Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Pygmalion

Alone: the clay and I. Aching for
solace, for companionship, I take the
muddy matter in my palms and, playful,
create. But soon, like all art and like all

Artists, the formless mass takes form, breathing
life through lifeless lungs, animating nostrils;
I can only watch--dumbstruck, mute. It is
a sadness far older than the earth that

All created must transcend the flawlessness
of imagination, dying in the
very instant of its birth. Through just such
deceit we are conned to try once more: And

while my mind will sculpt the perfect woman
My hands shall craft the perfect whore.

Cronos

As a day-old phoenix immersing himself
in the lake he finds immortality
through no ashes (knowing, as he does, the
future as the hunted knows his hunter).

Exaltation at worst is the perhaps
prolonging of an ill-begotten status
quo: so future is devoured by hungry
past like vomit to its dog and all leaves

ground to a nurturing, deadly sod, sons
to so digest and decompose. Do not
think me filthy--I weep for what I do.
And do not find me gluttonous: my teeth

cringe, grit, spitting, endlessly loving their
begottens as we fear them all the more.

Event Horizon

it is called an event horizon,
that decision to become one with the
inwardly absorbed, secretively unlightened and
vacuously coy mystery,
but just what transpires when the pencil-like
shuttle submerges, surrendering submissively
to the deepest of most unseen chasms and
mating with the blackness
is any physicist's guess.

perhaps it is welcomed into the
hidden club of the gods, where only
the courageous are angels,
or maybe, in some far solar system,
a new daisy emerges.
it is possible that the hungry emptiness,
appeased, returns her lovers' generosity
with giftful creation, and the two
enter together a mutually birthed
dimension, in which
the mortality of senses stays
completed by a more celestial everlastingness--
or does the swallowing extend,
contagious, and the fevered astronauts
implosively consume themselves in a
frantic killing search for
an unfindable
core within a core?

it is unknown, for of all travelable
distances this allure remains
only ungraced by any sufficiently
brave or brainless Columbus;
"cats are killed by this," they each explain
through foot shufflings, "far more frequently
than continents are found."

Monday, January 14, 2008

Sisyphus

it's not that i am without memory, or
stupidly optimistic--all yesterdays i've known
appear identical, symmetrical, when organized
by thought into rows and columns, and
with such dependable monotony i abandoned
any tomorrow-ridden expectations by week
one.

no, that is not at all it. rather, as spent-
years have worn all the natural bouldery
crevices spherical, and carved a niche quite
particular in this acted-upon hillside, so hope
and failure have become as perfect--linear and
smooth--as any other merely gravitational
tumbling, devoid of tops or bottoms.

at each dawn's most initial tolling i know the
journey will recommence, with a most spiteful
lack of recognition, that any single progression
will unerringly be rendered void.
but i continue, nevertheless, each day--for
there is something untellably wonderful in the
thinning, however-fleeting air.

Would

would i could muster all the ingeniousness
necessary to master the dizzied mechanations
of your so often distant soul;
to learn a simple clocklike learning
(i always was adept as a pupil)
so that i might pop you open at
any given hour--examine you,
tinker you to feel restored, to
help you function in the ways you like best,
in the ways you were designed,
a diagnosis as perfectly solvable as
an enormous cloud-green nebula or an
uncertain oyster coerved into openness.
(or perhaps you yourself, like
myself, have only a transparent grasping of
that very bone-ridden, most skeletal of
keys, capable only of unrusting your three
decayed rib-hinges. if
this is so, i'm sorry: foolish though it is, i know,
to try to withhold the wishfully redemptive
wetness from my bagged, browbeaten lids is
more saneless than a net seeking to catch the
sea--but i will try; for i would not
more than all, my most submerged friend,
corrode you further.)

The Edge Of The Universe, Part 2 (Or: Sketches of Yuri Gargarin)

when one is amidst the quietly immobile chaos
of the stars, it is hard not to feel
expansion.
as space extends into, i suppose, spacelessness,
an inverse motion plummets through the
increasing deepness of my bones,
and i become a mediator, spokesperson,
unspeaking median between the smallest of perhaps
multiple universes and the widest, or broadest
unseen microcosmal wonders.
floating like a sea turtle in this easy, heartfelt
growing, my ungodly mind cannot help but consider
some rubbery limit, find out a place
wherein place ends, when widening becomes
contracting--or bursting--and order is
made violence.
but with each new stretching of thought
this strain loses all tautness, and
the newly-encompassed terrain encloses,
gently, with a shaking head and loving,
downturned eyes,
the fencings of my mortal doubts.

Things Not In Us

there are things not in us, but
in that space which is
between, or around, above-beneath us,
things
that are not measured
or even detectable by any thing
which we can call a sense--
only they are sensed, we feel, by
something
far more beautiful or more buried
than
any sensing; they are scented in the
quiet pale-gray stillness of a
sunlessly
murmuring tree-speaker,
when we are most comfortably
alone.
if there is a God (as i
believe), perhaps these All are
Him, and our
deepest of prayers not so much uttered
as rather seen
by the eyes behind our eyes.

