What, sir, what?
He looked at my face.
“I think your name is Viola!”
He exclaimed, waving his hand.
He acted quite surprised,
when the Queen’s Viola herself
crushed into him, almost, as she said,
“My dear man, it is here, quite naturally,
that we keep our mysteries. And to keep mysteries
and to give secrets…I did you the whole
world over—in no time while you slept,
when, instead, I lay down beside you
to keep you company, quieter than the others.
You slept, and when you awoke, again I went to sleep.
When you awoke again, I again visited your bedside.
And then it was too much: my legs were too tired,
my form too pliant, my reveries too pregnant
with yearning, too exhausted by dreams to make
much of these close, fumbling tokens:
my sacred braid.
After that, you were conscious:
I helped you dress, and then—
you carried me off to the balcony,
and here we are, tonight,
where I took my first great pleasure:
I acted, rather than spoke;
I play, rather than set to music.”
THEN, magically, heavenly, Viola is able to wield her
musical instruments to render the fallen body of
a trumpe, a siren of ancient seas. As though, the title
of manuscript like the benediction, ‘Ubi Stancendo’
cannot be bought with gold, like a Talmudic scholar
who has escape from Heaven to Hell.
That was the first date.
: 10:35 PM 4/7/202210:35 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #hidden, #high brow, #ink, #Literature, #mad man, #meaning, #poetry, #suffering, #words | posted in Uncategorized
LONG winter days
then City nights
full of snow
lit by millions of lights
Wearing tears from living
Wonderous painful life
Not sure what it’s suppose to be
Oh love if it’s not the world
then it must be me
A lover first for words
i believe in paragraphs of
discovering me; a lover’s thirst
for humanity —
the poet does not envy
does not boast
and is never proud
without a pencil we crumble
toward the ground____
the paper; a scroll of the soul
for all eternity.
:: 02.09.2022 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #introspection, #love, #pain, #poetry, #poets, #suffering, #words | posted in Uncategorized
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 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #darkness, #life, #light, #poetry, #sadness, #sanity, #soul, #suffering | posted in #a hundred poems, #abstract, #please, #poems, #poet, #poetess, #poetry
Not a firefly but equal
to a glyph and less or more
as light within a cage of flesh
steals like riots —
my mind prowls the poverty of
Excommunicate while suffering
without shutting up and hearing
past ghosts whisper:
“dying & hungry.”
Leave a comment | tags: #abstract, #blood, #excommunicate, #hurt, #love, #no mouth, #pain, #poetry, #silent, #sorrow, #suffering, #words | posted in #abstract
never WITH me
always with you
kick the sand
kicking the dust
the rest is us:
i dream i
dreamed of Love;
LOVE that which
than the Sun.
:: 07.23.2020 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #beauty, #ink, #love, #pain, #paper, #poetry, #prose, #rock, #scissors, #suffering, #words | posted in #abstract, #beating heart, #broken words
AGES of restless furnances
dancing among their own flames
eating death by untold wars
The Soul: a great warrior
and Earth the expansive battle-
ground that wring the necks of
evil ones; stamping & dancing
to kill the flames, vile hands
mottled flesh and skin.
Across the blue skies a Peace
while men scream and women cry;
babies giving up the life of youth
for the grave — turns the heads of
while young men turn old and gnaw
their fingers; never praise madness
when it is madness of no purpose!
:: 07.05.2020 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #heat, #humanity, #ink, #pain, #poetry, #prose, #screams, #suffering, #summer, #war | posted in #life, #love, #poetry, #words
Far from me far from self
far from help like the stars
and all the props
of living large
is the hidden face
from the cruel
but smiling mirage
of eternal dreams
So i run away from my skin
far from me far from self
like a calm nest of rattlesnakes
or drowning Jesus aside passing ships
And in all despair i raise my arms
and leap into the air toward
the house that God has built
and wish upon that falling Star
far from me
far from help
:: 04-29-2019 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #journey, #life, #lost, #poetry, #suffering | posted in #life, #poetry, #suffering, Uncategorized
i wrote the word, “ax” and felt the deep cut (my
pain is nonexistent except for my tender heart \
and so i wept purple tears across a tender
full of black bruises
So i walk the sweating
cobble stones toward
oblivion knowing the next
word, “grief” will do
me in __!
My left foot became limp and as my eyes juggled
perception while the air opened a door to which
i flew within –i did!
who is right
who is wrong
who is strong
who is weak
And, importantly ask i:
WHO ARE YOU? I AM ME!
who are you?
Bruises are valiant awards
across the heart hatred something
else all together!
:: 01-11-2017 :
Leave a comment | tags: #alone, #death, #feelings, #hello, #life, #love, #misunderstood, #nightmares, #pain, #poet, #poetry, #suffering, #words | posted in #heart
Thdawkch thdawkch Thdawkch
machine weapon of war
marching across the world
boots with feet dancing famine
and all the politicians cry
watching their votes dying
a twenty-first century horror
:: 09-01-2015 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #death, #poetry, #politicians, #suffering, #votes, #war | posted in #death, #politicians, #sufering, #votes, #war, #words
UPON the surface of watery skies
below the waves of forgotten memory
you forgot the smile and her sun
and I drowned in daily life
And for just today you remember
a silent gaze for the moment
you saw my smile in your heart
upon the surface of watery skies
You swore a law you never abide
so you broke the half of sun
in my arms you fell inside
and the skies forever cry
If you ever stay in a place
i watch your feet as they run
always away into watery skies
i forgot the sun in his jealous way
And i swim up above reaching sky
while i see my heart drowning
below the waves of forgotten memory
and you forgot the smile and her sun
while i drown in daily life //
:: 11-10-2014 ::
Leave a comment | tags: #broken, #life, #love, #memories, #pain, #poetry, #suffering, #surreal | posted in #broken, #life, #love, #memories, #pain, #suffering, #surreal, #writers, #writing
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