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late spring: equinox two weeks or more passed vernal arrival & Having filld up on mountains’ waters’ dance
recognition of new faces in these old stones
re-entrance into earth & seasonals)
water &
speak of:
Spring:
of finding center on dark road: make night = day, no path forbidden. |
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encounters with Zephyros
man of Western Corner) poet in terms of Branches, how he
winter’s encounters with breaths of earth,
breath moves thru & wind thru branch: diffusion & then focus (as our own bodies focused into death) & here is the angle of concerns: measure of openness & close the mouth. |
UNCERTAIN SONG
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for Deborah Un-
where you are going at the (given)
given moment augenblick, the shutter clicks, the eye opend
cannot record,
(only the direction, if we are given directions) (you move against the night, with the night, where you are, & how I wonder,. how I wonder
body, the body’s wave, the wave moves in time, eine Unbestimmtheit: a motion for & against
wish, I wish a place to close my eyes, find my way. |
The Astronomers
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Moon-starers, I found,
Astronomers. & had it in their blood to look at more. Who knew the anagrams we once thought orthography
(nomers
One, who names stars or puts them in their place in place of sky. Constellation a configuration based on eye
they saw. These men write laws & not words (to put them in,
with sun & moon & the luminaries is content Enough, brightness of what catches the eye & holds it (not for any length of time,
for laws,
move, that sees it, & names it, proclaims it law: astro-
study of what governs Motions of bodies Celestial, Orion standing in cold night, looking at Anagram & missing what is written. |
LVCVS
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Because it is not light: Clearing in that grove
That appeared there, her name was wood & was called by that. We saw thru branches a dark sky, a moon that moved when we did, & was oval in its silver, a perfect circle unperceived.
other things, the name of where we were & how it got here. There was a darkness that night, I remember, now, though I didn’t at the time.
clearing, what sorts of trees ever stood here, there, in the way, the time was full as the moon, I thought a woman, oval in the grove, brought her darkness covered us: we didn’t know the place well, we thought we were there because of Something we refused to see, a Shining beyond the woman we saw, I mean an oval, a form of some word we’d heard which had led us here. We were in a grove, I remember, & wanted to call it something
woman or Artemis or wolf.
Her sex & her teats & here we were a clearing & alone without a name to call out, our position just some sort of place, with tall trees around us, branches protecting only the sight, the oval into circle,as it became light & we knew why we were there. |
A CALCULUS
[Rain Investigations N° 1]
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We all know that. A man running thru rain gets as wet as walking.
a constant field is situation, the rain finds us. that we (a man) run or walk thru constant fields, that the rain is harder here than near the house, make a run for it. catch our death, don’t know enough to come out in the rain. don’t know enough to figure it out for ourselves. If the rain were a field of tall grass & running thru it wouldn’t we Touch as many blades as walking? (The problem is the rain finds us. |
THE CELEBRANTS
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They celebrate today, & its warmth. out there they are smiling “because they never smile Anytime else” (because they have to. & we walk in winter.) I say it is the sun, the weather is only its messenger & we have our obligations. Which is to listen & they are
know it or not, the earth’s turn, what says, Goes, the rocks beneath my home will show us their memory or ours, the same, the semiotic place we have chosen to find ourselves
Which is: ‘be located,’ the best we can do is move or not, there is an aspect to our motions, perfect what can be perfected as if it
Celebrate the sun’s closeness to perfection; Celebrate the warmth by remembering cold. We go thru this as if something new. |
MALDON
For T Hill, Witodlice
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Byrhtnothes ofermod: a question: that narrow strip at what tide? Here he was in war. What boys beside him to call it that & whose account? topography of his (& only his) Situation at hand, that hand could hold. Spear was who he was & shield not, at that time perhaps he thought he was, what bridges will we build, what plains or lackings of waters at what times will we not?
Contours, how men hold them, & how they should, figures against
sky?
or defense, in order to speak what must be said, raised up as in: “I still can get it Up & must be heard, hear me, what I have to say: River is part of situation, crossing it is
that phrase. (Am I too proud, that I set up that it be walked across?) What subjunctive is here, is this real condition?
a man (who sees it all), come take my women, that is the point. Or come & get it, set your own selves up for what you find.)” The many words for battle in our tongue
& what we say: the boast, the vow, & then the actual promise, I will do it (must I?) if I have to
what anyone will say still comes down to where he finds anything but really himself. The boast is locative
of speech. condemn it for what it isn’t. Not take in account such youth as we may find, forget the names & numbers which count.
against war. I mean one in it constantly.) (Ofermod is not hybris. & is not any river’s banks nor space between, our feet fall in. What did the old man say, did he offend the poet?
that much he understood— what space there is to enjoy & what there is not to.
(the ‘beginning’ makes it clear) makes it clear. Land by water, man by his own youth, getting back to his own conditions. one of them: break what must be brocen (where the poem is broken off) it must somehow be, the man in battle needs know less who he’s fighting than where. |
ZEUGMA
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To yoke: in love & trouble; my leave & my hat: two things, how I bring them under the same (As the moon has surface as relationship to reflection, surface is the verb, & hence ambiguous) This is difficult: prepositions pretend so many relationships, I bring it to me & my attention, as if we were same, toward the act of bringing. The sea & the structure are deep, we come to understand depth by counting the surface. The hand in the water appears to be or is bent & feels different: wet, we think, the hand or anything we stick into water (or as fish: air) is altered, but still Related to our position under the verb. Rambling on, people have been, about where things are, & on earth, what does a hand look like to a fish under water?
such a question, & why does he care?) fish have no hands, yet, & diving into a pool where full moon is reflected is emergence if to sleep is to verb:
is to yoke, bring things under consideration into different Considerations. that either my hand is bent, or just looks like it, or isn’t bent at all but the water is, or doesn’t even look bent. & this last is to see the moon in the water somehow as still the moon, wet, but shining, the question is of density, distance from the verb we see as equal. & this I see as more difficult; if I take my leave & my hat, am I a philosopher automatically? Or if I am in love and trouble, am I related? & by whom? You see the problem: we are so often thrown into this world we think we are falling, our sense of language tells us down, but Blake said up, occasionally believe him. or Freud :: emergence as regression or topsy as turvy, we dream we are upside down, that we are the hand in the water & are told little. Especially of where we are, who is this which one of us is object?
our language, alone like that, to force its own ideas into us, without wondering what we look like without it. The surface, then, must be the verb, at which: perception, that there ARE choices, or at least desires. The image is still dual: the moon in the water + the hand in the water = “the moon & the hand were in the water,” & this is what I mean: The hand bends to grasp the moon. |
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BRACKETS
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“It is all possible,” begins his poem, “if [he says it to himself] my sense of beauty is made true to either one who believes in such things [& by this he means to ask, himself, a question] or who knows what belief is [& by this, not so] he can trust who he trusts [relative, restrictive] to believe such things for him doing the belief] or maybe it isn’t [he begins unfortunately [ to doubt] [what he is saying] [ what is he saying?] & by this he means, he who is, a question [& by that, he wanted response] but I won’t answer until it is all possible [his poem] begins." |
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EVIL EYE
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glammer her would touch me in sleep she that eye would lookit me my feel it on me the sun night singer writes hard enough to read in dark she’s quiet about it nightsinger down street is that so evil, no noise? |
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[POLIS]
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They do not speak or are of the polis. I have walked among them, their speech stops I ask is it the agora I am toward where the angels merchandise the dread, to be found here, where the race becomes. The race of flowers names the tip of tongue, the quantity of lines the yield of yard the acres of the men who plant this field. how quiet they grow into nation, market, crop hushed for terrible knowledge of becoming. The scythe of Vico is a rumor of or fear of frost tonight & the women will be dancing
away from here that rustles thru the (nothing more than
They chatter, barbarian lingo of neonomy, the new laws that affect o, all of us. I will listen to that if they will speak to me in Greek of fragments of the old laws, of the tongue, of the rituals of the seeds what is left of them the purpose of the women’s dance was never to prevent the cold from coming on in order that it pass. My understanding centers there, that hilltop where they hold their fire becomes the town, & I have walked among. |
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FRAGMENTARY RESPONSES, &c
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Discard the gods you think
steal from. You are their
blessed be, in this case. YOU [will find] herbs today, growing out of... Ask the lady for
change.
