Thursday, January 31, 2013

Facing The Page, Another.

But always alone, its nature a shadow,

the named instrument's sound, 'I am',

with its spreading field reduced by departure, a tergal loupiat,

forced into conversion, or conversation,
an ursuline beauceant

faced with the mange of dodenage

become a pisteur of self.

Now only the uniform of difference can utter

its song of fleet trance

the impetus cast off from the silken meld

the further loquis of its violent dance

and the questioning that follows, for its bare hand will rest

in the theater of days, a spadille

to give pause in the meetings which follow.

And there is no ending in judgement, the vignon
reveals its othering feurre

the beast which leaps from its roquelaure,
the epulie with its tooth-like head

and the inscription blends to ward

its covenant with the rivelette

the transfigured tassiot of the contemporary.

And as the lion hovers, so the dame,

the striking flame now hachard to the hanging gibralter,

its mitella disturbed

by the engulfing orchards,

its one remarkable tone,

an approach to variations upon a darkness,

its fury now beyond iconic spark,

and the whole hierarchy of being set off as a temporary enchantment,

a portrait of the loving word's salute.

This is what I found in looking

the displaced object of all quotationing

the rude limit of its boundaries

to steer an ornamental course through monumental shadows

the face of devotion lingering

over a legend of anonymous volumes

as the days return their helpless gaze

the outward expanse now migrates,
a doughboy on a virgouleuse

the bed surrounded by bannisters.

The place remains, its mustard under a chipped lid

the fanstastic ideal

now awkward with shimmering.

What can be said?

Is the miracle discourteous,

its wake all fame?

Will meandering cure this?

The journey is contention itself, reordering,

and in the primed remains of sky we sit,

till said:

"There is no final picture."

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.