Mirror

few ever truly see into your face,
gazing beneath its surfaces like spelunking
lovers, seeking out truths with a
discontent reserved only for those who see
flattery as merely
many incomplete, half-believed
byways;
you reflect lovingly, gently, knowing
what can be bourne and not and duplicating
that which is presented you
even as it is duplicated back unto (deeply focused,
like infinity) to propagate
an endless race of emptiness
if the seer so chooses--
you know that
youth is in the eye of the lifelessly gaunt
beholder,
just as the child is first to see the beauties
of a wrinkle.

David

Beloved of God,
how like a giant you have
fallen,
how trembling the moment
when your knees sunk
and you grew
shrouded in dust,
it curling about you like
a thread,
singing mournful
a sacred graveside hymn of
you,
O shepherd, now missing from
the flock.

Jonah

I
am
swallowed
up in my faithlessness,
preserved
by God from
fishy stomach acids to
even more stingingly rediscover
my own undead
decayal--
filthier even than any
fly-beckoned
rot.
The stagnance repels me.
Surrounded by black,
startled by
an underneath blackness inside
the inside which I
have kept so unfrighteningly
distracted. Even
my face has now
grown buried and without light:
bearded.
When nothing else is
but a moist and gaping mouth
there is no longer any escaping
one's
selfness--
and the sea is nowhere near so
drowning as the sin which fills
my lungs:
Forgive me, Father. Resurrect me
from my bellied tomb that I may
praise thee longer,
save me that I may God-like
saves
make this drowning baptism.

The Man With No Name, 1887

Lawless justice, orphan pilgrim
in a land more scorched than an
easy-snapped twig.
And just as black.
Open to the highest bidder:
a country whored,
in the prairie a dog and piano.
Losing what they contain
the fences spread
and seek to encroach upon even
more ruthless terrain;
the man who loves trails
scatters courteous
and frightened,
like a fly to more
dung
till both he and his land
die, drained and starved.

The Trapeze Drummer Inside Me

the trapeze drummer inside me
says that time for sparks are past--
that any fire so suddenly ignited
will with equal brevity fade to
ash before even it touches
earth;
no, he urges, better to seek out
heavy logs, the tinder, only
laced with softly-aired kindling.
a burning such as this may
last both day and night, until even
the next.
and when its flame is ebbed,
(its embers hopeless),
that smoke which remains may
yet act as a guide, or kind of signal,
directing the help-bent
rescuers hither
and yon,
into the dusty friendly flooring
where the trembling traveller
lies.

Fireworks

Each of our tiny communities has been
packaged very strategically together
for optimum individual
performances

by many glasses-wearing Japanese.
My neighbors and myself
were specified for our uniquely
deeply different indifferences,
for our reactions, for sulfurous yellows.

We each now keep to ourselves
(reading books, doing crosswords),
knowing the altogether dangerousness
were our paths to ever more fully
cross,

understanding that all it would take is
one single quite unintentional spark
to ignite our destructively latent
energies and bring about a

breakable immediately excitable expansion
and sudden, deathly-cooled
apocalypse.

The Actress

each seven-thirty evening i
return unto existence,
rather like a phoenix.
endowed with identity;
masked, costumed, plumed
to lift me out of dull
obscurity.
behind the curtain i am
fetal, as though
with its rise i shall pass
from dark canals
into bloody, sobbing
life,
and each disposable day
endured
for what these
two hours bring--
between my pregnant mother
curtain's womb,
and before its falling felt
is lowered
like a mossy earthbound
coffin.

The Admirer

the greatest of unresolved anticipations
is reserved for the admirer of the actress,
who will always in his own mind
be unbilled casting director,
as though this woman had quite
unintentionally become lost amidst a plywood
kingdom and found herself reciting beneath
footlights like some nameless,
crumbless Gretal,
and he her unsung hunstman,
for whom the play itself is but
a nightly offering, some long prolonged
overture to a most resplendant climax,
a tuneless triumphant aria when this
goddess muse
appears in all her naked splendor over
a rumbling timpani of many-handed acclaim,
roses flung like cymbals from
the encore of his mind--
and he
to relive this moment ceaselessly
through darkness of day
until the next night's
sixpence moonshine.

The Spring

and still i smell the spring,
that scent of sunlight particles
and still-cold embryonic buds,
with closed eyes and
expansive nostrils,
smelling like sighing.

it is in the air there, dodging
between the
now-willess leaves, old, their
crackling skin barely concealing
veins,
browned with age like a
photograph or manuscript,
as if coffee-stained themselves,
existing in the space
between snowflakes, lending
understanding
to the chill, reminding us
of the great labour pains
of death;

it sings even now, i will testify,
that reborn breeze:
even (and perhaps especially)
the sledders
move through it,
and their mittens bear witness.