souls. Pompous son of a collect [imperative] four
These are just festivals these days
Old poem
spots. To make
eaten. Augury: if any big pieces
light, the Orient.
quite so prick-shaped. There underneath it all hekatomb. As long as you are at it, eat the meat. See above Got maybe two. Stay with him, who happens, blind as the man of the Neither world
may be a journey, man, both meanings free of they just happened. If you believe that he may just be. Go on take it list anything not on the menu offering. Cash.
just
from Mexico to New Atlantis. Just to follow it, you must
small victory at Pyrrhus. Or is it Piraeus?
steal
19th
Dark Centuries from now anyway, small win is clear Keep the
Hypnos will bop them on the head & Oneiros will bugger them Stay aware of that, & ask questions. Remove intention to find it. Oil Your
Open the heart
will be done [future]
I agree with your
wiser than No man. Be so Gnomic utterances. Gno yourself
Wisdom? [;] It is better
Usual offering of a child’s hair. In this case, yours
a glimpse. The yellow
Indicate mood, and be in the middle. Call your brother and dont
into a dead phone
Q119 If you find the oven full of jars, do not bake them, but send them on their way. But if you bake them, avoid the seagirt; otherwise you & the prize bull will die together.
clouds are serious, nimble dimwit. Breathy layers, little angels. Wait till cumulate
from clear sky [Aithra] wash hands in the time it takes.
is meant [thalatta] Catharsis when you see
as |
HIGH PRIEST
for W.R. Prescott III
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The calend wheels were simple rolling down the streets were time, the blood of angel vision fracted red of Aztec city path or past the history was clear: a priest of future hands these amethysts to them to see their eyes: how feeling felt inside the airy glass of skull. Like light the messages like time. like streets the feeling of, the corpses boats & floated down. He prays to this event. Remember this, to tell them, underneath the breath, that they not hear that they were there. Remind them of the jewels, the rituals, time forgive them if it does no good. “It does no good” he says “the cogs of gods are set, I figured out the fit when speech will end. Entrances to cities are vague & obsolete, and yet are there. Children are named for days, & days for beasts & beasts for time to come. This my revelation.” He set about to tell. his time was way ahead of who he thought was them, the prayer crystal, cline of newest color, followed to the corner, different talk, religion. The sacrifice devours; or is always about some food, future for the body to have a place to be. Congregate & love, the names of days, subsumed in light. jewels to make eternity of sky to mix with blood & see them with. The pain of having seen. He knew it was a flood. The fear of every life he lived concerned the maps & channels men of futures moved along who had no fear were sacred ones, & needed no high places. Now if he could just come down & tell them this. |
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EGGSHELL
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Is it enough blind faith
in Night called Venus morning
hers, mirror is the day. Leap on it & go thru, clear white albumen, futurity, inside egg is out, birth is the World. The Real astrology is color, what color are you in this sphere, against white of the world’s wall chicken came first afraid or unafraid, protogonus’ agony: decision to sleep with her in darkness, no signs of light, no zodiac to remember, just embrace, Night’s fearful being-there, was she the first?
dactyl-fingered song & color of beginning, dawn’s oracle before word, open mouth of egg or early bird to catch the worm emerging from the world The sign is red. A robin constellates sky of blue the egg fell from, unbroken until there’s Need for food & be fed, the sign is blue. |
ZEVS
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Page right is constant Zevs |
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Page left the ‘cow horns’ |
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The leaf between, Wavers. I do. I don’t. |
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Believe in powerful greek god send our fiery salt to light |
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Believe in cows horns. They do not really. There is defined curve, Women have them. Senses about where to mulch the powder with. |
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(So how passive I could be to that straddle. Or as I observed, leaned away from the horns so darkened with my markings: past. Ink circle around the phrase a pen whose gate was open some time ago, difficult to wonder why they ever stayed around, the cows, the verso taunt. |
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Zevs (on the other hand) was clear enough: read towards me, he said, & use my eyes. I see the world the way my father said I shouldn’t leave imagination’s realm just yet, twelve gods whose bodies then evolve a total self will be within a generafion’s better work. A novel, maybe,or maybe fire will be a body then to build is what you need. |
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page flexed. No, this is ‘dialogue with transmitter’ hermetic wavering device tuned & somehow conscious ly relaxed: the world I am this page this night the queen was left & king was right |
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The horns were coron- /korov-, cows’ were crowns before his anger at my generous behavior toward his rival tore into me with thorns upon his head. Where is that now, it never floated well off Crete? Off Lesbos? Do I care? Am I what you see when you look north from this ruin, page? |
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I look up to say. Rhea goes on & on, & in- tuition is defeated I look back down |
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My name is catholic, you you cow you, who keep him there, your love entraps, those horny thighs is pointin to the skies & talk of size! Has he a chance? Oh let him lean. |
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The mention of those horny thighs. To mention udders causes me to leap to her, encircled message from the left |
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This is no argument you messenger as dream is not an apposite of day. How far could lightning’s light appear if certain salts & waters did not mix in intuition’s place? I am not that, by the way but just the channel’s the stomach to contain the acid rain your sulfur’s firings cause your nerves, Hermaphrodite. |
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Semaphore signs a synapse crossing cattle into meat was flæsc, this sickened page, was weak & sat the fence. Saccadic |
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Zevs will speak: |
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The point was this: that I could be whatever alphabet was needed, to get my point across. If will was it, then so it was she got it where it felt the most between They all had nerve, of course enough to love a theriomorph like me. |
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But wasn’t man implicit? I mean here I am the middle whom you can’t create but talk through would destroy make mad. But mad I am! |
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ZEVS, part 2
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The wind is simple, planetary; it changes as we see the image here of Saturn: fifteen children how good that winter has arrived. |
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I know exactly what you mean I saw the rings the shadow castaway the radial alignment of the shift become a neon advertisement for the moon last implied |
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But here was where you sent it from you men who made those shapes imagined we’d resist. The rings around are marriage to a planet whose very smooth rigidity itself poses (as) the question. |
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Should we discuss this here? What burns is fire the air above just pulls it out the thought occurs and spreads |
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this weather, this local beings visit or not is fricative. To the windows, then! The gaps between the teeth. |
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Ave you forgot the song of cows the dears only few sincerely ‘warm’ (as warm ones go) & are not heated all by this. Do you have care? |
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I say dare not. The wind as such just almost burned me down the middle man stoked & stoked became transfixed with speech even as we talk |
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So speech is risk. the flames were arduous to build, with only samples of the elementals, things you are not made of. Did I tell you what I learned? Of limits of the metals colors spokes & rungs the rings of iron were forgeries that heated to a red of other planet’s temperance. & other things. |
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Such as? Does she the moon full empty coffers by her pull? Take stock of assets, youth the tongue it once so pleased me with its manifold. It is a fire you know. |
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Of fire dyou say that rises from his head where lightning struck it blonde, the northern sun. |
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But land! Is grave so heavy stress that rhythm is an orbit? Oxy- gen a proparoxy- tone? The one left said describe any lipse you feel |
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Mikros Makros Boy! you feel it cross the bottom of an oceans godliness you feel it in the green. Take stock of assets, like was said. |
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(I looked at hers: like mat’ Rossiya across the plains.The grain was there alright. & what commodities! Park your lipsies here they asked & mouthed a service with a smile. |
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They used to park them on my lawn the populace was crafty looking for a place. Any place. My place once was fine those many nights you were not born. Remember those? I’d like to hold the times there was no you between my horns & toss them in the air. |
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I wish you would. The pictures all I’ve got of snake head goddess holding snakes between the space around her who is she? |
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I promise not to tell you now. When you want to know just ask the man you must admire how long he has to tell you. |
CIRCE-SUN
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free me from her name Is aigle centering around where are the feet is a solution. Sun right now so far away from matter, where we stand is weather, sorcers the illusion of true cold. It is truly cold without you with a name me. & what could warm such speech, an eye of hawk? Of animal other than a woman on an island singing all her arms around the course could not hold me from the left of center, the temperature below & fell |
SYNTHEMA
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Synthema:
unlaughing rock,
(High sign a low sign) show them your things. Crack them up by your attachments, thread the recognitions.
