unkempt Sonnet --

when we are lovers entwined in a curious spelling

of syllables for contemplation we wield

words as axes the thematic shift telling

us we’ve come to the battle with shield,

sword, and incensed arrival – we’ve grown

rich with Sacrifice this horizon that we cross;

memory of an ailing Knight, his Wound

uncovered in Evening’s quiet loss –

what manner of man is He who hides under stairs

to trick his demons into submission?

We hold out our hands, our instep, our glare

at this, a prescient moment master’s schism --

in certain circles birds fly blind

transcending blood, transcending time --

Upstairs --

the knives gleam, unwitting, sterile

solutions; unformed

heat -- we follow her

up the stairs and into the windswept bedroom, there

where reflections long left in oblong mirrors

wait for us

to cut a tune, revolve about all those drunken sailors and

peg-leg inquisitors -- surrendering a sudden

infamy for a close-communion, we

bake away the days in hunger, in opal-eyes

misting, we feel the force

of the fan cooling the room, we lean toward each other and

kiss, there, once

on the cheek for good measure . . .

*

Wolf Eyes --

There, in the water, I see

my eyes, wolf eyes hanging

in my face, searching

out the hunt, tracking

through the snow with subtle wilderness, lured

by the half-moon calling

me through the woods, trees

bending over

the path -- my gait is a wolf gait, my

friends are

my pack, we know

each other when we meet, we

swallow our pride

to keep together, we

are the alpha, the beta, the gamma, we

take care

of our surroundings, support

our home, it is

in the hills we

find our instinct, our

muzzles close to the ground, we

transform

our human selves, hair growing, muscles

stretching, we

cry out

for our intimate longing in the night, we howl

with

close calls

and long days, we

are

certain of who we are, we

lap at the water,

there, our

reflection sure and

cool, our

hearts pulsing with an

arcane

knowledge of our own . . .

*

What if it were true?

the disequilibrium of drunken soothsaying

untethers its audience; to the hearing

there is nothing but silence, long drawn-out

cadenza underscored with incision

a deaf-man’s inheritance; who

are the shadows, here, who stand leagues off,

gnawing at our shirtsleeves? Should

we call to them, Now, our half-sisters

in purgatory? With prayers

we may ease their suffering; or are we

too late? Diamond-back

adjudicators

of some forgotten Statute have come to us

hungering for absolution – are

they worthy?

(are we?)

the populace shifts and grins;

we are only unholy

in this our Circus Ground –

we come to fruition as a daily rite

our days ignited with our morning light --

what makes you tick –

to drown here in abstract solitude is

not so unseemly as it appears; it

confounds reason to die before your time --

take it to the metal

with ironfoot and glacier hands

rubbing out visions

of horror and doubt -- have you seen

her there, awake in the waves, waving

to you from some celestial space?

a lunar journey

inflames headstrong desire

to quiet our Nerves; these

are only lonely in

your precipice -- Stake them to

the wall with quick arrows

fletched from waiting bows -- it

is here

in this darkness that we ascend, grieving

along the way, hoping

we can have

what we want and leave behind the rest; it

is our comeuppance, our

coming-to -- have you

seen her eyes glinting in the lamplight

holding out to

you a steady embrace? She

is the mock-up

of an unsure footed love -- She

breaks glass

and holds forth; all

surrendering Commandments bellow

underwater

demanding Justice

and

inspiring a steady Peace as

you skim

the surface and Survive, only

undermining your

logical

conclusions . . .

in the wind –

in time there will be all things present

and past in your eyes subsuming misery

with emboldened arms -- these

the sincere longings of a night

forgiven but not forgotten

as we arc our slim bodies into the water

with hardly a splash submerged there

while our hearts beat fast and driven

with desire and circumstance -- Who

are the grey beings there in the mist, those

who shelter hope in a stern embrace

waiting for us in shallow water?

(We have given in

to giving in, we have surrendered

to the Erlking

who steals our children, his

blessed daughters calling us

through the wood, a dance of

death yawning open in the caves

before us) -- "Come

play with me, my darling boy, we

have

ice and frost for you, a cool

house of dark leaves

where you can hang

your tired head" --

How have we come this way, stranded

by the brook, our hands

held out to distant fathers

in the fields?