JC Penney

it is curious, the
shop clerk notes,
how the young child

longs so without a
motive to be orphaned,
how he ambles

with delicate gracelessness
and comically-proportioned
toddlings, too big

for his own legs
into the mystic blue
haven of a
clothing rack.

each carefully-priced and
cleverly-tailored velvety
concoction is

one more enchanted elm
demon, to be chopped
and sawed through, barely

emerging, the flashing
red battery power of
shoes

very nearly giving the slip
and signalling the
wayward prodigal to

that which he fears
most: the prison
he flees to

be issued an even
stricter sentence,
that worried care and

fleeting fury
(strangely comforting)
the incarceration of
a frantically relieved and
motherly embrace.

Sailor's Song

The yellow-bellied
blue-hearted sailor wishes he could
live docked. He'd give his right tattoo
to be happy without the ever-impending
seasickness, even to
exist without a flirtatiously hair mussing
wind loved by both seaman and
landlubber alike, if only
it meant
that for just one oceanic turn of the earth
he did not feel obligated to drift
or
to banish stillness,
and could instead feel fully lit
and equally exhilarated,
still breeze-tossed,
merely
washing dishes.

Forgotten Doll

Quarantined by the riverbed
the discarded China doll
strives amid reeds to
be ladylike, to let
inquisitive toads know that she,
she is somehow loftier,
lighter, more smooth and reflective
than even the river,
more immobile and less
prone to moss.
She will not let a tear
stain
her perfect complexion--
it is her cold dryness
which keeps her distinct in this
foreign land;
to succumb would be
to admit the inadmissable--
so there she will lay
with forever pursed
raspberry lips
until she is covered and assimilated,
till time
most mighty and most merciless
camouflages this doll
(as all dolls)
from passing amphibians.

Gentle Apocalypse

there was a curious peace,
a transcendence of faith
which occurred
possibly in my bloodstream
as i stood overlooking
the valley flooded in
heaving molten.

the eruption's initial response
had been one of awe and
even cheers--
i alone seemed to recognize
at once
the ending which the smoking
bowels
heralded.

but somehow this knowledge
perfected the hours
between now and then;
when i tried unsuccessfully
to reach my loved ones
through liquified wires
(disconnected or no longer in use)
i was not sorry, only
counting the hours before our
exalted reunion,
purified in fire.

and as i and others--strangers, all--
mounted higher with the gradually
rising tide,
the red ocean seemed to bubble
not out of malice, or even
menace,
but merely with the messenger's
bittersweet acceptance.

four hours, by my guess,
until i meet my God.

Frames

It is unbearable when
dark windows meet you at silent home,
and not even the tawny owl
notices its greeting.
Drawn curtains are their own fences;
he who lives inside a barricade,
surrounding it with furnishings and
empty sounds to disguise
will always be the last to notice
desolation, always the first to be apart
of it.
Outside, awake, the owl cooes
softly and wisely to his undisciplined
pupils,
lurking in treeshadows, skeltering,
imparting
the wisdom of a forest nightfall.
For only owls know that
frames do not a portrait make.

Spider With The Power Out

when the electricity snapped,
pulled like a string past its
breaking point,
along with the somewhat comical puff of smoke
there came a cloud of vision, or
an apparition with the density of a pillow,
and what had moments prior,
bathed in unflattering tungsten,
filled me with a killer's primitive compulsion,
now in darkness (like,
I thought, some pre-Edison mentor)
bade me unhinge these
toilet paperish plottings and
instead
meditate on a Creator so distant,
so distinct,
His Kolob too divine for any possible
planetarium,
that He sought expressive perfection in this
eight-legged gravel creature that I,
in my own dogged naivete,
had found merely a nuisance.

Forty Days and Forty Nights

like an image from a newsreel
the long-chinned, hat-brimmed rabbi
crosses a Manhattan intersection,
looking both ways more times than one
and carrying a splendidly white duck
under one arm,
this man so lost in his hair,
his unexplained, unacknowledged companion
equally homeless--
and one could almost hear in this
ballad of light
the echoing minor laughter lilting
of a clarinet,
its unsteadiness belying an
inherited sorrow,
the weary humility of a Moses,
wandering leader in a wilderness of
street lights.

Each Day Always

corridors rendered in guilt,
hidden in sod,
the crime of touch,
an indecently exposed spirit--
the time signature masks
and orders these sundries
as a God in His
first uncreated heaven,
willing in a ballet of motion--
patches of unorganized
laundry on a line,
slowly passing from
eyelash-bathed abstraction
with the blank purity of
receding dreamtime--
decomposed beings, the rivers
through which they passed--
their wind-trembled roots
grasping with broken fingers,
the heralding branches an
evidenced mitzvah--
and many lives will
thrive on this placental
woodland crypt,
as it unites blues with all the
unkempt exactness
of a water cycle,
defying architecture,
usurping the tide,
and making familiar children
from gravely unspeaking
granite.
each day always
is a resurrection.