be amused (Puts her hand on it, giggles.) Why all the myrtle. On the way to?
with us Yes we are on our way to & carry utensils. Hard, soft, our image of her is on a rock, seated. Myrtle is marriage, ever since.
‘hearth’. A boy is that pure] Dance out the sacrilege. Exorc-
the dreams of the secrets. (Secret) Difficult childhood the dance told. How do we punish betrayal? Death, banishment. Separation. to betray. To dance what you think you saw. Say the dreamer a true epoptes don’t worry nothing can be betrayed. Television. (Odysseus reads the Odyssey. Can there then be one? long ago [or: elsewhere] more authentic, earlier a life. The wind is here, downstairs, opening doors.
leaves those old cabinets
to know the sounds for what they are. No one comes thru the outer gates (majora). At least not now. Invite her. She was waiting for you to notice her innocence. She wasn’t innocent. Fully one third she will follow stay against her will. She wills it. She giggles. Real seeds are never there that long. They must be something else. What is going to happen, we learn? Notice there is always some fire in the doorway across a lake. Bruce dreamed of a lightning bird under the bed. Is it ever the same?
part of it you think? We walk slowly for this secret. There are fast vehicles bound for somewhere else: signs on their foreheads. Men drive them. & helicopters fly over telesterion. No one flies them or they have no tongue. The music (her secret) is on downstairs. The secret is to incorporate the world. She is heavy into corn futures. There are fortunes to be made in baskets. The road has been silent. What is never uttered in summer. Not a season of balance after July, when we see the self evident corn is not it, though something. Rumors poor in form, identity,the genes recall it. Why she went searching for her. Her procession she makes continue. You live above, & believe in time are shown something — vulgar. Whither. A season of involvement, after this. Notice the same ‘attitude.’ Why don’t they just give it away? Cista mystica, show how it showers from the sky basket itself. Show us The moon is obscene. Or dog is. Light hole in sky laugh belly dactyl was of dawn but iamb did we never learn? was coarse. Bark at anything her light will eat anything. Appetite. (numbers: How many families, dancing places? Nine. We will act upon them by combining. One. We will make them all. Soon. (The rest of us will change.) Her daughter will go deep into the earth. Her son will return. She has no son. Light of her life, flicker in this house, do not be private.To see her being shown is to be. Sown. ‘s own. Jugs in the hands of makes man. Women the ones with seeds. Otherwise, all of us pilgrims: Staff & scrip, tickets. To close & enter is an act. we are not paid for lightly. She will receive who has not planted blood. & not by any means on the first trip. “experient’s soul” flashed upon by thought: the planets move from home first chance they get is dark to us to find. An heuristic choice finds them first. Situate. eyes closed, or narrow, not really looking. Core is the cob. first meander around acres making friends of mortals. They are the level at which to seek. It is their darkness she stays in, their period of year.They look strangely, agriculturally, speaking.
People who have lived on land say these things, aloud.
means the tops tipped, the waterflow. The point was that her body. Our foam. erotic life source rose. Out of the wet. mown ear in silence, heard the ocean. Shell of wealth, listen to them: children of the sea. Wearing silk for their sounds laughs the waves lap larger every seventh child knows that. Bull in the sea on the left. Ball played right. Sacrifice walks this strand, watches gulls, feeds them. Impersonal libido. Popcorn she used to bring them down to hand. She contacts the low life of the high life. Along this, we make fun of her. Where the strand goes, not us. Bees at dusk, or past, tell of a large backyard, central. Reports go there, of life in houses. No one ventures to verify this. Arthritics sympathize with a dance constrained & go there, themselves, but come back quiet, better. Age is certainly criterion. It certainly divides. As horizon is the contour of between the sexes it gives us time, to look, the clouds intimate, & upward. Young, as weather goes apart from us reveals a hand in it, the god who limps along was Vulnerable once (we prayed to Him) & thus the one who fashioned what we see. How old, the bronze used in the set of sun. How old, cunt of Baubo, and yet we laugh that she still show. It is merely funny, the world that goes around. (Miracle of circle, ellipse we kiss the ground who holds us, internal & forever. As rain we become well. How to become water. There is a shore to walk, trace her simple mouth, alveola, stones the neglected teeth she still can say us
It is very dry & threats of tears prove meaningless. It is a month not known for this, or is no preparation for. These are the days. There is the gong that means thunder, thunder. The sun sees more than wanted. world that goes around. Carry torches further, into dark & dry, ritual restriction. To leave the body fails, subvocal urgencies fear length, per se, the low percentages in it, ambling the cosmos, choosing. Hold the torches where we are, why we are in our shoes. |
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SWERVES Today on the way down a slowing down
bee was watching me dying. & tested his
wings, no more dances but to fight the rush of wind that reminded him of falling only the orientation was otherwise. Just to hold on to the side of the vehicle was to prove it, last into October, scare the driver (what driver) into unnecessary concern, divert him from his course, threaten to take his body.
within a shell within shells. Within the sign of behemoth above leviathan was the incarnate idea of the size of the world. Measured by the Swerve.
but sweet as the cider would have been in October, ideas lasting months now was honey the idea. |
PETERSBURG 1982
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Visible silver grad & tree the year is snow & snow is talk the sun has set us up to here the ancient sense of boundary the new body of the dream kissed woman has her luxuries, or looks west to him who holds, this in. It rhymes & stares at all the strangeness morning late & bright goes down with him is cold. There is no stanza like the present comfort government will say, you live this now, & underneath. Underneath was Peter, great below his son knows greater than the crossless graves & uncrossed legs the women will bring us to the west. He knows the greater noise is even there in music underneath the slow slow tape of everything forgot. It snowed & then they learned that under it there were no shores or bombs or friendlessness nor tables monuments to peace or great. No greatness there Or on any horizon difficulty sits an old or giant memory the sun the crosser of our longitudes, the once we used to kiss so long our lips would freeze together & if we ever tried or never did to get apart for god forbid we’d bleed from them into the other’s you remember gums that invasion? How beautiful it was, the blood down the stairs then into the square from trying simply trying not to tell. It all was told (they all were cold) & hunger was a simpler need the mouths upon a crust of sawdust pressed so hard into wheat it would not ever break. They never broke the bread. Beneath, then, the snow religion ’s dream of any two of us are doing what we want, or eating up the upper world upon us all the time, upon our shores. They are not all so white that his fortress has to stand for any place we put the ones we would not kiss. So let me kiss you voice & make me cry, your sad warmth running up & into world, & drink it back, the salt is on the bread is soft the water hot. |
ZIMA
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Just from among the birches is her winter picture, and the snow emerges as the sky comes out of her, she doesn’t know. How soft. How I have waited for her to find me on that long walk the huts whose smoke invited her & spoke of heat & cold & where she was along the way. She noticed then the branches & the twigs & verbs of walking from the snow made her want to rest her eyes from all the difference love would make in day would give her up to be, dressed in whatever wasn’t silver whatever let her shine. She came to me in blue, another woman’s mouth first spoke her kiss then hers became her own I told her to. & Then she came to me again, or white, the birches were behind her, somewhere else. “You magus who would own your child go back into yourself,” she laughed “& find there what you need is different from the want. I have spent so long you wouldn’t know among the whitenesses wanting all the red.” She had it now I lost her as she went among the world the way was anywhere she went away to call me to myself laughing at the darkness gone. |
RHINECLIFF STATION
for Pam Black
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fog was that unpopular: only a man can be uncovered such & downstream follow him. Call him a kind of beauty if he observes. A little mystery in that light. What light the river? The work unpopular, large ice masses create the sound as people come to watch. Its literal & rhythm is infrequent.
