Tag Archives: #soul

FRAMELESS HEADS UPON EMPTY WALLS

On the single side of my art song—my parodic air—the loveliness is perfect
because I am “last in the line.” When you sit there pondering how you got
from here to there, you forget to be there, and the years hurry by like birds,
yet without wings.

Maybe that is what poets mean by the grass between the toes: it is the kind of beauty
that strikes me as singular, and then makes me forget where I was going.

Could that be the air I am inhaling, that gorgeous little dew, the sort of fragrance
that one asks questions about. That one is good, and leaves you for another week.
I am not asking about the individual, about the wit or the sex, that one; the other
thinks she is too good for poetry and wants to hang out her pants.

The trees on Central Park West have not only dimples, but very high struts.
Many passers-by make like jumping spiders and creep along the white beech bark,
tearing off the strange multicolored pods that are the leaves of the American locust
and varnish the unenclosed bark.

For a while they seem to be all yellow, then the green reasserts itself and they all turn red.
Red like earth, red like hell. I say what I mean. Why do we make so much of appearance
and so little of meaning? If you were to sneeze on a weekday you’d make a million dollars. I’m lucky
to get one or two dollars a day for my poems, and that’s all. All my life, I’ve been scraping
and clipping in hundreds of un-sexy places. I once walked out of an interview with a magazine
that had hired me because I was willing to work for peanuts. So I said to the editor,

“I think you have the wrong guy. I’ll get a job in a steel mill, or on a frickin’ airplane,
anywhere I want.” He seemed to like that, but I can’t remember what the magazine did later. I suppose
it was less than they wanted. But that’s what I mean by avoiding the cheap. I mean always for the mind
and the intellect, as if one day the outer world were going to fall apart. When it does, maybe it will be like a tenement balcony—the floor’s going to fall out from under us.

My best poems are about love and death. I think my best poems are about women and death.
The romantic poems give me pleasure. I don’t want to forget about them; I want
to love them. I don’t want to kill them; I want to hold them.
A love that is not really love doesn’t interest me.
It is interesting to see the Queen of Sheba swat away a red and yellow butterfly that comes to you
and likes to rest on your shoulder.

But there are different kinds of love—one that wants to hold someone in a tight embrace even though
you both know that someone is going to shake loose—one that wants to hold someone
even when she’s going to leave—one that wants to hold someone when she has long learnt the fine art
of saying no.

I’m always looking for “the little door.” But there is no little door, and if there were,
I’d probably find something I’d rather do.

:: 03.24.2021 ::


TODAY HOW POETRY DAZZLES

TODAY how poetry dazzles gradually
  as rain falls slantly
our eyes surprised by equally
blind.

As children weep for adults
and adults ache for youth.

Within love lies a beating heart
and death echoes circuits of life.

Our often dismal living flesh
feels delightful in death.

:: 12.18.2020 ::


GOGH’S FIELDS OF GOLD

IT is dark down here & this awful reality
satisfies the ego and frightens the soul
but makes a state of distraction
; an abomination –an abhorrence
for all that it implies -a living organism
as a leaf or a particle.

There is no non-life only emptiness & this filth
whose existence is temporary– a first-trimester pregnancy
in an animal –a rejected spiritual soul, it is real-
life in simple terms– the personal growth we are
so ignorant of the brave face of existence –a thing
we will ‘never’ ever come to terms
with –the vagaries of Time which call to us
‘cross the bridge’ & walk the Yellow Streets
of Van Gogh.

Hav you never ever walked the edge of fields of
so yellow they smell of gold — the wheat fields
of Vincent Van Gogh: he was a bastard
to most but greatly to ‘self’ –> killed the personality
but never the Art
nor the Soul

:: 04.29.2020 ::
rev: 0-10.3.2020 ::


A HUNDRED MILLION ANGELS SINGING

“And there went out another voice from the four beasts and it was shouting with a great voice, saying, ‘Come now, and let us kill him, a horse, a horse, a horse!’

The four beasts, the four devils, were unanimous, “Who can withstand him?”