The Great Flood

here is where God planted his mightiest seedlings--
clinging with their knotted, unkept muscles to the
anxiously red dirt, rock-encountered and never watered since
that Great Flood which brought them here (not quite
two of every kind, but floatingly scattered, sewn like a
needle over the broken earth,
feeding on her own enraged contours, convictions,
for there is nothing else).

fumbling aggressively towards oppenness,
vegetation in question
has never the ease of horizontal progress,
the pleasures of shade; its
bark bears the sunbaked atrocities of generational pain,
an untold history which would incriminate if he only knew his own
steepedness.

the forest breathes with a heaving mammal's heaviness;
this tree, standing as a lone and thirsty cemetary
unto itself,
wrings the dirt with its struggling claws, his
dried tongue flailing like a broomstick to the
cobwebbed corners of vision.
there is admirable--even envious--strength in this doomed struggle;
not hopefulness, but unaware, opaque endurance, one which
brittles and embitters and
leaves in its wake a monument to the boxing martyr.
the visitors would not have this Babylonian sight
any other way, with its
geometric testaments of cataclysm,
the rust-tarnished scar of an
only superficial healing.

dead things may be admired safely,
if, perhaps, with more effort--
but ease is easily offered when its
offspring is ensured.
the artist with his failing pen is
quick to sketch
branches gnarled and twisted in death.
only the virtuoso and
the newborn
dare face themselves with the
dangerousness,
the overwhelming odds
and the sobbings
of forfeited strife.

Wildfire

the burned land ravaged, a cruel brown with
definite charrings at each crackled tree's
base--blacker than the rest, like a
dry fiery watering, when the
roots are soaked up to their surfaces,
the ground around these dark
demarcations
a splotchy uneven crispness,
each square foot its own personality,
its own courage and tolerance.

such ethical cleansings are needed, says the
park ranger, so that new life may
begin.

scanning, brow-shadowed, the
emptied map of non-surfaces, I
wonder if the seedlings know
through what carnage they come.

Driving Interstate 15

you are receding into the distance
like a powerline
weaving directionally down the
labyrinthine highway
to the mountain,
showing more clear than white
on green how easterly I
am bound.
there is zen in cruise control--
a fixed truck driver distance
as dotted lines, fences, and
listless unmown yellow cow grasses
unfold
like a mystery
or a paragraph,
soliciting the right
foot brake, exit unknown,
a detour without cones or
orange signs,
a valley without a marker.
littered splotches of
tents bespangle the schoolyard;
a Philips 66; S Main Street
1 mile;
long and generous sprinklers
spew in stretched neighborhoods,
divide like a fault line the brambles.
you do not feel divided from me--
no jagged warring plates within my
dashboard--only
behind, as a curious, sad yellow
wildflower which stole the notice,
the turning gaze, the straining neck
of this traveler,
leaving no trace but that
sunspot pupil memory
which fades
like the interstate, the segolily,
singularly each time it is recalled,
from peak before to peak after,
as if the rear views were
turned inwardly by one another,
one towards the other,
reflecting an infinity of roads,
of possible journeyers
like I,
of wheels in a constant rotational
lullabye.
good night,
is the whisper of the
traffic,
good night,
my sweet prince.
the sky is wide before me
like a lake.

Something Behind My Eyes

something behind my eyes
--and what is behind? veins?
darkness? nothing?--
something even more further backward
or inside,
and almost actually behind me
(chronologically also, such that
i grow younger with each successive
moment spent in your
merlin-like
presence of a
meek and ebbing fatigue),
this Unnameable transfigures me with its
otherworldly, pain-ridden sublimity,
and dares with a smile
to retain the sensation one more
whisker,
the holiness, the holocausts,
and suggests it likely that your own
tumbling honesty might well cause my
very slight frame to
collapse,
that the vibrato
which cuts most tenderly through conversation
might, without warning, explode
in tears withheld since
one long ago day on a playground:
all this and more is
how i would embrace you;
doing that which is undone,
unfolding that which is folded.

Lamentation

it is sterile as a doctor's office Newsweek--
floral, stiff upholstery, latex, peppermints, etc.--
that look of unadorned content which
radiates toxically
from between your temperedly gazing eyelids.
a compromise, a lost little girl,
astray in the Clorox-bleach desert
swirling with many unspecified insects,
with scorpions, owls clutching their formerly
furry life-mourning prey, mice
in this thin dry chaos of
cactus and rocks which you
sadly pretend is paradise;
you have a perfectly magnetized compass
(in your sidebag, middle pocket,
neither the smallest nor the largest;
i put it there)
but i note with a helpless anxiety
how you deem yourself too innocent for even
direction.
perhaps a storm of dust will clear your eyes.

