Flash-Mod Poems for Urban Redaction and Submission…said the paper-airplane-as-message from Borneo…Please read, review, offer comments and feedback, and most importantly – enjoy.
A high, immortal summer sits hunched on serpentine sands – begs in situ where I would not lose her eyes, and when I should not leave these lands; where steeped in living majesty the roving minstrels call; violent, vulnerable passions in their luminous revolt cause your fire’s teased soul to fall; feather the matinee’d dust, locked in a Moebius loop of frissons coughed out by capricious lust.
In the stern roads the joyless cars that run cloyingly on crystal fire – eyes glow as if for the first time, suave fossils, selling oneness’ masque; O buy, and buy well! And when I awake tomorrow with an unsure heart, I will scroll, click, and live in that gracious mansion made of summer light called Adoration, a singing Orphic bird, drawn to such desolate woods. Far from the city wants and wastes. Listen how the voice repeater patent goes: Queer flies the crow, queer flies the crow, and the moon shall ever know how queer flies the crow.
The Man Who Split Himself In-to
“I have no language for this,” he said, and bled and bled inside his own head. For truth, for love, for time eating itself did he say – “It verily cannot remain this way.” Lovers in a House of Mirrors, images don sagacious leers. He follows her in, but twain the chorus
did he hear:
Pacino as “Starface” this go-around – a will of the wind bids him afar and Adieu. Happy lover, laughing friend! Now in places two, alike, upon the verge where we must ascend.
He felt a pocket sad-full of laughs split holes where nethers crow and drop its seeds at last.
Orion sleeping on his side dangled celestial danger like a pop star’s balcony babe. The honeyed hunter of hellacious heights stands by, right where love spread new feathers in a tropic of why.
“I eat time, and love!” he yelled in the crowded marketplace, going chomp, chomp, chomp, chomp.
Then, at last, the human ceiling blew off, and the maelstrom tromped entire genealogies where the pruned limbs stabbed.
Now he walked the worlds above and below,
Split in two ways mapped, just so, in a fallen scheme of starry waste traded in on gold remains.
In the wars of miniature tigers, the fence leaned in where knives and fangs were out. The elder feline grew a fat beard of discontent to cover the pain and indignation of his territorial pas de deux. We nursed him carefully from his swollen incursion and the towers still broadcast sports and weather, viruses and fake feathers. A turn of light opened a chamber of seasonal doubt: no matter the welter, the whiskers ached and stood out for relief.
Would an eye toward loss see all the way through? Pock-marked desire and streets shadowed by birds that flew. Destroyer of Shadows left his drink on your nightstand. Destroyer of Stealth mocked his heartbeats like a clown. But now he sleeps, that tiger-king of the enclosure; an eye-language marks his prowling story.
You can’t beat the winds back for this kind of October spectacle. We were saying all along a rival may breach our paddock, and here, our Golem humps nothingness with a smirk of bald power.
Great hunk of colonial mash, cities like eyes on giant face in medium-burg corners lie, starring prodigious rivers. Industrious, some. One, you stare toward Canada across great lake; one, you had also a sepia-toned past of opportunity fleshed with pioneer netting and coal chambers. We straddle apparent opposites of the New Kingdom, such intrepid gulfs of land leaving us dry. Drying our leaves.
What was once housed in a school or requiem for youth, is now click-trotting, globe-clicking, un-champion of status quo and with great grids at his feet. Tea time, the alphabet of the land curls leaves and no brain is another. In we go.
Vroom with vervain guessing, what are these cities all about? Randoms syndicated, teeth all irradiated. The boy who swallowed a swallow – his heart then fluttered for years attempting to break out. I then looked not at faces but throats. No eyes, only what everyone swallowed, from day one. Breast milk, then Coors, then Almaden wine. Ice cream bars at 4 am.
We hiked to the lake and paused on plash of stem, where a warbler heard our glowing perversity and lit up the glen. Another time I thundered Thor’s cliffs as she swam far below. She, who untangled a moth from spider’s web as August burned laughed and laughed death away as the clockwork time-trains blared.
This dream is a France of the mind. A world we tumble into, where music-mavens grasp on cue, alter house music to fit their queue. Rod Stewart asks, “Do ya still think I’m sexy?” as the discotheque writhes in an anachronistic welter. “Beware les flics!” the cognoscenti scions of radical chic rave. And then she is there – a girl who once I played with when young, our bodies hot again under impossibly-colored lights. Linnet poses cause her a redness, too. She says “My cherry leaf has turned,” and pale, she must go. I catch her; she says, “You must be needed back at your bachelor pad” to my bemused incomprehension.
This certainly is some France of the mind. Sex a trophy for its sleeping wiles. The discotheque filled with discontent – les flics ready with batons and hate – the free, young bugs they fever to eliminate.
We are led along incomprehensible airport corridors, the meticulous Japanese shuttling groups of us from section to section, quarantined and endlessly waiting. At each checkpoint something is lost – time, money, the human…I feel I cannot go on. “We have a layover in Israel,” someone said, and flipped out a brochure that showed the Jews at their lugubrious wall, sun-drenched and dressed in failed dogma. I cringe at the proposed flight time and the intrepid prospect of landing in the Levant.
We fly, and I am met by an ex-pat American family who had chosen to live in the realm of the Shogun by choice. We feast with them in their dim but ample lodgings. With my lover on my right, a woman who had inquired into who I was sits closer, at my left, and begins flirting, subtly. My lover pokes me hard in the ribs and I fall off the bench, look at my watch and realize I must fly again. “Do I have enough time to pack?” I ask my lover, feeling crushed by time restrictions. She shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders.
I run out of there into a composite landscape where I meet old friends who seem to mock a kind of fame I have acquired. I seem impossibly trapped. To gain passage from this land I must hurry into those meticulous corridors once again.
OuLiPo (Ouvroir Litterature Potentielle – Workshop of Potential Literature) Snowball Poems
Halloween – Friday the 31st
Careers in Poetry
A Thor or Freya you may be in reason and in rhyme, but don’t fool yourself that the world will embrace you in your prime. Perversions of world racket carve no hole for you, and anyway, you would not be a tenant for such dimestore Nimrods. You will wish for a million eyes, and have only your own. But, they will do, and will see so much more than even their official, polished quislings adorned with thorny laurels. They will seem at times those of a mountain, river, or forest sprite. “The philosopher ends by sweeping the floors,” and the poet ends half-insane in alleyways or coffeehouses, on urban moors, but they – you, too – hunger for a place, a niche, a way to pad your waiting rooms and caravans before the sun at last is gone.
So, you lunchtime Shakespeares and improvident Yeatses will stoop to sell yourself low, for the simple prizes, for a box, should you eschew the open road, and be a kept tenant or pet of feudal impropriety and traditions that the saints themselves could not uphold. You planters of wise trees must find other slopes, the oddest homes, the farthest, widest-reaching shores in and upon which to pluck history’s roses of their canny thorns. But your greatest fight will be how, at last, to write and speak as only you in the you-ness of you.