Poemunity — your poem community

Those who glance about me who cease to see inside the Sun who cease to imagine its destabilized pre-quanta cannot know me cannot know my ethos as pumice as mingled apparition or flare my perception through the prior sun that I ingest like a blackened pre-existence or collected hawks through assignation the Sun with its dualisms with its pre-biotic photons which waver perhaps 9 suns before the Sun existed before the oceans seemed formed there were molecular drafts akashic precursors floating proto-ammonia I think of carbon & wisps & floodings of feral combat shelter where blank geometry accrues before separable biology was born before the contradictory ballast of de-existent protozoa being scorching photon by abstentia like a pre-atomic sigil destabilized as blizzard a pre-cognitive rotation a strange galvanics of the cosmos & because of this galvanics one reeks of invisible tremor walking around in league with daunting helium affliction thus the mirrors in my skin like haunted salamander fluid like cells bereft with cooling centigrade rotation therefore I know the abyss as volatile lunar transposition as sub-liminal mantis as climbing as splintering therefore I am not an oily or blasphemous yogin collapsing in default by sudden anger or water yet I am compound struggling with scattered mental a-rhythmia with partial psychic aphasia intensive illusive aloof by interior compounding

To the piano of ragtime music, Paul Newman plunges his head into a basin of ice and water. A consummate conman, with Robert Redford, he's up and ready to take on the Mafia. The Sting is on. Hollywood redresses the wrongs of the world. From my proscenium seat, it is Newman's awakening into action that catches my imagination. Cool. So cool. Outside NAFDEC cinema, Kipling's Great Game rages on. Yet, I am barely away. My basin of ice cold water is going tepid. The con of it all. But to them it's jazz. It's all cool, for jazz makes them look cool. As for ragtime, just a last minute anachronistic improvisation, for good cinema's sake.

She spun a line. She knew he was listening to her. She spun it and he took the fraying ends. Whatever she was saying, it was cotton, Then as he rolled the thread between Forefinger and thumb it turned to silk, And as he took the needle up to thread it The line she spun became thin finest gold. He knew not to believe her but he took it Because she kept on spinning like the truth Was ravelling from her lips; he watched her lips. Cotton, silk and gold, she wanted him To take the line and sew the wound right up Although she held the blade still in her hand Behind her back, and it was dripping, steaming. There under his left arm the gash lay open Like a mouth in disbelief. And he believed her.

Great are the Hittites. Their ears have mice and mice have holes. Their dogs bury themselves and leave the bones To guard the house. A single weed holds all their storms Until the spiderwebs spread over the heavens. There are bits of straw in their lakes and rivers Looking for drowned men. When a camel won’t pass Through the eye of one of their needles, They tie a house to its tail. Great are the Hittites. Their fathers are in cradles, their newborn make war. To them lead floats, a leaf sinks. Their god is the size Of a mustard seed so that he can be quickly eaten. They also piss against the wind, Pour water in a leaky bucket. Strike two tears to make fire, And have tongues with bones in them, Bones of a wolf gnawed by lambs. * They are also called mound builders, They are called Asiatic horses That will drink on the Rhine, they are called My grandmother’s fortune-telling, they are called You can’t take it to the grave with you. It’s that hum in your left ear, A sigh coming from deep within you, A dream in which you keep falling forever, The hour in which you sit up in bed As though someone has shouted your name. No one knows why the Hittites exist, Still, when two are whispering One of them is listening. Did they catch the falling knife? They caught it like a fly with closed mouths. Did they balance the last egg? They struck the egg with a bone so it won’t howl. Did they wait for dead man’s shoes? The shoes went in at one ear and out the other. Did they wipe the blood from their mousetraps? They burnt the blood to warm themselves. Are they cold with no pockets in their shrouds? If the sky falls, they shall have clouds for supper. What do they have for us To put in our pipes and smoke? They have the braid of a beautiful girl That drew a team of cattle And the engraving of him who slept With dogs and rose with fleas Searching for its trace in the sky. * And so there are fewer and fewer of them now. Who wrote their name on paper And burnt the paper? Who put snake bones In their pillows? Who threw nail parings In their soup? Who made them walk Under the ladder? Who stuck pins In their snapshots? The wart of warts and his brother evil eye. Bone-lazy and her sister rabbit’s-foot. Cross-your-fingers and their father dog star. Knock-on-wood and his mother hellfire. Because the tail can’t wag the cow. Because the woods can’t fly to the dove. Because the stones haven’t said their last word. Because dunghills rise and empires fall. * They are leaving behind All the silver spoons Found inside their throats at birth, A hand they bit because it fed them, Two rats from a ship that is still sinking, A collection of various split hairs, The leaf they turned over too late. * All that salt cast over the shoulder, All that bloody meat traveling under the saddles of nomads ... Here comes a forest in wolf’s clothing, The wise hen bows to the umbrella. When the bloodshot evening meets the bloodshot night, They tell each other bloodshot tales. That bare branch over them speaks louder than words. The moon is worn threadbare. I repeat: lean days don’t come singly, It takes all kinds to make the sun rise. The night is each man’s castle. Don’t let the castle out of the bag. Wind in the valley, wind in the high hills, Practice will make this body fit this bed. * May all roads lead Out of a sow’s ear To what’s worth Two in the bush.