The Wedding Ceremony of Foxes

Like angry fists pummeling the soil
retaliated upon by their foe's
impenetrably peaceful stillness
the rain begs anguished, and
her thunder responds with
the dreaded certainty of fish,
as if a sky-tearing
pageant
were also an inversely evaporatory
ocean;
it is in the repentent quiet
between these heavenly tantrums
and the eternally forgiving heal
of re-emerging
softly as a caress
sunlight that foxes make their
cautious way through a
gently sobbing forest,
comforted by the trees' empathetic
drips,
to exchange their secret,
unwitnessably sacred
wedding vows.

Air On An E String

the unscrupulous player will twist my
straining tautness until, with a too-sudden
anticipation, he breaks me dead.

but i must be broken only as a horse:
ever so patiently bended and stretched
by a gentle, limit-comprehensive master
for each refrain's one tuning.

he knows that i may only comply briefly--
a half an hour, perhaps to begin--before
rebelling lazily to my worn, familiar
learnings.

no dog of any age learns immediately,
as any callous-fingered musician
will tell you.

but when his hands, string-like, exercise
a long-suffering felt only in owner and
object, he may, i know, lift my
stubbornest self to more fully-stepped, less
staffed peaks, an altitude where no
instrumentalist even may breathe--

to melodically soar over a wind of skylessly
forgetful, pained months now passed,
a being i both of lowing lows

Medicine Man

This 'un will soon be showing on the local TV station. In the meantime, here's its e-debut.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Robbery

Before we touched the turnable brass of our door
we were as ourselves and our own, as unscathed as
two laughing seafoam virgins.
I should have known by its knobby coldness, by
the ricketful mumbling and the way the door stuck
on a newly-finished house, but I suppose we were too
much whitened or too very filled with dinner even to
consider any suspiciousness.
What was seen next was suddenly, we knew
both, no longer ours we had expectedly and previously
had--the overturned
pillows, one melodramatically slashed
sash,
as if the newly-furnished living room itself was
haunted by some disorganized ghost of a
canine.
And even when the realization did dawn
(dawned more like an eclipse, or a foggishly
disorienting sunset), and when I was put on hold
and the air was filled with your most congesting quiet,
so that I had to open a cracked window pane,
before I spoke through a kind of
repressed sunkenness, pretending to be someone
most other than myself, one who had not felt
taken himself, as if owning
endowed one with its own kind of personness
or respect,
and even days later
when we had, with a listless untalkable solemnity
sorted and tallied all unfindable
evidences of the shared rape--
even then, strangely, I mourned not at all for
those many absented trivialities,
or the stillness which had fallen
on this broken house,
but only
for the unnamed and unnamable
man (who appears to me gray and moustached
when he appears; average) I never will know,
with a world-wearying accumulation,
offering others' thin materials on some
desperately pagan altar,
both thief and victim, unknowingly losing himself in
his poignant, childish plight for gain.

Central Park

homelessly and breadless is the day i
spend horizontal in Central Park, keeping
time inefficiently by my whiskers
and forgetting (or never knowing) the

day like a wanderer, each morning
bringing with its eyelid-penetrating sun
also a likelihood of starvation;
if not starvation then freezing (in winter)

or heat stroke (spring, summer). i could never
read. i watch billboards and stifled faces,
each so wildly opposite they soon become
one face. and at my next dawning I shall wake

again, and something move within me as
a statue scattering pigeons, for each
day newly given from God i am blessed
with an unearned sufficiency of

manna.

Crossword Puzzle

intersecting and cross-
sectioning, i do not know if this is a
window or a sewer we tread, a rail or a street
light: horizontal and vertical lose all
meanings when they so mesh. “to abstain”
quite seamlessly becomes “co-star of 1951’s
The African Queen,” and any compass
worth its poles is made a merely trifled
jest.

this geometry is dizzying to one so easily
trenched in boxes, most clearly delineated,
most fluidly together, and for a time
it seems i cannot escape this black-and-white
labyrinth of mine and Will Shortz’s own
feeble construction—until, of course,
tomorrow’s morning paper.

Sparrow's Evening Song

the bearded, moth-winged
man smells of summer and
doesn’t know no socks

as he rides on his long
faced fuzzy mongrel up towards
the pinkness of a

dusky mountain horizon,
overcoat flailing behind
as a banner,

announcing the return in
every young bosom of
grassy lyings and longings

to be with, to be long,
to free another, one’s
self,

and those who pause
in this venus hour
and hear my song will know

there is no sweeter darkness
than a moonful rise in
June.

Event Horizon

it is called an event horizon,
that decision to become one with the
inwardly absorbed, secretively unlightened and
vacuously coy mystery,
but just what transpires when the pencil-like
shuttle submerges, surrendering submissively
to the deepest of most unseen chasms and
mating with the blackness
is any physicist’s guess.

perhaps it is welcomed into the
hidden club of the gods, where only
the courageous are angels,
or maybe, in some far solar system,
a new daisy emerges.
it is possible that the hungry emptiness,
appeased, returns her lovers’ generosity
with giftful creation, and the two
enter together a mutually birthed
dimension in which
the mortality of senses stays
completed by a more celestial everlastingness—
or does the swallowing extend,
contagious, and the fevered astronauts
implosively consume themselves in a
frantic killing search for
an unfindable
core within a core?

it is unknown, for of all travelable
distances this allure remains
only ungraced by any sufficiently
brave or brainless Columbus;
“cats are killed by this,” they each explain
through foot shufflings, “far more frequently
than continents are found.”