The Erlking knows us, follows

with calm precision and

gentle step -- he will bring us in

and through

the hail to his home

of pure imagination -- it is there

we will die to be

reborn

in exhalation

of a sudden breath --

Incendiary --

here, the times, unaware,

sharing what we have

to give, sticks

and rocks, dirt

and grass, branches broken

with hard will

for the incoming Spirits -- you

lay there, hands

on your eyes, counting

backwards

to your beginnings -- You sheltered

your hope

in a dense hedge, prickly

with thorns -- Why

will you wait

with circumspect Silence for me, I

who am lost

in the Creek, parting the

cold waters

with clenched fist

and submerged intent? -- these

are the Nights

filled with Compromise, meting

out Justice to

the misinformed and malcontent -- Sudden,

gnawing

pains grip our sides, we

are here conjoined

with our

sisters, Searching

out

the Signs of our struggles

to recoil

before the Snake

and pass blindly through the caves; We

who have loved

and forgotten are here

to throw

our insolent longings on the fire, there

burning

mute pieties and hallowed

ghosts -- You

would

give me the foxglove, the daisy, as

I would

wrap the Ceremonial flags

in the

tree branch

for the Ancients to see -- this Summer

is a Whirlwind

of minute instances

pasted together by deft hands

and surgically

bolstered by bloodlines

and Circumstance -- How

would you Stomach it all, Now

that the Sun has

burst, would you

burn in her rays or seek Solace

in quiet

communion

with yourself? -- the leaves

are scattered, the

water's surface calm now

like a knife, the

handheld

minutes falling away, there,

where we can

paint

our shadows on the wall,

artifacts

of

an enchanted embrace

uncovered --

*

where last we sang

i live in the house of my imagination, prickly pears

notwithstanding our Judgment; is it you, there, who

stands before the wall cherishing your wares

and those to whom you sell them? in blue

skies the renunciation takes place, it is a futile bid

for legacy, a half-footed half-embrace --

did you think you could hide everything you hid

or was it sullen, moving in its pale face

toward limpid lines of Clarity?

surely you've heard the Waves at noon

sounding the bell, your remonstrance a rarity

among those who come too soon

to realize their debt to themselves

from the bottom of your wishing-well --

*

Reflection --

I have left my reflection

in a thousand mirrors, there

where it can wait for me, solemn

or amazed, trapped

behind glass waiting in the wings

for me

to come to it again, in my

vanity, in my awareness

of the passing of time, the lapping

of water against the shore, my

feet dangling in the tide -- why

did I come here, here to

drown, here to

abide for awhile -- the sun is like a giant cloud

suffering misgivings as heat,

pain as circumstance -- all my eyes

in all the sources

search for you, there, beyond

the sky, warming us until we dissolve, all

of us, into one . . .

*

Inscape –

these the shallow waters surrounding us

in our sullen amplitude

know nothing that we do not know

and the something that we affirm is sudden

and fortuitous with a sensate yearning -- all

the minutes of every hour resound

with silent circumstance, the cards

held tightly to the chest, these ruined gamblers

succumbing to chance their purebred dereliction -- the

skeletons dance in the closet awaiting our

surefooted embrace; we, who doubt what

we seem to know under

the broken willow's bough -- how can we measure

our unfed certainty? Who will

greet us there in the darkness when we are afraid

of our intimate selves, our nighttime Mistress

holding out her intricate Sense

of mystery and intent?

The crows hold down their perches on the church cross,

aiming at precise angles -- What

are we to do when we cannot accept our

own judgment? Who

will break our backs with irony, these

minute infractions

of our laws lending a censured grace

to our surroundings? -- Spring

is an ill-fed boar, a wild

thing that will unearth

our heartfelt longing, allowing

intimate glances

and a growing knowledge of impiety; in

our quiet home above

the Earth we submit to

adjudicated despair; our future

hope a certain awe held fast

and quick with fire – Names

pass by us in Multitudes, they form themselves

around Us begging an invitation to the dance; we

who grind away yesterday's foreclosure

with pampered hands

and bitten nails -- We

are the Magi come wandering in the desert, having

heard of the Virgin Birth -- We lean

into the Wind and

Step out along latitudes

inscribed with

heat and Surprise; Who are

the ratified judges calling us to trial, we

who have upped the ante

at every possible opportunity only

to fall prey

to a gentle lapse

of Purpose?

We are the minions of

a sheltered Charity

here to

protect our Shadows

from the Sun --

*

muse –

she would never say where she came from

I borrowed her from my own imaginings

to weather the fiercest blows of the storm

from night to day, dusk to dawn, ravening

in the wood for elusive prey she climbed

into the mansion of my mind with intense

alacrity – it was there i found her, conjoined

sister of my heart – sublimated in the sense

and never knowing, never being clear –

she stands before the mirror, apt to stare

at that strange creature oh so near

to beauty – yet far away – her care

for subtle kind companions shines

in loving and in saying I am thine --

*

Chopin Nocturnes like cool jazz,

the air complete with Surmise --

Inkling --

she feels the ghost in her, the

scion of another age

posturing as a regal Spirit

descending through the years

to arrive at her beginnings –

*

rhymes –

foraging in the desert for snakes and stuff

she believes to belong if it wasn't enough --

we dry our eyes and remain pure

as if it was possible, as if it were sure --

these, the infinite longings of night

ensnare us in their visceral sight

what once we saw we never shall see

if it be error, if it be free --

our dancing and darkness it never reveals

just what we wanted, what we never conceal

behind our masks of infinite pleasure --

this what we do, we do for our leisure --

Invitation --

would you incline to meet Us there

beneath the oaks surging

in our rapturous Embrace a rare

consummation longed for in Purging

our debts accumulating here

as water beats upon the Shore

winds howling succinct; the Sere

imagining of a distant guitar –

where will you live, now that your strength

has fled, your bones bristling with pain? –

we who know you will go to any length

to succor you in the Summer’s Rain –

courage in quiet hours resounds

love’s own purchase in the round

*

Out of Reach --

In the intense night

of pure gold,

the knife glimmers and shines; the

heart is forsaken, the

tears drip, cold, undying

on the page, drop

by drop, a moment

of regret, a longing

sudden and severe, a

grieving wide and beautiful, an

instance

of iron joy unspoken . . .