a quiet artist in the light, & other globes receded in it too, & air horn spoke to that of fog: the decibels of courage were out loud, North, & hard time stopping. Nothing ever finished on this journey, this river in different weather has followed this engine such entropy could kill a man faster than the freezing, dark & fog. Or if not require attention beyond description of station as memory some late 40s loneliness meeting here (a train arriving an artist with its light & dark. |
CASTING SHADOWS ON THE MOON
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Getting up to watch the moon get chewed away Left to right, then losing interest in its total Darkness, just an absent luminary My matter cast its shadow on; Then getting up again for this, bright day In Cancer, not the year but the day, tense, Clear if accepted, influencing, breeze: The simple discloses itself first. Coming away from bad beliefs As the morning cat comes to lie In my shadow, away from too-warm place: Not the year he says but the day. |
SOME ANSWERS
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It won’t be a field like you think. It will be a field. Many questions will drop away & women will answer you with running. There will be formal responses: money will answer for thistle & thorn pain & blades of grass a soft fear of talk. Constant rustle will ignore you, free you from the singularity of difficulty. The diatribe will lead you to tributary & there will be significance & rhythm growing on the banks. The lights are will o’ the wisps, talking about carnation, then the rose. The lines are arranged in rows no matter where you look & sentiment the fence around the field you think is there. |
ORACLE OF THINGS STOLEN
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Consider it being ripped out like that. Who you must be to be so from. What are the other ways of entering you & who are they. Consider having to wait why it would be done like that, to hear. Now dispel the aural. Behave like a mountain, be entered by it. Who you must be to accept this silence. |
CAPITAL
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1 Time is money It allows me to be next to her as cities rise in her, & there are gifts. & there is the consequence of lawn, lost in being neither outside nor in, which is waiting, which is the classless struggle, which is color I confuse with this presence I demand She is asleep during the day. 2 The distant family of limitations does not disturb that lost power, ancestors are as near as she needs. There arises a belief in time as an exchange, all of this for some of that, equality itself become a tool, less than a dream when you know what you’re making when you don’t know what you’re making except opportunity, I stand here & let her sleep. 3 Do I need capital for that? Let me order this experience & pay for it in Crystals of Impatience any time but now, where out on the lawn a dog looks out, should there ever be real silence, in case there should be nothing to pay for, we would use for coin? |
BLUE LIGHT
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Blue light because a so-called witch—because a well— a cave that held imagination not simply at its bottom our used up youth perhaps to trust her powers to us use it if we find how find how simple (Light is what it is) there & climb out Not so simple: trust in our abusers doesn’t pay us well, she has no access to get us out of if she lets us go. |
NUMBER
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So number begets number as if we all began in cities. Where are those books, will all be blind again. Everything we built was false. We have merged into nameless descent of the properties, the property of even five minutes along the street. Why have never all the even old ones said anything about it, what is spring but a more natural sound, seeds being passed, nuclear. We have become against the seeds. In the greed of number gods to build without the little books became afraid of friction (the fiction of such fear). The buildings then will blend & memory will disenable us from knowing what we knew to be the truth of source: Nothing that was true was true of course. |
REVERSAL
for Robert Duncan
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What do we do when that is off, all the wartime traveling one wants to do, all the Baedekers? What are we to do with all the numbers come the reversal? Especially as any digit becomes subject to compulsions. We know then that the spell accepts, if not demands, intrusion. The usage of a man arises when he has not foreseen. Simply enumeration from amongst the regulators: It is a measure. Come the reversal, the measure’s off. That is a pulse of great electron blood some of us will not be here for. Some of us will. Which of us is who? If today is off, we’ll see each other tomorrow, man, & all the locations have become confusions. in the darkness attempt towards compulse, number, read. the many who were cursed. When whatever did not occur can be said to have failed, the Soul itself longed to be mapped into the strongest number, she created this, an oscillation, a kissing spark to ignite the reborn sign of the hand— one “sets one’s hand” & thereby feels his fate, often slipping back & forth, address of symbol to address of symbol. We wait for a remembrance: you’d placed a marvelous spell so we could believe a city & all its light was behind you. the one two light in the west set to guard against the mistake so often made against process. Here we were again, the palm of your hand in its time measuring Who among us heard, heard. of course, did not, for all its thundering hooves as it needed to flee, it fled, into the center of the possible reversal, is not a failure. the loss of spell, the mess of digits reversed, what are we to make of when this happens. |
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It has married the black Because the body is so slow to notice, there is a shattered other it accepts or because the last things come back from her, all in pieces, it is slow & then we recognize as you our darkness, recognize as us, upper worldly speakers of the fragment troth, a truth in darkness’ other lust, for lust, past kiss upon the flesh, Mirror for our touch. A shadowed other shows our wishes to our self whose pleasures’ pane is also lost in this, the incest’s fragments’ picture of the other’s death in music even crystal impulse of what upon us in the time comes to be a point of you. |
AT ITS HEART IS AN ADDER
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At its heart is an adder. A simple gate, almost polished the walls interior as plutonium, entering & standing beside the strophe, coiled & commuting, into, dust. I remember two of us at first, out in a sun green world, we loved even the dilapidations, broken stones cast into less obvious order. Always without remorse, the moneyed
light elaborate meals under white canvas tents,
Then some metallic threshold you thought was made of diamonds Two of us said together & so we did, nothing was forbidden we crossed, then there were walls, Obsidian at first modulating toward a dry turquoise & finally the thin glittering silicon echoes. But then the others: fine drops become a possible, potential rainbow, all the emotions suspended and catenary, adhering now to the dust, their lives messages passing one & then another into sight, being. The adder is a season, thought, cold form of possession waiting for the likes of us, no work but between, who otherwise lazed with our champagne & cassis, lulled by the easy carbon hardness through the gate, to description. * The adder adds us to a list of indexes, but the others are countless, doubtlessly occurring so many answers pass it hums. What do we know of this mirrored maze other than the unnameable, the pene- trator who has caused us to know this heart? & what is left of the sun green world upstairs, too bright for anymore? Nothing, nothing. We made our pact with illusion, & passed through; If a serpent is anything, it is the color green. * Then I am set down in a green expanse all its weather, dark ozone menace, Solitary rusty implements for rods, Where are you, I ask the flatness of this world, where are my walls? Nothing shines in it, nothing moves. Before what storm would I have you, Electronic, memory, black birds hum along the wires like starlings, a little bluer but still without real messages. This is a place only of auguries & portents, where are magpies, where are
No walls, and so no portals, no hands of god from cloud with golden cup, spilling, No doves, no clouds, no you. None of this is really green. Rather it is grey, & I am blinded by foreboding. The farmers have sent their wives out into it, to gather, mend, prepare— Into the vortical danger, from just those low hillocks west. What visions might arrive, What beasts might finally recognize What other beasts, what computations Might be performed against the sky. At last: all of it a threshold, I see you, troubled as you should be, fretting over evil, I offer you my cup, & turn away. * The adder, of course, lines the plane. The two dimensions spread themselves, Giant condor shadow circles, a unity within a limestone field, or harder, Silica, but far from glass (I see you, too)“
is this dryness really mine,” I ask the rainbow fire around your eyes who say do not turn away — “Real trees go deep into the mirror speech, know evil well & drink its water.”
