Prow, the sky, vespertine, faces
The place where the sky & sea meet in the purple-red |
Sails, toes, those were yours,
The subtle curled movements in yr hands, little
Beach askance, that night, theories! You wanted, like haystack rock
Relentless, ‘udor, under
What is under, always that
Jacking off, those femmes de Prague
Did you forget me dad?
Did you forget me dad?
‘udor, ma’at, trope
the ingression into the psyche
and the soft gyrations of the gathering dancer, the dawn-
her blue river, Hopi, fertile, fucks Horace, Thrice Great
he in pavement in Siena (the one she couldn’t find)
you can’t imagine yr face half in shadow, the smell of seaweed
left to air or grass on yr knees
I speak of small things mainly
The uniter of the South and North lands
Under one mace
Our own Agamemnon
ton anqropon has descended,
in the fair sky
the same sky under which
father shot his head
and watched from a trailing eye his
brains splash the magnolia
: the last sight
“only god knows how much I’ve loved you”, came from under the ladder
I have noticed your declensions
(those of your body I mean, which is to say,
how you interact with the ground, feet
and thighs, back
our ongoing love affair with gravity)
on these humid nights
lit Troy seems nearer,
that isolated moment of birth, Lotus
in the bosom of the dark waters, Nun
and
we’ve come to enjoy the stark white, the muscles, soft planes of them
but of slants, the hieratic movements, their vertiginous regard?
And of eyes that watched the counter dawn
Years later, “artiwV men a crusotiediloV AuwV”
(in the valley ran the Adige below Venice
And he walked
Naked through the market
Carrying only Tolstoy the Christian muttering “ageatis byrjun, ageatis
byrjun”
Later winding up cemetery rd,
Red oak, bending)
Toward his older bones, fresh red clay
By side with other sons of lost causes
(silence
coming there to be clean
for once, finally
we are in the trees and through the wind the trees,
this place, cut
by two rds, Mill & 43, but
will never be still
for me
The skin cools slightly,
Sinking city, equator heat rain
The three spires of St. Louis
Striking sky,
J on a horse
The anti-president, or so
And this river comes by it all – the phallus
Emerging here, pierced clit
Of the north continent
And crumbling sweeps of upriver
In the leveed bends
The drained swamps and potholes,
Old columned houses cowering,
The coming heat of August
Make way for history they scream
Silently, to themselves
Only, as in curtained Galatoire’s
Itself
A topless revue now and
Farther down in hiemal January
Runs river fog
Glazed in placed by the pallid glows
Of street lights
What once was here stays
VENOMOUS & VIBRANT
This subterranean
This sex swamp
At the bottom of the sky
:already
we have men,
our oceanic, tales
of tribe, crossings
(things self-evident?)
things manifest: death in its forms, republican –
“campaniles” in cluster, Folsom, etc.
God, in his varied ways)
The OPEN, and of skin?
Of sweat, of conscience?
The look of it, slanted
Like me, changing,
It’s)
Skies-
Thousands of them
Birds too
Join us (then), the crease, of light,
It sings, Goya’s cross at the end of the room
Set off
For the most part
Light, of what is immediate,
Available, that is
What is given
Is most prominent among its lack
The measure of Is is what is not
“THE REIGNING DOGMA HAS BEEN THAT THE FUNCTION OF POETRY IS TO TRANSFORM OUR PERCEPTION OF EVERYDAY MATTERS.”
Ruins, the bow, the bow! Look!
50 yrs, sacerdotal (cantos, bridges, et al.
can’t find the cusp, the what I want to say but)
bald cypress and swamp are this place, moist
like between worked skin
strike right through the heart of the sky
(cypress root systems have periodic upshots of 1-12 inches; though their exact function
remains unclear, perhaps they are for structure, perhaps for breath) and
extending out in the green water the stalagmites
dormant alligators, merciless sun
and floating
houses (mattresses stuffed with Spanish moss)
what moves:
the Tigris, our mouths
EroV, water, cum
and
Atahualpa garroted
As a commoner Catholic
They called you that,
Opener of stone, then
And all that which
Does not change (djet): which is to say, all that which remains perfect
Horloge! Dieu sinistre
Souviens-toi!
I just remember
Grass, the tall yellow
Dead and the ones bent
Over, “their coats are like winter”
A wrinkle merely in the Guadalupes, nothing
More
Nefer(titi)
Who changes:
I will be no man’s tributary
As for my faith I will not change it.
Your own god was put to death by the
Very men he created.
And mine still looks down upon his children.
28.8.1533
what made those ripples
possible, your mother’s dress,
white (in certain light),
it’s Elko NV, summer, and we’re on vacation
(I’ve forgotten much of it, mostly the browns remain
crests
when you feel it rising from beneath you
how it all begins to pierce and cover everything up and your eyes
become closed
and all that ever was angry and massacre
and high and violent rises out and parts become gone
and for a quiet, isolated moment wholeness is
a flight
of screaming birds, a school
of herring through
the water,
a silken sheet, and
filling their clamor/ SPACE
I am quantum
To be here and to be there
Wavelike and particle)
Fetter, all of us, of the coming around again
And it came invisible red,
Archaic shutters, the ekpyrotic perturbations
Faintly
It seems, on some far end of a runic scale
Sea deep & dark
Notice the bend of things in water,
And the refraction
Of faces and sounds in time, May
Termite swarms, clouds of them
Trembling for their moons,
And finding none
Walking slightly behind a lover
The skin,
Unshaven,
Tension,
Creams,
How it somehow induces)
Awake, 3:20 am