*

Rosary

we blow a red rose for Our Saviour, white for Our Lady,

or is it the other way around? Olive wood

passes through

unhurried hands lips whispering, "Hail Mary,

full of Grace," and "Our Father" -- prayers

of

warm sand

coursing through gnarled fingers, quiet

supplication

worn to bone -- "and blessed

is the

fruit

of thy womb, Jesus" -- As we

taxi from the gate, she

curls her free hand

around mine -- "Glory

be to the Father, and

to the Son,

and to the Holy Spirit" --

Seats in the

upright Position, she closes her eyes,

her crucifix against her knuckle, her

grip tighter --

"As it was in the beginning,

is Now, and Ever shall be" --

blessed, we hurl into the air, she

opens her eyes, and smiles --

"World without End" --

amen

the branches through the slats in the blind

amaze me --

Occurrence --

these, the round incisions in our souls

make way for opulence, the devil's smile

bright upon their brows, from days of old

till now the inkling of a lingering mile

we take to arrive at ourselves, almost spent

with vision's burden kneeling in the grass

before the apparition, before we rent

our gowns hungering for a different past

while lithe enemies pound upon the gate

what will we do? what is left to say

when all the iron justices abate

before the wind, utterances unpaid?

we see you there, transparent in the night,

a second shadow aching in our light --

Frisson --

she was half-goat, half-Muse, this

keening Sister here amazed with Knowing --

She breaks backs; she

intuits Irony -- her

Hope is malcontent and viscous -- Why

should

We wait for her here when our bodies are spent

with trying so hard?

the trial –

ill-gotten gains and the death March, here,

the Silence

utmost and attained; glory, an

incipient

hearing

of the claim before the Court -- How

do you Plead? --

Is that your final Word? -- The

magistrates

bow formally

and Sigh -- another Sentence crying in the brush,

the deviled Order of it all -- Can

you hear me, now,

now that

I no longer twist and shout?

*

Our Sweet Transgression --

tense, these, the

days

that surround us, our

hustle

for prey consuming all

our efforts, a

hunger deep and abiding; we, here, who

stand

back to back

awaiting the baton, passing on

our passion

to the next in line, this runner, who

will sprint

through a violent wind

to arrive

in some other oasis, there, where

we can

meet again, aging

out

quickly, with

bridled spirit,

this, our

condensed disclosure, can't

you see us there, scaling heights

and laughing, cool

to the touch, ready

to breathe, panting

in the desert air, you

can see us slide under the ice

and surface

with seaweed and Salt

ruining our distant gaze -- we

are the mute puppets

who will

not abstain -- we

hurl ourselves bodily into

every shape

and curve, lining

this, our sex

at our inception, bringing

into life

a battered lung, a

bartered bride, we, then, the

glowing icons

of our sheltered piety

bursting

from our cage so many unleashed soldiers

wondering what to do, who

to caress, when

to doubt

and

when to push the poison through our veins

hoping for

a clean arrival

in the hospital corridor, there,

our Jesus-glance, our

mind made up, we stagger

toward the exit, eyes

aflame

with colored liquid fire --

*

inclined –

blistering with intention, the

gull spikes hard lines in an arctic sky --

it lists toward oblivion -- shafts of light

submerged and then forgotten

beneath its wing; how

is it that in

bonfires we pursue weathered silences

glossed over with surefooted ire? -- Is

it an iron-bodice that you wear?

(Where

are the spent occasions of your arrival?)

Quick to judge heroics

for the lame; nighttime terrors

holding firm -- how

can we bear

it all with our thin-boned bodies

upturned in the breeze?

*

Weight

she would stand in the middle of the road

ironing out the creases in her dress

she never knew it was such a heavy load

to survive under such sweet duress

her name was legion, her scope impure

she wished that she could be a queen --

there in the ocean she stands to lure

such sailors as can be seen

we wait for you because you wait for us

we see you in a surging light

that is not left as surplus

biting back from such a height

what is the sky, what is the air?

if you arrive, will you play fair?