I ask, why this information, why this love? My hand was copper green“I t was the cup was gold.” “It was the offer I admired,” you said Remember when we first met You said you’d look for me & did— Well I am of this wideness ruler, The tree is normal to us now, & cannot see me say:
The model of a mind, partitioned. All its thinking, facile, all its feeling, other
Inside, her hair was red, skin translucent light of her deep blood crossed into the system through the membrane of my memory: Being held, against the drowning waters, Dry the same then as safe & so thought replaced feeling, platinum streakings replaced the truth of her hair. At her heart gnawed the act of saving, the trouble kept in the world, continuing all the difficult processes of survival, remembering. The painful impossible spasm as the brain
Short-circuit & involving the self in that Electrical wildness, holding was dying, the passing through the gate of life into death, insulation, from the hatred of the life she could not save. Someone saved my blessed life: The walls were metallic, an adder hissed close, the saline electrolyte of mind, All around, that is, without real body was the danger, one of those poor women reached into that, & pulled it through the gate. * At its heart there is an other. Two platinum walls for eyes normal to this meeting, normal to the cold & weatherless feeling you get when dread escapes. What if the other is all A panic sense of love, he jumps “out from this sublimated other nature” & stares, metallic & irreducible. Here is autonomy: there is no room for any you who sees yourself in this. Or who does not, when grief is nightmare’s best reflection, find any other thing but grief. |
FALL
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A leaf a second my daughters use their time to leave me so wise theories of the dry tree — that family — drift into being. Not lore. I wish it were. Rather the gold of the harsh crow caw, warning here is morning & a man stepping out onto his porch not his field of fodder before him. All the little kernels have been taken up as tiny suns, in their stead, dry sunless orphans, loud complaint of the birds in back.
Every year those purposeful sisters sing the praises of their loss even as they fall. |
THE GROTTO
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At last led into the grotto. At last levitated by the hand of God that greeny shadow, how high the ceiling things across time.
What happens is they learn. Lovers are finally loved & cities, their green light. Not azurra, that blue womb, with which hath no man no money but money itself, purchase, photo in a book, light upon a plate, the grotto suffused, imbued. Eternal depth fertile madonna tricks of lightness smooth as glass mirror horizon of so below. So levitated toward the grey-green surface the prayers we feed on complex waves, last light forsaken atmosphere, a few tears .... Rend this veil, valley of. Pebbles on the bottom, rain against this glass. |
CORN OUIJA
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Anything beginning with a poet’s moon above the corn sea, what eye rises and says to that flock, afraid the women, who imagined then a man rising thus, a swell above them, mist a voice, We have missed you said & they upon, went in. Wherein, it was no difference, lay them between themselves, various eyes askance askew the rays that had followed in, bent by the time, simple lateness of their fact. Two (that is) whose prayers stayed with the wide & wavy field, and the corn population, once inside disappeared. Once inside, fruit of their seed, fright left, toward the center, not of house but that quiet place in the east part of the house where spirit not on such nights. Moon, with all its propensity. Off in its distance, scared bugs, food for whatever was used to night careful to refract the lumens, gathered about, & lit. But outside, Marys lost them selves in this perception. Marys shied away from the curved nature of continuance, and in the one good speech, the one where all directions are given, had been is true, as if asleep. Into such surroundings, then (no virgin offering herself to cleanse the balls) came the closed eye of man — loud, illiterate, grubby fingers raced over the nipples that had not come. Now this was a moon: “Single me out,” he said, “quickly. Choose me rising as I am chosen, (as he is risen in this maize, from which there is no real escape no plan for any of us) be full.” Enough of the virginal, however, so when his eyelid raised, a man came out, &, apologizing, simply read the signs. “You are all inside, & safe. I love you all. Where I come from,we cast no simple spell, or actually spell not. And cats walk upon the shells of dogs.” “No — let him speak. A darkened room, we hold our hands around our love. Bring the little ones back in. And just at that, the flying globes illuminated all.” Once it is devoid, we can return. Killdeer & warblers chaste by the innocent machine, whose magnitude the source of blindness. Broad day, and the sun is the same light, it is the corn different, to whom the prayers. What comes in day? Merry leavesas soon as it is mourning, the perimeter only of the populus devoured, but no child-birds know that, scamper why not fly toward that center in the east, just outside the house. |
SECOND CORN OUIJA
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We are not bothered anymore, enough. Certain oracles, certain nights before, these contain such safety that we lunch on in to the future, outside, the breeze & chirping, summer machines, the mail arrives. The man represents himself as speaking for the entire All of you shall be mown & probably a single one of my days & when it is convenient. Sow what? Again? And feed the holsteins, who have never prayed ad Infinitum? We have not enough objections anymore. Exposed, tan, causal about the dearth of the fam concerned about the death of the farm, when any machine — the moon, the sun — passes scamper pray chirp. Daylight, says the rising Man, is just my province, as the night you All waited in the mist was too. Waiting is a province. And we are waiters. Servants tending the flock of our minutes, Some of mine said one may have gone into that maize & not come out should I (No, I) go get him now that it is day. Find him, find him, read the board, he’s come from starving petro grad, & hides among our courn. Ye gods — or, if thorn, the gods — or could be goods, such animals spell the way they want us to follow. Shall we follow, then? Shallow, unholy, once grouped in a single place, near the corner of the house closest to where we grouped there, hoping that our fear would manifest, become single, speak. In broad day, that is true: we should. But if remembering occurs, previousness obtains, & speculation, that mirrored way, leads All on such a chase, & then it is not merely birds. Even now we hear they remember he must be in there somewhere. There, a cessna, up in the sky, ein Überflug, with tanks of poissons, just in case. Where his very being is manifest, the plane comes down, inspects — nay, intersects — the vision & crosses itself once more before oblivion. At the explosion, a dried locust branch locates me in its poem, and the peckers & the cardinals are dispatched to Petersburg for some eternal spring, & he rings out: I am ear. Three, left at the parameter, shouted back, over the antiphone: He is jism! I am knot! was heard, complex problem with a unique solution: cut him down, and from the grain a liquor into which to dip our ends. Lick him who has up eared in midst, Day is upon us with amessage, with a scythe. But two acrossread “side” & laid him down upon it, peaceful like a mild breeze with nothing not even prayer upon its mind. Too late, he boomed, for now you cannot hear I really said And Day was upon us with a vengeance. |
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Some risks must be worth it. Driving fast through rain, more attentive to returning geese overhead or the mother at the bus stop saving her child than conditions, whatever passes. Can drive & kiss if the lips are right
In Spring there must be some struggle you cannot hear the tulip shoots push through. Youth spent in that kiss, the mouth sore, petals must be tender to be beauty. The rushing season is a risk. Wherever the bulb is planted there is danger. Whenever you kiss him he closes his eyes. |
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“In sunny Mexico full moon without you I am in the golden lazy land with money, I walk in water small creatures swim up & remind me.” March wind, here. Jesus tells Nicodemus: that is my desire abroad in day, to know the sounds of the earth for whispers, love it is otherwise cold without. I do not know the tongue of the New World Spaniards. I have heard that everywhere you walk a garden is, I have heard everywhere you are, a man suggests tequila, marguerita. the golden haired mother of god to touch & be so blessed their filthy hands reach out. They are only men, only far away. Her lips are here, the mother of God, waiting for you. |
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the organism comes at last to consider the known: prefigured, wife or husband, way the river wends, scale of sky’s grey, the language “I had this dream & they were screaming” the implicate
demanding him exactly where it crosses from fallacy into. Tree of Jesse, Tree of Life, Rood