Diluvian, draggled and derelict posse, this barnacled pod so pales next to everything we hear of red tides and pilot whales that a word like “drama” makes me sound remiss except that there was a kind of littoral drama in the way the shells silently, sans the heraldry of bells, neatly, sans an astrological affair, and swiftly, sans a multitude of feet, flat-out arrived— an encrusted school of twenty-four Gabriellan trumpets at my beach house door and barely half-alive. Oh, you can bet I picked them up, waded right up to my ankles in there among ’em, hefted ’em up to my ears to hear the din of all things oceanwise and wet, but every of the ancient, bearded, anthracite, salt-water-logged spirals, every of the massive and unwieldy, magisterial mollusks shut tight— no din, no horns roaring reveille, no warning, no beat, no taps, no coral corpus, no porpoise purpose except it was a secret purpose kept strictly under wraps. A fine Christmas gift indeed, this obscure migration, this half-dead conch confederation which would have smelled yon tannenbaum like fish— a fine set of unwrappable presents and no receipt by which I could redeem them. I lifted one up by its stem and thought of how, by increments, all twenty-four must have lugged those preassembled bodies here sans Santa, sleigh, and eight little reindeer, to my drasty stretch of shore. And, no other explanation being offered for the situation, I thought that I might understand how one could argue that the impulse driving them to land was a sort of evolutionary one— misguided, yes, redundant, a million years too late, a needless, maybe rogue and almost campy demonstration of how history, even in the world of the invertebrate, repeats itself—breaker crashing down on breaker in the Gulf, Gulf War coming after Gulf War. O Maker, there is so much slug inside these shells, here, at the end of December, at the edge of a world I couldn’t blame if you did not remember. Miracles sell well, but Lord, it can be numbing to a people who cannot tell between a second nature and a second thought, a second chance, or a second coming.

legato con amore in un volume ciò che per l’universo si squaderna . . . If what began (look far and wide) will end: This lava globe huddle and freeze, its core Brittle with cold, or pulled too near its friend Pop once like one gun in a long-drawn war, And the stars sputter one by one, the night So empty judging empty’s out of date (Space and time gone), then only, height on height, Mind that impelled those currents and that freight, Mind that after five days (see those days! Regions all tropic one day, one all ice!) Whistled man from the sea-moss, saw him raise The blundering forepaw, blink from shaggy eyes— If image, likeness in the ox-yoke brow Long out of focus, focused mind to Mind— Ah what unspeakable two and two allows That silence huddle and all eyes go blind? Our ups and downs—there! that remembered makes Memory which is the single mind. How sweet Carmine stars of the maple fumed in rakes At 1350 such and such a street. A thing to keep in mind. Yes and keep yet When the vile essence violescence lies. Once in winter by the richening sill Quiet, the fireplace tiny in our eyes— I mention this; there’s more. The Almighty will Aeons late stumble on it with surprise.