*

your portrait --

when joy in space becomes a nobler thing

we enter, half-aware and half-amazed

flittering there on distant branch the winged

omens take flight beneath the haze

that Settles in the dusk -- a sempiternal glow

warming Us to Ourselves, as we succumb

to bright foreclosures -- an understudied Woe --

we follow the incessant beating of the drum

and understand little but face or form

heralded in sky's pure limit of ascent -- truth

as inverted Reason -- lies which keep us Warm

-- a wicked-Cornering -- here uncouth --

ignite for Us this molten ice, this wick;

burn the guide ropes -- flames will fit --

*

wax model –

if you stare at me i will remit your sins

with a cudgel; you

have a pain which i cannot fathom -- it

is the ache of ages

gnawing at you, you

the underhanded imp here bravely breaking waves

and coming to -- What

fierce

tide washes over you

as you succumb, subtle

player

of utmost moment and Sacrifice? Is

this your Solemn vow, here, on this parapet?

go slowly Now the

earth is

turning -- it is up to you

to hold on --

wastrel --

abutted by the dock the boat surges

buoyed by quiet waves

and ringulets of foam -- fish

dart quickly in and over

the water -- it is a seagreen

Sprite here

to share with us Her Quietus -- Why

have these

cousins of Ours come

to Carry us Away? Is it

in Skulls

and Sinews that we Survive?

this barren Thought, this

Sparking

of light; Vision; all that we Inherit

in this, Our

Kindness, our Plenitude -- We

have Suffered

with Intent -- we back away

into the Night as

it becomes Apparent we long

for higher things

than we can Handle -- ratcheted

down

cursing our History we bleed silently

with hardened

Postures of supine imagining -- What

voices ring

through

us awaiting

Kings and Queens to welcome

us Home

to this, our Underground Archive

of unread

books and inlaid Purpose? -- (Can

you attain

the freedom of your fears? Is

this the next

Apocalypse, the one that breaks

quietly in wet cheeks and hollow eyes

yearning

for a kiss?) Heatgrown sap

understands our Hearth, there

where We

hang the hanging man with his own rope; We

are blisters

of an unknown War; we will frag the Sergeant

if Necessary -- All our bullets

aim for some fleshed mark between the jungle vines, the

flushed and solemn desert, the

longing oceanic tides; our Mode is Fire, lapse,

reload, remit

our Ugly sins

while we adamantly oppose

a Seizure

of hostilities -- What

math have You, you

who Once lit

fire to the backwoods on a whim, the

hungering

of a knight--errant

surrendering his Arms for a pouch

of tobacco?

when in darkness

when in darkness we achieve light upon earth

we can transpose our duties

for another day; we

suffer the slings and arrows

here with muscled hope and inbred dignity

to attain that distant shore where

sand smoothes out its reticence --

stricture –

veins of liquid ore carousing in our blood

these the Celibate beasts of

our unglued imagination turning tricks

for the misinformed

and half-submerged; Who

would stand at the door

and whistle, sibilant utterances

masquerading as fear

unfettered and alone? We

are dark Knights of an imperious round Table

settling for hope

above Glory – we are Naked in the brush, our

hands and faces

scratched in our arriving here

at the gates

of our Seclusion --

pulse

I stand in the corner my knees buckling

my heart racing my blood boiling

our incensed arrival at the end of the line

here in this shifting sense of time

and Solitude --

Where the Water Grows --

here, the devils gone wandering, the

hirsute terror, ironbound; pure, the

doubt that would not fail; these

visions, straddled

and obscure -- there, in

the distance, it

is the wind in the reed, there

is a prophet calling

out through the salt marshes

and into our lives, uncertain

of his steps, ready

to confront the drunken Monarch, He

who would wait

with Curled Fist and

fire-Eyes . . . These

desperate Girls, here, dance

the tarantella, pressing

their backs against the wall counting

all the ways in

which they have been Wronged -- It is

here that Night descends, bringing

with it a sweet smell, the

smell of Cedar, Sandalwood, and Pine -- Why

must we wait, shuttered here,

together biding our time

until the next whirlwind shakes

the leaves

off the trees and into our laps? -- it

is an iron-omission, a

sudden lapse, the heart gone clenched

in a feathered breast -- dreaming

of gulls, sparrows, and terns, all

legs expired

from the long race; -- We

never

give in, we straddle the

fool's paradise

we have created . . . We wait

with a silver impunity

bequeathed of the gods; there, those

sullen

ogres and grueling warlocks, the

Sandman in the wood, the

Monstrosity that is our collected breath -- We

form

Unions of head

and Soul, stretched thin

in a dense

atmosphere; there, where

the hand

draws bloodlines across the page, ushering

in another

age of

adolescence, a second

growth, a

hankering for

justice in the Caves; there, where we

can meet

the elders

and instill in our bones the

necessary Steel -- we go to War

blinded

by too much information, standing

together

in a red dawn, knees inching forward

with a slow

Surge; there, it is the

Enemy, the

bloodless One, the unknown Spectre

Vague

in desert blues -- With

foul hands

he breaks bread with

holy soldiers

lined and tense, Warriors

Who faint

from fear

before the gathering Sun -- where is this King, the

oblique

one, how is it that

he has left us children alone

to struggle

through our Underbrush? -- way down

in Caverns

dripping Ice, an old hand bends

to the earth, up-

rooting Moss

and watery soil, incanting

unheard prayers

for

the living and the dead -- it

is the

supple line of her leg

that draws

him in, here, out

of the heat -- a quiet

redemption borne of an unsure Piety, a

faith

crossing rivers

and submerged -- What

can we do, then, We, who are Unarmed, listless

and exhausted?

