Wednesday, January 30, 2013

I carry home a hollow stone in which my brood will wallow.

From silk and velvet flames 
her arm reached out, the 
baptist's head long withered 
upon the platter with 
bat perched o'er its skull...
"Champagne anyone?"

The kiss of the grave
is an empty table
with candle quotation marks.

In superior moments, my vision
is faire bosse neuve, that is,
like touching a hunchback's hump
for good luck, while my mind
does the Bossa Nova.

As the cantatrix surfs 
on a wave of her own young, 
the notes spread out
between the thin blades 
where she has attached her singing.

Again the satyr quits the quiet waters, but the nymphs
are swift, or waiting, and the ground is dry and brown.
Every proposition seems external. 

Knees and elbows, these 
scoops and cones are mine.
Does a ghost attend my mind?
Do ghosts attend honey lanterns 
in the mirror of my selfish sweetness
as bats ascend my hat in the rain?

There are salves and ointments to accompany its fall. 
The mineral eye attenuated by its own substance
will not belabor the tumescence of the non-existent organs,
the turtle's torso's metallic burgeoning. 

In the haze and candor of the war, my star
was but a pin-prick, but its durable pain
led me on through the unbearable trenches,
their letters trampled underfoot.

What is ever released here?
When you speak, the flies flee from your mustache!

A black hole, and a white hole,
my mind finds no troth between them.
In the paper porch, a zigzag echo
bequeaths a formless fluff
to a black caption.

Your elaborating masks, are heavy, difficult,
but as I step away, I see that the green musketeer
has removed his felt blood stain,
now a shadow for a pearl.


Judge or jeweler,
plaintiff or thief?
If the loupe and gavel are one,
what use the handkerchief?

Soon I will be strong enough
to acquire the burden of meaning,
or at least, the joys of translation.

In youth, rebellious, its name
was a question.