Your joke Is like a lake That lies there without any thought And sees Dead seas The birds fly Around there Bewildered by its blue without any thought of water Without any thought Of water.

Appolinus his leve tok, To God and al the lond betok With al the poeple long and brod, That he no lenger there abod. The king and queene sorwe made, Bot yit somdiel thei weren glade Of such thing as thei herden tho: And thus betwen the wel and wo To schip he goth, his wif with childe, The which was evere meke and mylde And wolde noght departe him fro, Such love was betwen hem tuo. Lichorida for hire office Was take, which was a norrice, To wende with this yonge wif, To whom was schape a woful lif. Withinne a time, as it betidde, Whan thei were in the see amidde, Out of the north they sihe a cloude; The storm aros, the wyndes loude Thei blewen many a dredful blast, The welkne was al overcast, The derke nyht the sonne hath under, Ther was a gret tempeste of thunder: The mone and ek the sterres bothe In blake cloudes thei hem clothe, Wherof here brihte lok thei hyde. This yonge ladi wepte and cride, To whom no confort myhte availe; Of childe sche began travaile, Wher sche lay in a caban clos: Hire woful lord fro hire aros, And that was longe er eny morwe, So that in anguisse and in sorwe Sche was delivered al be nyhte And ded in every mannes syhte; Bot natheles for al this wo A maide child was bore tho. Appolinus whan he this knew, For sorwe a swoune he overthrew, That noman wiste in him no lif. And whanne he wok, he seide, "Ha, wif, Mi lust, mi joie, my desir, Mi welthe and my recoverir, Why schal I live, and thou schalt dye? Ha, thou fortune, I thee deffie, Nou hast thou do to me thi werste. Ha, herte, why ne wolt thou berste, That forth with hire I myhte passe? Mi peines weren wel the lasse." In such wepinge and in such cry His dede wif, which lay him by, A thousend sithes he hire kiste; Was nevere man that sih ne wiste A sorwe unto his sorwe lich; For evere among, upon the lich He fell swounende, as he that soghte His oghne deth, which he besoghte Unto the goddes alle above With many a pitous word of love; Bot suche wordes as tho were Yit herde nevere mannes ere, Bot only thilke whiche he seide. The maister schipman cam and preide With othre suche as be therinne, And sein that he mai nothing winne Ayein the deth, bot thei him rede, He be wel war and tak hiede, The see be weie of his nature Receive mai no creature Withinne himself as forto holde, The which is ded: forthi thei wolde, As thei conseilen al aboute, The dede body casten oute. For betre it is, thei seiden alle, That it of hire so befalle, Than if thei scholden alle spille. The king, which understod here wille And knew here conseil that was trewe, Began ayein his sorwe newe With pitous herte, and thus to seie: "It is al reson that ye preie. I am," quod he, "bot on al one, So wolde I noght for mi persone There felle such adversité. Bot whan it mai no betre be, Doth thanne thus upon my word, Let make a cofre strong of bord, That it be ferm with led and pich." Anon was mad a cofre sich, Al redy broght unto his hond; And whanne he sih and redy fond This cofre mad and wel enclowed, The dede bodi was besowed In cloth of gold and leid therinne. And for he wolde unto hir winne Upon som cooste a sepulture, Under hire heved in aventure Of gold he leide sommes grete And of jeueals a strong beyete Forth with a lettre, and seide thus: "I, king of Tyr Appollinus, Do alle maner men to wite, That hiere and se this lettre write, That helpeles withoute red Hier lith a kinges doghter ded: And who that happeth hir to finde, For charité tak in his mynde, And do so that sche be begrave With this tresor, which he schal have." Thus whan the lettre was full spoke, Thei have anon the cofre stoke, And bounden it with yren faste, That it may with the wawes laste, And stoppen it be such a weie, That it schal be withinne dreie, So that no water myhte it grieve. And thus in hope and good believe Of that the corps schal wel aryve, Thei caste it over bord als blyve. The schip forth on the wawes wente; The prince hath changed his entente, And seith he wol noght come at Tyr As thanne, bot al his desir Is ferst to seilen unto Tharse. The wyndy storm began to skarse, The sonne arist, the weder cliereth, The schipman which behinde stiereth Whan that he sih the wyndes saghte, Towardes Tharse his cours he straghte. Bot now to mi matiere ayein, To telle as olde bokes sein, This dede corps of which ye knowe With wynd and water was forthrowe Now hier, now ther, til ate laste At Ephesim the see upcaste The cofre and al that was therinne. Of gret merveile now beginne Mai hiere who that sitteth stille; That God wol save mai noght spille. Riht as the corps was throwe alonde, Ther cam walkende upon the stronde A worthi clerc, a surgien, And ek a gret phisicien, Of al that lond the wisest on, Which hihte Maister Cerymon; Ther were of his disciples some. This maister to the cofre is come, He peiseth ther was somwhat in, And bad hem bere it to his in, And goth himselve forth withal. Al that schal falle, falle schal; They comen hom and tarie noght; This cofre is into chambre broght, Which that thei finde faste stoke, Bot thei with craft it have unloke. Thei loken in, where as thei founde A bodi ded, which was bewounde In cloth of gold, as I seide er, The tresor ek thei founden ther Forth with the lettre which thei rede. And tho thei token betre hiede; Unsowed was the bodi sone, And he, which knew what is to done, This noble clerk, with alle haste Began the veines forto taste, And sih hire age was of youthe, And with the craftes whiche he couthe He soghte and fond a signe of lif. With that this worthi kinges wif Honestely thei token oute, And maden fyres al aboute; Thei leide hire on a couche softe, And with a scheete warmed ofte Hire colde brest began to hete, Hire herte also to flacke and bete. This maister hath hire every joignt With certein oile and balsme enoignt, And putte a liquour in hire mouth, Which is to fewe clerkes couth, So that sche coevereth ate laste: And ferst hire yhen up sche caste, And whan sche more of strengthe cawhte, Hire armes bothe forth sche strawhte, Hield up hire hond and pitously Sche spak and seide, "Ha, wher am I? Where is my lord, what world is this?" As sche that wot noght hou it is. Bot Cerymon the worthi leche Ansuerde anon upon hire speche And seith, "Ma dame, yee ben hiere, Where yee be sauf, as yee schal hiere Hierafterward; forthi as nou Mi conseil is, conforteth you: For trusteth wel withoute faile, Ther is nothing which schal you faile, That oghte of reson to be do."