Specter

stealthily the ghosts return,
having exhausted all crevices of their deaths,
in vagrant hoping for the merest recollection
of a bruise or wetness

to the mothy other-worlded artifice they
once called Home. they come to stretch their
spirit legs bended from the coils of
a memory called Chair; they come knowing

they can't. they come transparent, as
expected, and yellow, as not. stair steps, however
rotted, do not, as hoped, creak, and their quietude
startles with the power it deprives.

and when these ghosts are seen, by fear, or
babies, in a not thoroughly witching hour,
the dead are more frightened than any
spectator.

Dark Energy

like a universe which has sprung a leak,
i swiftly densify with the inwardly creeping
of goblins. the sinking seems safe—like a
kite, free of lightning, or a canoe,
saved from icebergs by the even more
rockier riverbed.

these most-damning demons do not torment
(not much), they dull instead,
gentler than the death of fish
floating in matterless weight,
not fiery nor drunken, but dryly vacant,
filled with hollowness, hollowly filling themselves
(lonely cannibals) in progressively occupied,
dimly diminishing breadth: the goblins,
killing life, themselves die.

A Fountain Runneth O'er

a fountain runneth o’er—
its uncontainable, innerly-perpetuating excess
extends to all closest her
pouring life and its own bounteous cycles,
and by her, even weeds take on
a remarkable will, their fragile, weakling
bodies bursting and cracking the now
miracle-assaulted cement.
indeed, it is these quite-beautiful vines
which shroud the stonesmanship in
season-bound resurrection—
more mortal and immortal both than
granite, sustaining in times of
drought the coldest intricacies
in eye-doubtless testimony
of that stainless life which once here flowed,
and nurtured compellingly once more
when the snows melt.

Recess

while other girls found in their
recessing lunchyard fruit some
giddy, unlikely romance, she only cored,
alone in her angel white hair,
distanced from the jungle and its
convoluted gymnasiums.
she could peel through layering skin
with the ease and agility of
dragonflies passing through tall weeds,
both deeply probing towards moistness,
abiding nonsense with a peaceful
rain-like smile (rendering
her yellow spread umbrella
itself cloud-like).
the eyes, too, were clean and as mirrors—
stilled storms, gray,
herself coolly pulsing with circularity,
a lofty precipitation over her playmates,
she’d then be dropped (like, also, a drop:
unnoticed) to the
soil’s low immediacy,
to be trod and skipped on muddily, blithely,
until Ms. Hansen’s most herdful of
whistles.

The Mole

blindly he eats,
devouring all dirt bold
enough to brush with his feverish
whiskers, in a perpetual forward
destruction, all briefly becoming part
of him as all has first become dust,
entering and exiting as one
might suppose, marking
its progress by his own
distinct digestions, until,
nothing now to
chew, his burrow thoroughly
hollowed, the blind one ceases,
purposeless, in the light of a sun
he neither sees nor feels.

The Drowning Man

in the instants before drowning,
all life becomes as watery as this moment:
thoughts, relics, recollections,
all these swim before the dimly-sighted
eyes as so many tropical fish,
never quite graspable to him whose movements
are dampened and made heavy;
events and peoples float, above or below, nearer
or farther (it does not matter and remains unseen),
losing their weight and becoming
isolated strands of driftwood whose
roots have never yet been known—
here a thunder, there a candle;
a kiss, Thanksgiving.
but it is rarer still, as the sea knows only, for
one to be filled with such life-nurturing lucidity
and even live to tell it.

The Fallen Angel

there is in the angel a
biology quite untouchable by
hands or harnesses, a

glory both fallen and risen,
opened as a flower, by a
flower, ascending and descending

on truthful wings, in truth of
wings; he notes the changes
from the clouds into the river bank,

and it is in these which he exults,
and in their merging wherein he is
exalted. no mere flesh, nor

no mere spirit knows, the
alchemy, of what the
fallen angel knows.

The Edge of the Universe

forty-nine years from tomorrow, a now-
forgotten astronomer, feeling himself
unloved, will meticulously align This
Solar System’s Single Most Valuable
Telescopic Collection*, lens to
eyepiece, on the observatory of a
packed metropolis. Many somnambulist
voices will whisper—hushed,
never to drown the sacred
scraping of copper upon copper
which holds them so
awed.
The gray-eyed astronomer is like
very many scientists of his time—
as he has gained both inches and
wrinkles he has lost also the
curious patience of the
answerless question
which had once found gods
among combustion;
his eyes now turn upward only
in order that he might limit
heaven.
reverence falls swiftly, like a vulture,
and all car horns pay respect as
the prune-toed astronomer takes his
look, ceremonial; the exhale,
when it comes, is abrupt and
relieved—like all who confront the
infinite so indirectly, he has found
that precisely which he sought,
and the uncompromising
absoluteness of the blackest
shadow before him fills
the astronomer with a certainty
of hopelessness.
He nods smug, doctoral assent to
his anticipatory audience,
while, two too light-years
further, the light of a just-born
star speeds toward them
through a realm which
space can only hide,
never to be witnessed in the
life of the now-loveless
astronomer.