Come now, and let us kill him, while the virgins are all trimming their wings.

“I was shaken, and I fell to the ground, and I heard a voice saying to me,
‘Do not be afraid, my son, and go to your father and say to him,

‘Father, I have sinned against heaven, and against you, and am no more worthy to be called your son.’

“I said to him, ‘Here I am,’ and I threw myself at his feet, and I worshiped him and said, ‘My father, save me!’

“And he said to me, ‘My son, keep your voice, and do not make me angry, for you have rebelled against the word of God. I will deliver you with scourges and with horses.'”

There are people out there who will always blame someone else for their own sin. They will always place blame on someone else.

It will always be someone else’s fault for their own failures and for their own problems.

The funny thing is, they won’t ever admit that it’s their own actions that have caused their own pain and that it’s their own sinful nature that they will always find a way to blame someone else for their problems.

I don’t care who you are,

It’s your problem.

It’s your fault.

And there will be a golden ladder reaching down when the hairs stand up in all terror.

:: 10.03.2020 ::


DYING IN BED

08/24/2013

The bed, a crime scene of sorts a passion spilled in sweat
he comes to me in the night. Willingly i go – to my death:
he comes to me in the night. A sword sharpened by lust and
thrusts it into my soul. mother, I’m ready to come home but
the line between pain & pleasure is small compared to the
pleasant death (ORGASAMS); the coroner will say an untimely
passing but my murderous lover knew the timing each plunge
of his knife ever deeper (the hounds of winter).
The best way to slice off entrails — I’m at home like home
on the floor covered with wine and gizzards then I’ll slit
my wrists (the hounds of winters!) it was an accident
I just wanted to see my bruises replaced with this new thing
the slit wasn’t to deep

A season for Joy a Season for Sorrow! So brighten my day
within the winter of Hounds today.

A lonesome sound a lonesome sound this day.

:: maj rev – 10.03. 2020 ::



A PALE SOFTISH ROUND COFFIN

A PALE SOFTISH ROUND COFFIN

SKIN can make me cry as roses. Scents of a female? for i do forget
spoken clearly; i am not afraid of death but life.. to have control
means relenting focus for a perfect soul. my questions are purely
my own as though if i ask, ‘what has become of you?’ the world may
never know but i am here. my heart is a shape of a pale softish
round coffin yet to be buried within your mind.

:: 09.17.2020 ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – XIX

IF I were a broken soul who could mend me?

The cobbler down the road?

with his crafty skills and many tools,
the awl or maybe stretching tool?

He surely would know — and should I go?

My shoes, so worn but my soul so full
of these empty holes!

My Cobbler, sir!

Repair my soul,insufferably

i plead!

::12-24-2013::


EXPERIMENTAL LOVE

Hey oh hey darling
  how the leaves fall
from trees
all my life please
   just touch the
fallen leaves
   take me so closer
to you :  i am far away
so far away until the
wearing of my heart
fades away like night:
tonight my heart is
on the loose || oh
   my girlhood could have
desecrated you;  avoid infecting
the world:  my insides purged
my bloody tales with teeth
as an animal of a clean savior
to scour love.
   
:: 08.02.2020 ::


TO BE SO SAD

TO be so sad that your tears
flee you is the greatest depth
of sadness.

the perfect point to hit upon the
diamond:  shaving off all humanity
and anyone else…
     whoever gave
a damn is not anyone
i ever knew and that tears me apart.
breaks my heart.

I watch from the tiny window of my
decaying Soul.  

::: 08.02.2020 ::


AGING MEMORIES

it was 1493 when i, the little boy, ventured across
the hills toward Anchiano.
there i was found being thirsty and asked an old
man for water. He was Leonardo da vinci — he
said. My father taught me how to fight: my mother,
how to be gracious for a kind gesture.
i had never met a soul as him and he showed me
a painting and some notes. Asked if I was schooled.
No. Just in life to survive i replied.

Thanking him i left behind a remarkable
soul.

:: 07.25.2020 ::