(Shall we Wait again for our Next Messiah, the

Saviour saddled with our Pains, the

good God caring for

his sons and daughters?) -- These

Nights are long

with tense discussion -- Who shall

lead the charge, what

weapons will we use, how does the

maul fell the tree

in a single stroke, the old King stringing

the Arrow through

the axe-heads -- We have

returned, our

Heads held high, our Coronation fears

left shallow

in the wind -- We

will build

a young choir of astute bodies

to shoulder

the heights of disrepute and vilify

our neighbors -- We

are Lost

in shallow sight, our lungs

parched

from breathing salty air and resuming

again

in the moving tide -- We are

the culture of pressed-flesh, the

yielding

struggle of the newborn, We

gain our

Legs and talk for the first time, We

utter our

sprung melodic with

a sudden shake

of our Mane, we gather there, with

those devils

who have come to die

in the autumn leaves -- We

burst

through our initiation into battle pure with

fire -- Here she

bends to us, this Holy Sister, great

Spirit, she

holds our hand -- Her beauty

so immense

we cannot look at her but feel her at

our side, our Grey-Eyed Athena, our Trust -- We

who will wait for you

know what

our hearts are worth, we lay

them on the

table

for observation, we climb your

structured-bones

into

a higher ground, there, where

we can

lay together breathing inch by inch

the execution

of our former selves -- There, now

the prophet

falls, his is

a lapsed opinion, we

must track our way into the crags, feet

bruised

by the infinite snake -- You, then,

how do you Stand, now

that the silver dollars have all been Spent, now

that wishing

makes it So, can

You give her the gift she deserves, She

who brought you

into this Earth to run beneath the clouds, eyes

clenched, interring

your foregone conclusions

with proper burial rites, the

supple

guideropes leading you

to the next

aisle where you will meet

your Mistress, the

golden-girl

now stilted and arcane? -- She, this

lovelorn

Creature who will bask in an ocean spray

of her own divining

will

always love you, in times

of peace and times of War, she

is your shepherd, she

will set you

a table, She will lean into you and sigh

with

a soft Surrender, sure

of her lines,

ready for your Return --

*

if you're not into the poetry, you can scroll around to see the paintings -- jb --

intimation –

who are you to say we are Unstrung?

we stumble forth across the paths

that you have traced for Us -- We

beat back the ploughshares, we hunger

for More, for More, for More, it

is in our Hearts that we admire You, you

the bard of this Oration, your

prayers for us uncounted but Clear -- How

is it You wonder who you are?

Can you not See that here in the darkness

there are inclinations

of vain Purpose and Delight? -- We cling

to You

as our shallow Mothers sharp with

intense inclusion -- We

grind in this Our poverty of Spirit a hopeful

lurch seaward and Strong; who

can say we have not attained our certain Hopes

here barechested and Amazed?

These dark dominions shelter in their great arms

an army of Pretense and decision; but

is that blessed? Is it

here in our Embrace that you will die, fading

with fortune and beauty?

an Arrow pierces here the

Night with

keen Remonstrance -- We will

live to tell, it seems,

again --

in summer –

these the broken boughs of your ancient trees

are nuanced and rough -- we divide

our time between Nature and the Word

only to arrive at instances of sudden

remonstrance -- She

will shelter you there in her arms

as she falls to accounting

for all your hopes -- she is keen

with words sprung fully from her brow

like so many wayward children -- in

her instep is a rhythmical

grace

unmarked by acute intention -- Will you

structure your survival in her smile?

(How long can you remit

your Sins?) -- bats

accumulate in the air, brushing

past us -- fireflies post

their measured pulsings

in the dusk -- cicadas

churn mating songs and we desist

before our yawning birth --

*

Herein –

the tall-girl, dark

hair swaying, brown-

black-gleaming-eyes, the

mute surprise, the

hurried-look, the

stuttered-grab

at a sure

thing, with

a twist of the knees

and a

sideways-glance, she

asks me, asks

me

to dance . . .