*Time Magazine. August 12th, 2046.

A Short Film

anyone would like to
have lunch with the boy who lies
crouched beneath the folded and
padded seat in the movie house,
sneakers sticking noisily to
third-rate, Coke-dried cold cement
flooring, white shuddering
lights commiserating with his
deeply unwrinkled face, bearing
the long wisdom of a sleeping
giant—
the boy watches, reversed, the rich
communal reverie, a
smiling solemnity,
and his two moist, imploring
eyes reflect this scene
quite noiselessly.

Nyx (The Birth of Eros)

My black, immense wingspan encompasses
all nothingness in intimate expanse,
singing of an unseen wonder: colored
grass, the many-splendored tribunal. I

myself will never see it. This is no
complaint—the paintbrush of an eyelid is
often worth more than any number of
bodily sensings, and no mere light waves

could yet contain the vibrations of a
soul; it is the inexpressible most deserves
expressing. Suddenly, a stir:
movement within this warm sphere beneath me—

The product of my own lonely love; a
Home for a godly love never to cease.

Uranus and Gaia

Possibilities from the vacant blue
glass call, to ears sufficiently silenced,
for truthful translucence: So all that is
emptiness yearns for filling—the tadpole,

an eye, stomachs, wounds—just as all now filled
seeks safe depository. It is no
miracle then for me to transcend a
void or find a much-sought stillness in the

merely tangible; the unorganized
is most humble of all architects, and
an avalanching hillside will fill many
meadows. So we (both emptied and filled by

this young beauty newly born from our own
mutual matter) beget ancestry.

Prometheus

In the rain-drenched stillness of dawn the
canvas ceiling reflects a just-rising
sun, muted as a memory or a
movement; Motionless himself, the rock man

Can do no more than blink and wait for the
biteful stings of the sun and the eagles.
Nursed by nightfall, blood gone scab--now is his
moment between flames: below Olympus,

Above mortality. So it always
is for our rock man: he kindles the pure
within the impure and surrenders all
mightiness to exalt all but his own

And remain impotent and forgotten
as a fractured bridge, solely fireless.

The Blind Man (John 9)

“Mud in your eye and a beam in theirs.” That’s
what he told me, the much talked-of Stranger,
when I was led to meet him,
stumbling across the unseen jagged terrain which
had long since been made familiar in my
heels’ most battered memory.
I did not understand why he spit into the dust,
why he sullied my already imperfection,
adding blackness unto blackness;
nor, in wonder (or in, perhaps, confusion)
did I question.
And when I washed—I cannot express
how very like a paradox it was,
darkness cleaving unto darkness
until the faintest morning break of light
trickled into my newly rendered
irises
and I had to shut them for the blindingness
of seeing; for the moisture which was entering
and exiting without and within, as one too young
for walls.
And so, I tell you, Whether he be a sinner
or no, I know not: but one thing I know,
That once I was blind and now I see.

The Girl In The Red Petticoat

It is, for the girl in the red petticoat,
a mere pleasantry to go spreading
unhappiness as a wind might spread many
thistles' seeds, never staying a single

summer to witness what grisly autumns are
left in her barefoot wake. "Seasons are for no
Mother but Nature," she explains, softly
fleeing South, like a swallow or an

amended promise. Fruitless now, the
death-filled land can only reply in
broken, condemning silence; it throbs
inside me, and begs. Does the lonely

tree falling make a sound? Perhaps not;
only when it is the last of a jungle.

Lot

I, the shamed widower, frown
and pray again. She was a good
woman—impulsive—I loved her.
Would that I had a last moment
to recall: failing eyelids, golden
meadow, a goodbye kiss.

God. That within me quells,
shaking unsolicited the comforting
dust from memory

and so I condense: my wet, living
eye salt muddies the dust wherein,
dear Father, You’ve took
her.

Doubting Tuesday

The imagination of tumbleweeds
compels her with the certainness of
unsteady fingers.
While in the emptiest of
railway coaches she nears the
deafening slumber.
No third rage-thirsty poet knows
the singleness in spring
spent idly on the plumless oak,
she thinks. To be forsook,
to swear, to run her feet across
the pebble-dry brook.
To teethe.
Gnaw, chop. Never feasting.