source of the Whole Thing, snowballing into entity, a subject whose time itself can be injured. Face of a man’s beloved encountering the Tree. you would feel his kiss there it hurts
without him come to know what I cannot do without,
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PASSOVER
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In rush to penetrate I call the wrong name. So much downpour lately, passing over, unleaven moon follow me, then, into the reeds you are so wet: I make a mark. Wet as the angel sign, paschal moon dipt into & rises, real bread this
for me, I follow, flow along, pushed by longing, exodus, exodus. road, or rivulet, out into the night of bleeding angels No, not this house! (Above the door, the urge to penetrate) Walk in, drift in, I have seen the symbol inside me: silver pink fish pick up the essence of the moon & go. I have seen God & not spoken. Left bread. Wet, still warm to put my right hand in you & call your name. |
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In the analysis of wetness forgotten was who I was beside, like moon, traveled with me down & back. Flowing, stable, crisp blue-brown wetness. Ganges. Hudson. Dry ashes scattered land in the hell of city &, wet, flow up through the interface into the vault. A star is a wet ash. A speck of dust, someone we know together, invades your eye. A tear. A star. Wet ashes by the river under the vault of heaven. |
WEB
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Evoke nothing
September gossamer, real text from her eyes as we finish
along that strand in the mail “nothing” that is for you” (the spider
a letter comes it is fog it is morning
she is not sad, really there are words
along the strand (had the moon stayed up
to a spider long gone since morning might seem a sort of imago lunæ (what does she think of
as I go limp, Fall
at the passing trees. |
AVENUE OF PINES
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Ancient avenue of pines, the macro cosmic sway among as if a little Lionel will stop, puffing pellet smoke filtered into polystyrene snow. We are silhouettes against the plastic windows & face forward. If we look out at all, it is to see ourselves, vague words about to avalanche upon us. Be still & wait. No train passes, no troika, sleigh. Hold our balance now the world is upside down. Snow settles on the pines again. |
for Suzanne
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Given over to love the way a whirling column of finches probably sparrows transfers the virtual shape of its object dance to the broken stone turret or granary, miles away, inadequacy of memory given over to narrative, once a story about the seeds so birds in their acquaintance. Give ourselves over to love, to hear some persistent hammer against nail into pine building an ancient silo at the center of the improbable marsh: it must really be somewhere else or else (I have wrongly imagined) a huge woodpecker acting unnaturally. Or other bird. The contour of our senses is established by commitments. By committee: whirl & generate a beloved shape, naturally, & ascribe qualities of the unseen to the otherwise familiar: If I love you it isbecause I know you ↑I ↓don’t ↑know ↑you! But: I saw you in church & during the sermon thought about money, the accounts we jointly hold, perception from behind of who with that hair & those probable eyes you really are when you only know I am looking at you without using your eyes, feel me. & I saw you miles away in a strong field of tassling corn, & was grateful for all the rain we’ve had lately not because of (as the farmer) the size of the stalks but because now it was clear, the fog soft moon upon you. I heard you in the thunder that approaches even as I speak to the current brightness of the sky & am grateful again. In the center of the stories I have not told the seeds of reasons. Why cylinders. Why battlements. The sky is blue then purple. Goldfinches. How the sun (now) and the moon (then) became round, & continue to stare. Why there is a god somewhere in there with us. Scarlet tanagers. Heavy downpours. Forgetfulness. Sparrows. Forgetlessness. Forget-me-nots. All this ignorance
shape. |
HANSEL& GRETEL IN THE UNDERWORLD
for Mary Caponegro
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Meet me where we saw each other first, whatever strikes you as familiar is. No maps, but feel the straw, wet from saltless god tears, strewn, an accident soft beneath our feet. Over this a thousand times: no sooner April, May. Cows move on like people. Cold even when I touch your hand. The man they call my father anyone could be I never met, & you are seeking whom? I’m looking for my love, a beauty looks herself like me in darkness dies in April. Birds here are large, timely: blue heron mornings, buzzards at the evening meal: hayseed & deerskin mixed with shadows, oblivion, crumbs of music, drought. |
AN ODD RUSE
Pathless places and felled-tree barriers,
there is where many a battle thrives.
Measure this against love.
—Wolfram von Eschenbach
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Wingèd things time demanding we must admit the light with its flickering is therefore not, half the time, in sync with their conception and then it is in that other half that they conceive under the spell of privation to the battle becomes the fault. Starved because there is a distinguishable Outside, a king, whose shield bears him upon it and death was his device. O the lady’s feigned sadness is her loss. It is not her message outside this window that is the moon, these aren’t her junebugs clamoring to get infor video, the light that is our blood. Glamor is the meadow. We dream upon it when the roaming night dogs too understand about the moon in battle. Hardness clangs there once. Run through in the subdued illumination so that the blood a sort of mercury purple black vapor like his lips around the spear. Run through his mouth the king’s words come to the window lost among the millions of lost dreams, wingèd accuracy nor more of shape but the type of light. An oily iron highlight links in the mail and the four bolts fastening the boss to the shield: Death is you can see it, a lady, an oil lamp behind her to delineate what we fight for on the lawn so late, why everyone must be a king and die. |
THE LAW & THE FISSURE
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What does the fissure say first, πρωτος hum, stumble within its ramblings sky darkening good, a —logue in some Ursex swallow a bird, a swallow snake, kite departing, an easy word. For her, they were easy. Say beat me with a goat thong & thereby fertilize me made your day. Just instructions. Anyone can teach. Anyone can found a city. But what you know! But what you do! long bitstreams fluid so that by moving in neighborhoods the edge. the narrative. The contour lies. Fissure farts tell us: no more reasons among us, no evidential to change the mind. At night, just brown breathing whirling I fetch a stickin case a dog. I ‘succumb.’ But enough memory from the new moon to suggest the presence. enough light upon ancient pain The pyramids had shape. long bitstreams. DNA. Faces of each brick a prick in each fissure. Future. What Jesus says is follow. Fetch. So any value, reduced to number has no more value. no need to grave
A long bitstream flew by the tomb. Or tumulus & wherever circles are built we roll. Stones that we are. Hardened hearts. Go, then, to hear the Oracles upon you. Go notice how the Templars descend from Luperci, Lux. Nux from Numa. Go hear the Law. Notes on Reading “The Law & the Fissure” Fissure: in this case, probably refers to fissures in the earth, above which supposedly sat the priestess of Apollo who gave the Oracles at Delphi. Some say that gases emanating from the earth caused a form of intoxication which led to the trance in which the oracles were produced. πρωτος: ‘Proto-’ Greek for ‘first’. As in protoplasm. -logue. from Greek λόγος, ‘reason’, ‘speech’. As in dialogue. Ursex: ( Ur- : German for ‘original’, as in proto-) here, a pun on logue (log), where the log in the fissure is imagined as a kind of primordial or global oral sex—hence ‘swallow.’ From there, a pun on swallow, to the bird, with the snake being a phallic version of the log. From there, kite is a type of bird. In the Audubon Birds of America, the picture of the kite shows the bird ascending with a snake in its mouth. Also: swallow snake: the ancient figure of the Ourobouros, the serpent devouring its own tail, an image of eternity. (sometimes spelled URobouros). an easy word: word=λόγος=logos beat me with a goat thong...: a Roman ritual which happened one day a year was the Lupercalia, named after the Luperci, the devotees of Romulus, founder of Rome. Romulus was reared by wolves (‘lupi’), or so the story goes. During Lupercalia, a select group of men ran naked through the streets and whipped the women with thongs of goat leather, to make them fertile. Bitstreams...neighborhoods....contour lies: digitized images are composed of course of streams of bits, each one representing the shade of grey or color at any point on the screen. Sophisticated image processing techniques can enhance photographs to exaggerate contrast, and thus it is often possible for the computer to detect edges in digitized pictures where the human eye cannot. Hence: “no more reasons,” i.e. once we have digitized images, it is no longer possible to trust the truth or history of an image. By means of computers, I can create a photograph of me on the pyramids even though I have never been there.