Perhaps I’m a cruel artist. I always depict In great details, lovingly, all the defects On the faces and bodies of my models. I use my eyes and brushes to thread The jagged gaps of their stiff smiles. I pamper Each pimple, hump, massage each incrustation. I cajole my models into poses that are awkward, Dangerous, unhygienic, sometimes mortifying. I don’t care to paint smooth, poreless skin but collect All manners of rashes and eruptions. Inspired, I’ve forced a hundred bodies—impossibly old, Extremely young—onto appalling heaps, Democratically naked, viscous with sweat, spit and etc., Just so I could render the human condition Most accurately and movingly.

Down in the blue-green water at nightfall some selving shapes float fluorescing, trance-dancing, trembling to the rhythm of theodoxical marching- music that they hear over the mere noise of the breaking tide. Above, stars in certain places; along the shore roads, cars carrying people on uncertain errands, sordid and sacred and all the kinds in between. Halogen-lit, a woman gets down from her all-wheel-drive velocipede, enters through an obeying door a cyclopean store to buy unintelligent fresh fish and other objects whether formerly alive or formerly dead, she comes out again, a poor man calls to her, selling his no-news- paper; the disastrous head- lines smile and nod, they announce the plans of steel patriots and undertakers, ad-men and fallen vice-generals, doping their stolen crusades. But the woman has learned, as I have learned, as all of us must keep learning if we are to be good subjects, how to make of a newspaper the mask of a locust, calmly put it on, and begin once more to eat everything up.