*

encounter –

are you the apparition at the window?

can you enter here on gilded-legs, bringing

with you the censure of all things? -- no

substance, the record-player singing

sires of Vision accumulating here in the Mist

our sacred Sisters rife with Shame

and ingenuity -- is it here you first were kissed

beneath a baleful Light, tamed

by the sentinel snake at your heel? -- he

will bruise you and you will crush his head,

unguent for your pain; he crawls on his belly

and you falter tumbling into bed --

what God reveals, we aim to fulfill;

these paces put through at His will --

In This Asylum --

turn down this aisle,

strapped to a gurney,

Prayers up to Jesus,

Mary and Paul -- She

saw me there, Splintered

in the Light,

shuddering

with the dope

Shot in my Veins; --

I was

a Violent Sister, a

Sudden widow, I

carved the World

from Lava and

heat, Structuring

cloudscapes

to fit my Whims

of Creation,

As the Ancients dictated

with forked tongues,

there by the fireside, While

Bathsheeba bathed

in her Moontime, I

wept for the Cleansing, a quiet David

certain with Pain, I

Stop and Faint -- I drink the Poison

and Awake

again with tubes

in my hands, my nostrils, my

Throat -- this

the Sudden Remonstrance

of a bitter Memory, call

it suffering, the skilled

Omission

of a querulous Birth --

*

Stop all your sobbing

-- The Pretenders

stop all your sobbing, inherit

the vague listless winds

that cover the fields

with heavenly imaginings – it

is at Night

that these Visions come to

Us, wizened

cores of a splenetic Irony, hands

immersed in blood

these sullen looks and backstage Stares

overcoming Our tethered Veins

to achieve

a Unity

of Spirit, here

below the Elms . . .

*

Times Square --

"Funny, you don't look hip."

Sport to Travis, "Taxi Driver"

inbred with subtle Substance

hurled across the Page

a moment Undying here

in these hurricane streets the mauve reflection

of taillights seeking Heat

these young men have gone to fight for us

in forests deserts seas

unheard of looking

intensely in mirrors their Mothers there, their

Fathers unkempt with patience awaiting hurried packages

bent with Steam – "any time anywhere" – curled

upon your bed,

you work out the equations in your head,

Sunshine the girl tripping on LSD,

legacy of another war the bulimic girl's heart failing,

kidneys worked over with alcohol and anti-freeze, Suicide

is not poetic; the Priest contends with Nature

but he cannot bend the cross to his forgotten Children

who work all hours, who have leveraged

Pain for Loss, these infinite girls play by the hydrant and laugh,

hearts bruised by their Intimate Saviors -- "I don't

know who's weirder, you or me" –

Men wishing they were women and women wishing they were men

unfurl their longing under bridges, gruff with hatred's Scar across their Cheek, the

sudden Pimp outlasting the judge, burnt

by vigilantes high with Righteousness and

hurt ; – Shamed

by Scorn, Mr. H. drowned himself in the lobster-rich Hudson – a

Strict celebration of duty beneath

a clouded Sky – Mr. M claimed

CEO of Virgin Records, Mr. O. the Marielito

walked to India, where he died, again, to

the Tune of Mr. B's emissary flute, Scotland's

Telemann King – Now it

has become difficult to know which way to turn

in warm water inching out from battered radiators, bed-

springs creaking with the sullen breath of a

misplaced irony; You strap

your Gun in your Sleeve, you

Confront Angels and Guard Dogs, you

are a Saint in the City, your

hate is holy – You

never wanted War to be your legacy; ice

in your Veins warms with hope in bent arms

embracing a Girl's Memory as

you Wrap

her in flannel

and look out for

the Children in your Care; She

sings for You, Nightcrawler of Subways --

"What's moonlighting?" --

You will lose Yourself to Save her; you

will shelter her in the rain and write home that

everything is okay --

*

underneath –

I have stood here at the bay wavering

in and out of consciousness collecting

Spirits for my Sores – Can

you hear me here, here

in my drumbeat Saluting the fallen and

crying for the Lost?

(We are sudden Soldiers of a Night

so Certain and Amazed

we cannot Walk) – It is

in darkness our Prayers are heard

and tossed aside

issuing in our veins a solemn Promise

to make good On – We are

vaguely aware

of our bodies as some

distracted Whole in need of Care, We

are sustainers

of a ghostly smile that escapes

Us in crucial Moments --

she –

this god, who lifts you up

through catcalls and pratfalls, must

once have been

a ghost, as she wanders

with springlike step, animated and

mischevious, a trickster

Spirit who means well but plays hard -- Can

you wait, there, in

your Cave, as night

Sets in, for just a glimpse of your

slim Goddess? -- She

will bellylaugh at you poets

posing as cadavers -- She has the taste

of oak on her lips,

basil on her tongue, her fire

is sheltered

and quicksilver, she will

exhaust your nerve and settle in to sleep

beside you, quietly calm

and unhurried . . .