Thus, eventually, it will be difficult to use photographs for evidence, because there will be no way of establishing the veracity of the image.
Brown breathing....: once, walking the dog in a pitch black night, all I could hear was breathing and whirling. I had no visual evidence that any physical presence was there. I succumb to the temptation to believe that something is physically there because I hear it.memory from the new moon...: the new moon can’t be seen; it lies between the earth and the sun, and is therefore overwhelmed by sunlight during the day.bitstreams... DNA...faces: DNA consists of long sequences of genetic coding information, which can be likened to the image bitstreams above. A person’s face is the result of DNA encoding; aging is the result of mutations occurring during RNA transfer. Also: faces: facets: sides (of a pyramid) Any value, reduced to number, has no more value: Edge detection, contrast enhancement, and so on, are accomplished by a computer filtering numerical values assigned to various shades of grey or color, and magnifying or altering the difference between natural values. Thus, the original value is lost. grave: of course, tomb. But also from Ten Commandments:...no graven (inscribed) images before thee. Hence, (possibly), no longer possible to believe in false gods (images). Hence, only the true images (those created by the imagination) are ‘real’: the illusory nature of reality. tumulus: a circular grave mound, such as those built by the ancient Celts. Thus the circular stone in front of Christ’s tomb combined with the horizontal circle of the tumulus mound. The Circle (the initial O in Oracle) represents completion, but also is the shape formed by the Ourobouros.Christ said, “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” meaning “I am the beginning and end of history.” i.e. the beginning and the end are the same, the tail in the mouth, Ursex (original sex; one sex...prior to the splitting of the sexes).
Templars: a semi-secret society of knights sworn to defend the Holy Roman Empire during the Crusades. It is my contention that they are descended from the Luperci, i.e. the wild ones, who had a mythological figure who was half man, half horse as their symbol. The claim here is that the brotherhood represented over history by such secret groups as the Rosicrucians are all representatives of a primal organization whose task it was to rise up against established order (the Law) when necessary (one day a year: Lupercalia). Also, according to American Heritage (this I didn’t know at the time), a templar is ‘a LAWYER or student of Law having chambers in the Temple of London.’ See also Paul on ‘The Law.’
Lux: light (Latin). Nux : night (Latin). Numa: the successor to Romulus who established the Roman art of Law. The suggestion is that the descendants of the “wild side” (Luperci, etc.) represent Light (reason, consciousness), while the descendants of control and law represent Night (repression, unconsciousness). |
WHO’S ON DENDRON TREE
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These strange squares ♦ called diamonds ♦ called Paradise. Like a rude ex-girlfriend at the Half Moon & frozen stars entirely mysterious acts of recognition these grow -th cones as they touch base yield (field) Me-Mo-Ry in the park a thought a score the ideal 5 to 3 in the nine -th musial’s fifth on the radio a single camera up & behind home so we the viewer can tell the curve from the hypothetically straight. Before freeze frame. Eleven thousand neurons walk to first. Sixty-six thousand spikes infuse the cloth with significance, “make an impression, All of it Giamatti notes motive
if performed in accordance with the rules omnipotence of sacrifice (yet they continue The motion
someone inside the system (the diamond) throws to first reasons
“to second to second,” roar ellipses the stands stand it is winter/forgeter forget the man standing on his own second in his own
It is He Who is Now Up that is the Real Worry Oh the quiet shuffle... the massive cell death upon birth improperly connected, improperly formed so autonomy therefore life so what
becomes future. Fully one third is stolen, quiet pseudopod shuffle no one covered no one that is save (safe)
in the Memory [before Brock, but like that— Ckobbr, cleats high rocks & stones in the frame a man in black or a black man also passeth judgment on this Paradise.] ‘Picture’ misspelled but the neurons proclaim it anyway Winter, clear, Clare, sphere somehow bending our perception: stop it & it refuses to curve; let it go & ball three aka earth is history. It is summer, there, and the boys keep watch on the stands. Rocks & slings. Down the pipe
as fast proclaims unser Über-Roth & what is possible always exudes potential:
such that we with our cyclops lens notice within certain known boundaries what fate calls input the Muscle calls out thus emanates into Being:
a Homer. Everything we never saw or let go by for naught, the fact is five to five. |
THE BOWL OF CHERRIES THAT LIFE IS
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a yelloware dish heaped with forty blackberries just picked from the bushes east of the house. a centerpiece of phlox, wild daisies, & buttercups gathered on our evening walk. how the herbs are doing, how tall the iris is, how soft the cat looks in the grass & then your eyes: no more a stranger here, you come from time to time to see what has become. for Cynthia. On |
PARADISE
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Labial shape of the shell her ear next to it, articulate labyrinth choose your paradise shape, then, of ocean: 2 of the oldest botanists sit in the foam. Ladies, what is the nature of this collection? One’s paradise walking by another is no paradise, a garden ever fruitful, what washes up. A pelican makes a proposition: whatever soft fish you find in my beak afterwards alwaies speake the very truth” then nothing for minutes. The shape of eye curves the horizon age bends with it porpoise back or her young spine, arched, a shell cut into her heel reminder perhaps every how old we are thing shells along the strand. |
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A PYRAMID for Robert |
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That much is finally over: convocation of the jackals howling at the sacred scarab pulling the bark velamentous night before our eyes. We rub them & they are gone Udja eyes, the need to ward anything off forgotten once inside the chamber, once past the The stars too are gone & serpents have been banished and people who had no chance to be nothing but the phases of regeneration finally recognized. It is your boat we are all in that the beetle, sated with our memories, pulls from the skull, black sail behind him “Look down there!” says one of us, “a pyramid.” That much is finally clear. |
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THE WELL-TEMPERED CONSTELLATION |
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Gould’s tender rumble under the klavier— my wife returning, the throaty Saab? No, nor the Martian lights entering the bright field of moon. Saucer of unseen milk. How odd to learn it from a cat! One ancient, capable of imitation the other a survivor: the two constitute a field, a doppel shift into error: nor is that her. It is not like her to be so silent. to be not here. Roar of the first real (black) fall night, the black Halloween cat eyes predicting the sadness when one of us dies. A day of marriage, wrath dead, of food cilantro & garlick, that’s us that Halloween Robert & Mary were us & we their silent spirits there in the comer this year we have real (almost) wolves. So every sound could be her: the thing about absence. leaves (finally) from the tree there in some corner, scurrying planet, one of the four wander ing eyes transformable constellation what myth is all of them who nevertheless constellate by their connection with the real— sex? That unstable cyclic form of marriage, the sound of what it would mean if no sound were ever her? |
COLORADO SEANCE
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Some apport for this seance: glacial rocks, rain River for scrying: what shall become of a family that gathers
Mild clouds a sung note familiar activity amazed more by what doesn’t fall place-settings & linen thick with her discharge carried into the scrying room silvery moist things up inside her all the time What else, simple family are we waiting for if not the future to fall upon us, lathered by her genitals, & make where we are? |
THE FALSE DOOR
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Somewhere here, the false door. Two small punctures no false hope a man’s blood slips through to meet his Ka: somewhere in the night lifted up, blind but for the ‘opening of the mouth’ when the permanent body has been destroyed, flies in this dark chamber animal kingdom kingdom. Who rules this beast where we wait by the door an eternity “Dear dead: who am I?” knock knock (& Death, he never guesses, never gets it no sense of humor, no smile two sharp teeth permanent fire in his eyes as he comes flying through this flesh, this door. |
THE SAME WAY