Unconsciousness

with hairs so lovingly everywhere spread,
you drift, beside me, into unconsciousness,
our breaths a perfect syntax.

would you leave me, then, for the
nothingness of slumber—where ungoverned
minds might tear our knotted souls
to two? as i shut mine, i will
your half-ing lids to part
and
return, full-praised, to the joyfulness of waking
close.

but when i hear the sweet-kissed lips exhale
a sigh of deeply-gone, when the
full well wisdom of a good eight
hours makes itself (gentle) so
poignantly aware,
strangely, i do not feel yet abandoned.

though not as one we are not still
so very far apart.

Ceilings

when falcons soar in their domain,
above the branches’ leaves,
they sometimes meet (and brush)
with some white pearly, ceiling-soft
expanse.

afraid of what’s not understood,
some will drop and stay below—
to the safety of the lake.
there are fishes here, and water too,
and things quite-good for birds;
a very pleasant and a most
solidly constructed nest may find a
home in these well-fed trunks,
to ease the wearied wings and
rest.

but—there are also others,
a courageous few,
who will venture
through, beyond, above
the cloudy lofts—unseeing,
filled with whitest sky-foam,
she then breaks
the frail-sweet atmosphere
and (finding flight in falling)
beholds the face of the Sun.

On The Moon

on the moon, all is still.
a weightless non-atmosphere
(encases)
all mementos in a perfect
Always.
though we shall travel on—
through time and space—
to grounds more fit for
growth,
though divine rotation shall bring
days and nights (all seasons in
their orbit); yet,
as our greenery
extends slowly—(sometimes, maybe, sadly)—
unto heaven’s light: A perfect Branch of
babel: bringing with it
cleansing rains,
still,
there will always remain in my
dusty lunar self
an
eternal and exalted footprint where,
for the first of many times, we kissed and
stood and loved,
and where your eyes danced into the
forever timelessness of
Now.

February

“can you smell it?”
“what?” you asked.
“the spring,” said i.
the corpse of lifeless leaf crackled,
cracked, &
croaked beneath the grinding heel of
passersby. You scoffed,
and sniffed,
and scoffed again—a groaning, chill-
wind branch murmured dryly
his assent;
Even the Groundhog fled.
i
sighed: “perhaps not,” said my heart, and walked on.
Still,
i could have sworn
that--
for a glimpse however brief
--it was sunlight lit your curls.
And weren’t those blossoms at my toes?
or merely(maybe)
snowflakes caked in hope.

Zero Gravity

“in fourteen minutes, there will be weightlessness.”
you lay, nonplussed, upon your astro-turf,
drifting between sleep and laziness, and with a book
upon you nose.
the place was familiar—drab, with a hint of melancholy—
and you’d wished you’d not returned;
but there were you, and there was i, Not-Knowing-Why,
amidst-again those dead terrains and leafless boughs:
still slightly smelling springtime in the stalest
launchpad’s shuttle. (or was
that snow we sniffed? we asked)

“three. two. one.”
your eyes grew white with cold star-fire and
danced a sorrow’s jig, And—
“blast-off!”
sinking low beneath the night, the lifeless
twigs grew vaguely fainter, and, maybe,
night one wee mite nearer.
i longed to see you levitate, as ground-free as before,
so i looked now to your toes
and, brow-furrowed, seeking to ease you of your gravity,
glanced about myself to—Stunned—find
ceilings scraping me.
a laugh arose—more sad, more wise—
from in my flighted breast;
But, o best of Best:
for one once shiningsecond, thought i i saw, perhaps,
(or maybe only wished, as dreamers
do) your
feet, too,
forsake the
floor.

The Stutterer

i wish that i could help;
but my hands are not for mending.
still,
my ears may hear, my arms enfold
and if i bear your salt-precipitations
i shall do so
tightly, and with care:
while clumsily, lacking in tries, i
stutter uncertainties, my pouring self
to
ragefully emerge from lips'
constrained two-thinness,
i will say "i'm sorry," but i will mean
"i love you."

Umbrella's Refrain

softly, as these clouds gather—
tighten your delicately digits
and
fear not the raining drench,
nor the reaching lightning streaks
but,
i pray,
open me, so carefully unfold me,
and,
i swear,
your cheeks will be dry.

For The Love Of An Actress

lightly brushing now your grace,
no: you need no stencils here.
forget,
one moment,
all your shining hidden masks
and show
for one to see
a face now pale and timid.

i
love
your many incarnations
filled up with here and
this
but i
love
still more
those lashes’ light
alive with then and
now.

so certain and
so full of doubt, it seems,
you now are made more strengthened
in your wings.

Declaration of Principles

This blog is hereby dedicated to the creative shenanigans of Davey Morrison. He will take this e-opportunity to post on an ideally weekly, but probably relatively sporadic basis movies, music, writings, art, or whatever else he may have created in the meantime (or old stuff he's uploaded) so that all you Davey-devotees out there can have new ammunition for your many marvellings.

Everything posted on this blog is copyrighted by Davey Morrison unless otherwise noted, so don't go filchin'.