Long ago –

once i loved you, yes, indeed, it’s true --

our breaths entwining making memories,

your pupils widening, eyes so blue

delighting in our own chicanery –

we sat beneath a willow trading

stories of a youthful pressured cast

just as the summer light was fading

leaving traces lingering too fast –

but we grew apart, the years distending

recollection like a frail balloon –

it was here and there and then was ending

coming, sadly, oh too quick, too soon!

i loved you once along the years

now fond remembrance overtakes my tears --

Our Computations –

here, the Sterile solutions, the

Macabre

waiting of the Unsaid; here

We stand, backs

to the Wall, impugning our

own dignity

with Censured Grace and lined hands

calling

our Sisters over

the Waters to Greet us Here; here,

Where we

can hold forth sure with unkempt

Piety, the mute

Soldiers

weaned on War

and Delivered to

a quiet bloodbath of Shame un-

Warranted by

any measured treatise

or tactful

Glance -- We are imbued with

a distant Logic, a

Numerical

embrace which

holds us

Fast as to a firm equation of Sensate

variables, the

Acute proof

of our precious longing

un-

attached--

*

Mortar and Pestle --

can you be

the Essence of Desire -- its

comical Upheaval beating

on these Shores?

We stand agape and Yawp

this Song

of all our Selves gone wandering

in the Reeds; what

sort of child

retracts his story from Shame? Is he

lost in the Woods

succumbing to feral dignity? He has

taken berries

from the Raven's beak like some lost Jacob atoning

for our Sins this chimerical imp

our Joy and Burden; he plays

chorales in his head tapping out one-two, three--

four this Rock study

Engraving of metal in Earth pure child

of the Upswing -- What

form of Rule accedes before

the Fates here

to lay Ruin to another Empire our hearts enlarged

and distant

with the day's discourse?

love Sonnet – 5/2/08

back arched in moon’s subtle light she sighs

a quiet appraisal of the Situation; She

breathes softly on my shoulder her Wise

knowing way lungfelt and Free –

We lay together for hours, salt on our tongues,

the Violent rapture of a given Nature –

we stand leeward to the wind Unsung

and weary with our Union here matured –

I kiss her neck she twists in a cat’s curl yawning

Sleepy with the morning dew –

Hers is a mystery, Spirit dawning

heartfelt, sudden, True –

what aching joy enlivens here our arms

to fall into the mystery of your charms?

canto

where the wild men inched it was a delicious Sight – here in

the darkening jungle we collate our intuited desires

to arrive at some kind of circumstance where we

can abjure and dissolve ourselves like quiet cats

scattering in the street – pound upon pound of red meat

skewered and roasted

these utter Selves complacent with Irony and full bellies

condescend to Us in strict

4/4 Time all these heralded Avatars

grown succulent in an inky Night

what can they

Now represent? (We have blessed

the Virgins gone wandering

in the Wood; theirs is the ancient rite of sung elegies

and surefooted Arrival) because

we grind down the wheels with flint

and ice

at our Instep – the collared dove is

stuttering in the twilight the

motion of

instinct before a blustery storm We hold

forth our Arms

with encircling haste these

the utter days

unto our Rapture --

what love can do --

if you live life, you Know Love; hers

is a Subtle Reminder of the way you

look when you behold

her in your Mother’s Eye; Passion

in a Lover’s kiss – her

Sensate windings in the brush

beat back

the horde of Crazed Idolaters turning

them into roughgrained

sand in your Palm; her Sense

of your knowing is Engendered in the Care

she Stores for You on

this distant Shore the Edge

of all Creation, the Merging out and

into her Deliverance – Violent

Winds blow back

in Sudden inspiration the weighty boughs

bowing in the

Summer Air – You

can Hear Her there Reciting

the Verses of your unsung

glory, Her height yours

to Magnify. . .

*

in this dark –

she who would Shelter you in the Wind

has come Full Circle; she no Longer

brays at the Moon, now she curls Under the trees

and whimpers -- her Hope

is sullen and unfocused since

her blood boiled and Evaporated

in the fog leaving her

exhausted and in Pain; she, the

driven Mother

of this Earth has cried

too many times as We watched her faint

in the Night air -- She

will hibernate

Now until the Winter leaves Us lurching

through Sleep forward

and conjoined --

Sun-Spot --

in the rain,

hard back against the church,

i prayed

for something, something

quiet and small, something

there, in

the air,

that might arrive . . .

*

Surcharge –

how long should we Wait

for you? You

who Cover

ground in flashes

of insight -- Where

are You going Now, now

that the

Children have grown and you

are Alone -- Take us

in your arms, hold

Us close, we will

Commit to You,

Our Iron Lungs

heaving strong syllables

of Desire; -- We

will be Aware

of the Shift-Change, when

You come

and when you Go -- it

is in these distillate Moments

of Night

that we Form our Hands

around you

and Structure your Body

into being -- We

carve our World

from Memory and

Imagination -- The

Purple cliffs

and Lean Rivers snake

through the Rock -- We

who are blessed

with a second Life secure ourselves

tightly to

the Wind that

can carry us to You,

You who know

Essential things

and Coiled Intent -- We wait

for you, Compliant

and Supple . . .