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I haven’t touched you yet, the same way coyotes come in the dark morning & gather somewhere beyond the marsh to sing, complain, say where they are, I haven’t seen them yet, or maybe it is that they haven’t seen me, emerging from my sleep just to hear their strange yip, you haven’t touched me. That same way. In any case, you left me tonight the same way I leave the landscape of a disquieting dream to be with women I often dream about without touching me, just to listen to them, out there who stop when they know I’m listening. Stop talking, that is, the same way those very same women you left me to see before ever touching me might themselves stop talking about you or me if we were seen listening, to them. What would they say those coyotes: “That man has a dog” the same way they might say “he has dreams” and “we can’t really trust him not to let the dog out, that is, wake up & come out here beyond the marsh to find that we were simply sound she could not touch.” I wanted to touch you, the same way a man wants to let the sounds of gathering be touched by his dream, the same way his fear collects around what he cannot see and then he sees it, touches it, and means it all. |
NIGHT OF THE FIREFLIES
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Blackest at eye level, & hot negative rough beast those fireflies wouldn’t circumscribe that night, you & I gazing at it— absorption, marsh, witness the clear space above the road, too they won’t go there
out of which... ikon of the pure
(life
cleanse us, fire that moves. * “Fire was the host” & east by southeast, vague sky-fire flashing born from the heat, malaise or languor, it is summer, the dull & soundless
sky, predictably above horizon a natural light behind us. Natural dark before us the contour of “most of it”— we are deceived because the sun is so intimate with us because sometimes there’s a general light or light over time. but here: I hold your hand & imagine it is you
the name of it to, you I don’t have to tell anything. Holding a hand in the pitch black real night, no artifice, just fireflies discussing its shape, it changes before us, into a hand,
territories of belief
of the old pines (how few, as the sky lightens,
in the trace of an afterimage. Afterglow. again that languor, after the sex, have we ever made love in the afternoon, coming in from the broad-day beach corneas scorched, the retinal blur between us, with our slovenly assumptions about time, us, my hand on your salty breast, its passive nipple, & doesn’t care. * This truer intimacy silent points seek the dark, &, finding it, pronounce “Here is where it just was. I die a little to tell you this.” Find the nipples of night the clear outline of the purely Imaginal beast arising from the planetary marsh
from you to me, sacred river insisting upon the dark of its generation, excited by the light fingers of memory excited by knowledge there is shape. There is only us
that it can be seen
in true dark. |
ADAM KADMON PASSES OUT THRU
HIMSELF, ARRIVES IN MALKUTH
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Of Kadmon, no autopsy face down (no face) when we took away the light spine illumined, a full moon in each ventricle. Grief upon his face elaborating always the genitals any impulse south, or down to Malkuth travel, out through the fundament a green & hilly town through the gate pass the decomposed impulses citizens who take anything for a face greet this sequence as themselves Town historian
God who Emblazons recognition, came & stood around the giant corpse passing gas (I mean the body) “In those days, it came to pass” “Citizens of Malkuth” stood in the feces of their own wonder unburied stranger radiant spine, active roots diffusing. Debate ensued. Was he just anybody, or somebody dead or dreaming visitor, or have we all known him a long time, asked one. Time oozing between the pillars & another & another asked to see his face (Concern if they turned him he had no other face than the one she gave him or his genitals enormous) rain moved in from Yesod & gaseous night descended. Kadmon dissolving with the light, the citizens dispersed. |
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the solid illusion: that water, too, is a metal shift in alchemical purpose (power) red berries of bittersweet (genus Æsthesia) seem to hedge well at the bottom but not directly under the burst matter, winter instant, instance of memory’s deceit there seem to be no real nerves (except maybe the few berries their color the only evidence |
HENCHMAIDENS OF THE ADVERSARY
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Let them fly away henchmaidens of the Adversary leave the rapid space time forms by talk
they might live there. They do not. bring a season, a story of longing, what it was like away from you utterly cold, intensely hot, great need for a
Don’t send them away, or else. important to believe in your own abandonment marsh that by degrees thickens with minor forms therefore organizes, constitutes horizon, & a kind of light where they like to fly. Into which blood, they send themselves as crepuscule,
realms is not a real realm except in a certain light brought on by their traces (the Adversary) draws there (the Circumscriber)
to Place
of forgiveness, a Desert we may never get to the marsh once teeming now fully organized, nexus of temptation where maybe they have been looked at a certain way. Is it the Obstacle who draws us into time the Logician:
as tempting as the strands of their hair the surface, little stream,
about some world power yoked to desire: their flight is not automotion but expediency, history the outline of His lust to make us believe
in sequence, of redemption? Demons need the gods as words need ΤΑΞΙΣ
desert needs marsh (even as we need to know
they are not the same. |
A STRANGE ANNIVERSARY
for Cynthia
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I send my body to you, shift shape, you wake, over you the dog, confused, ‘tis I (or so he says) One hour it takes to reach Brittia this way on that boat, not even a dog, to be seen, yet the gunwales are down to the surface of the water, she’s laden with shades. & recovering from ecstasy last I rememberbiting faces, like wolves, rough play, wait, real fight. The helmsman rises in the middle of night to take her out to the island, benandanti: struggle on the side of fertility The return contains the seeds answers for the living boys talk of crowds without hands, a solitary figure on the surface of the water in the vase, the curing herbs are known, I am the cause of my own infertility, they say – & I must do battle against Me. (Whatever they mean, all I remember is standing over you biting your face, confused. |
SOUND CHANGE
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Sound change: a tension in/
vowel, consonant with what I believe of language.
beliefs, language & what it allows us is what we pretend to know. Somewhere to get, soma, were, wolf. (howl at you, you YOU, I have to look at that ography, the O comes in, the you goes out
(who) I’m talking to,
important, or don’t it. What are are theories but? Times & places for everything, & everything. I would hate to put a period after everything, but a second time round is has to. is theory, is reduplication, τίθημι, put it there twice, me-verb, & breathe it out. God of the day of the sky of the original laryngeal knows I seek, to know him, & he speaks beyond the correspondence. If I could, becomes a question, how do I make history of what I know, what do I do with the vowels? (What things could those people not
had, it all must be here I know how to get there. My disposal: snow or mongoose can make no difference, etymology is for the fun of it, can I equals we
go on this speech, cream of it: that we can question, in ways different from telling. I can theorize until, until until becomes while, as it does
of this world.
any body, & I ask them to ask me back if my asking them is asking me at all or can I ask at all?
it matter, “we fail the words,” what an inspiration. Sound change: that ‘sea’ goes to ‘sea’ in Greek “goes to sea.” As we must, odissiad, sing goddess wrath of the sea, it takes us to it, sperm bank, laryngeal dyeus pHater, lord of the day has seen to it that bastard
over this earth, & we are idio
under this or that day, oppose the self to night what do we mean by this? “In the open,” exposed to the elements & the elemental, that is our words. see ourselves speaking to ourselves, batty as we are, about in daylight, sub jove wondering aloud how Dracula has become the adam, & not the other way. God, words can never die, if only we knew
that: how we live changes how we live & speak is the paradox. Write it all said the oracle said any body else, take them at their word.
many times, must I ask you this? |
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Long silences between stretches of pure low sunlight picking up the ridges along the top of unstable cars driven by stupid men who dream from the occult position of being away from the imageless woman hearth in which mild frost at the extremities dissolves like a daredevil upon the radio transmitter in a field of past corn still ungodly on the stalk, the practice in making our lives so erect: we danger every move with every move. |
of 