Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
Post 12:01
A minute after midnight
in Kingsley Station
seems a likely time
to depart
from this platform.
there is no schedule
for other travelers
to consult
but...
I must all-aboard
with my last best ticket
and follow moonlit rails
laid out against barren plains.
I understand
that parallels only converge
in the unreachable horizon.
the mile-by-mile reality
is a finely measured consistency
of distant togetherness
beyond
event horizons
sorrow weighs in each searcher
yet tomorrow seems
what sable
knight
survives
sunrise
except
the black
and white
propositions
of midnight
poets
and other
prostitutes
seeking
earrings
two blue and white shards
circled in silver sigh
into my ears the weeping
of a dynasty broken long
before the porcelain particles
were reclaimed from history’s banks
and set to dangle at my temples,
yet they turn me to hear
something like a memory.
the question marks
from which the questions
must be reconstructed,
the template fixed and cast
for pieces that contain
the possibilities of pottery,
suggest certainties lost
to all interpretation as they dance
and jiggle suspended on wires
haunted whispers of heuristic
solutions to the delicate problem
of the uses of jars that declined
civilization’s protection,
their persistent remnants of artful
arrogance shattered in their own dark floods
and cast upon the banks they carved
themselves in the currents they released,
they now contain only a part
of the story from which the larger shape
of our lost language recreates
and forms around the fragments
I remember you once whispered
into my ears and still, recalled, jar
my silent solitude
with the sound
of breaking.
Black and white
Midnight jesters dance
forward and back
in harlequinades that lay
everything on the board
betting the over/under,
on the clock, paid
but not by the hour
hoping to buy time
disarming kings
but drawing
their own
conclusions
souvenirs
crestfallen keepsakes
we shine indifferently
under a glaze, dull cheap
advertisements in spite
of the mistakes
we commemorate,
settled on shelves beneath
the promiscuous dust
that throws everything
under a respectable coat,
we aren’t quite so bright anymore
and can’t remember for what
we needed each other
except disappointment,
I think, I want, I have to hear you baby,
sing to me again like naked
wasn’t just a day trip
and new promised to forgive
everything, even the negligible cost
of vows that shined like trinkets
we couldn’t resist when we went there,
did that, got the mug.
sad faces
on silver partitions
renditions of resolve
that never solved
the final question
she's not
i thought
but maybe tonight
under an unpretentious light
she might
but then
another cat purred
and i forgot
to lick
I've been told to correct my crappy first editions and get over it. So the poem should have read...
she's not
i thought
although maybe tonight
under an unpretentious light
she might
but then
another cat purred
and i forgot
to lick
green dragons
swamp glittering
slithering
sorrow
borrow
from grey mists
the sibilance
of silence
approaching
the satisfaction
of a black
hunger
linger
and withdraw
i wrote
and she
remembered
remarkable....
grooming
She kept her fugues
carefully polished
on her vanity and wept
at the reflected possibilities
glimpsed through veils
of sleight isolation
mesmerized
by the gleaming eyes
that beckoned with the suggested
amazement of annunciation
just beyond the window glass,
she shrugged off the silver cloth
complexities of her habits
that draped the illusion
of her confusion.
and shedding her need
she stepped from the circle
of its formless
wilted robes and turned
face to her fate.
ummmm, just a bit more gesture
if I posed you against a travel poster
with a toucan behind you that seemed
to rest upon your shoulder
I think I could manage a theme
that seemed promising tho the taxonomy
of your dream might remain uncertain
so I would ask you to wet your lips with desire
as large as the colourful stories
that must utter from such a large colourful beak
then I’d drape you with the flash of thigh and arm
an exotic boiling of reverie in a chitinous iridescent shift
and ask you to address me in the foreground of your smile
less visionary than circumstantial your eyes might
gleam beneath your sweat-stained hat with its gila monster band,
and snap with answers that frame you inside the careful arrangement
that never questions composure.
the silmarillion
was less
poetry
than plot
over-thought
self-indulgence
meant for a reader
of detail
that failed
i read
it all
in a fall
mood
sucked into
the gulag
of a myth
without mirth
sanctimonous
our lame duck lost the current
of constitution
Mudroom
So whaddayasay,
when I come to you shaking
with the cold that has made
a mask of my face,
There are careful rooms in us
for the disrobing of our pain
and the ice that breaks me makes
sloppy puddles on your floor
I should have left my sorrow
with the coats and scarves and thrown
it melting on the mat with gloves,
scarves, galoshes, hats
but I forgot propriety of place,
And the penance for my trespass
upon this marvelous sense of order
is more burdensome than the wet wool
that I have hung with a sigh
to put on again tomorrow
tho it has not had time to dry.
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