shared necessities
know few defections:
each acquires something: each fulfills a lack.
Take this multi-colored pliant giant
with the monkey on his back.
One is small and skinny, one is large and fat.
Come to think, they don’t need anything from one another.
Well, friendship also can be that.