*

Momentum

drown in Abstract Aptitude, you Futurists, make

your home a Geodesic Sphere with bright Lightning

and Sudden Solace; We here

can't Understand your Mind -- it reels

with a Sudden reckoning of Spirits on the Mend -- nano,

micro, wide words made Formulaic and

Astute before the Storm; who

do you Shelter there

in your Embrace? Is he

kindling for the fire of an untamed Injustice?

Under Heat --

tenebrous liaisons, urchins, Night, the

deft arrival of the Untamed; where, here, you

correlate

to some other Priest, another

Ungodly fire

in your Loins -- does it Comfort

you, Here, to

know

that you are Used, unsettled

and reviled

by those you love? -- are

You

an unfed Libertine? A seeker

of the

glass slipper? Where

is your Princess Now? -- (Do

you Wait

for her even in the fierce Wind, is

She worth

your Structured Piety?) --

These imps,

renowned

with Distraction, can

Guide you past the Tower

to the Market

where you can find Absolution -- Hold

dear to Yourself

the bitter Memories which Fear instills in You; -- Tonight

is a Violet desert seeking Hues of

Constellation; -- Give

into Her and She will reward you

with Enlivened breath --

*

Militant Grace –

We stand here at the edge of the ledge with

Our heads

Held high – What will

This be when we come to visit you?

Home

is apart from None – What

Will you see

When the clouds part leaving grass in

Their wake ? --

The Undersigned --

not here, stitched with

close threads, your

eyes surrounding your heights

of misuse, your governing

moments

of time allocated -- These

the tears

in the wind alerting

us

of a change

in

the weather, a

state of mind

not quiet

or alarmed but sudden -- She

was the definite Angel

with burnt wings

from

flying too close to the sun, her

backward

glance at us sustaining

our tempo, keeping

the beat, a

value

incoherent but alive, the

mist

in the hills

now

vanishing . . .

*

when you’re with me I can feel you

close to me your breath on my neck

your hair spilling over your shoulders

this Night our last together

incubus

basking in Purity, the incubus pulsed

with Hesitation; His

was a long-Shot, a sudden Flimsy glance

at an Unerring Mark -- he

saw her there, Supine, hinting

at prolonged reverie -- this

unrequited Imp

would lie

with Mind and Sense, confounding

Sleep to Achieve

a Supple union unasked and unforgiven --

Succubus –

waiting there, by your bed, she

contemplates your

sleeping form, inches into

the crevice

of your legs; you turn

in your sleep unaware, taken up

in a moment

of intense seizure somnambulant

she rides you like a wave, pushing

your essence

through her thighs and into her breath this

muscled demon

faith

of uncovered idolatry she plunges through

your dreams

a bleeding phantom rich in rapture

your Night

unnerved and Solaced with her lust --

schizophrenia --

risky details, senses unworking, the mind

delivers itself to Chaos; the subtle

timing of Events, the known

schedule of implosion and

despair, the cycle

repeats itself; the

decor of madness is not Sterile, it

is populated

by the dead, by ghosts, by intimate

selves surging

through scratched Veins and

polished incantations to

achieve

dominion over the errant thought, the

villains

and the vanquished, the

tentative

mongrel strays

howling

at Murder, at Pain, at Substance -- all

imagined Posturing

proving

unreliable in the face

of Possession

and thatched insomnia -- We cannot

sleep, we grind

and seize, we reach

for a bottle

to secure us but the brain

bursts

through with incensed

hilarity to

Scorn us -- We but the

reeds

in the wilderness shouting with

the Prophet

for our Jesus

to help us -- but He is

Occupied, we

are quiet, here, in

these Caves, our hoped for Reason

betraying Us -- We

see demons in

their Eyes, sense

the Spirits

sharp with pure Incision -- We

are hustled

out in the street, sad and blue,

to remember

what her voice had said -- "God

loves you

and So do I" -- but

who is She, this girl, does

she know my

words have

crafted her

in

frenzied longing?

Love what is difficult,

said the poet,

draw it to you

and you will be delivered -- there is

No time for sleep, the

armies of night

descend upon us and pin our sides, jaws

set on devouring us -- "Would

you like to see the Nurse?" -- Womb-fed

and full of Fire, naked

with fear

on the bathroom floor, the rough beasts

here to comfort you

with stealth

and forgiveness; pray

for me, Sister, I have slipped

into

a worried World, a contorted artist of

my own trapeze -- they come

in the hundreds, incanting

violent rhythms

with a sagebrush dialectic -- She

explodes, bleeds, comes

to -- "Mother's maiden

name?"

Mother's maiden Mane, Father's eye,

i have betrayed

those who love me to go wandering in the street

on God's word, there marked

with ash

in tattered rags I will crawl to the sea

to repent, bathing

my wounds

in the Sacred Water; -- It

is there She will join me,

my pliant lover, She

who traverses

time and

place to Shelter my Shadow

in her Embrace: but she

is ether,

mercurial girl who would

drown me

before I knew her, digging

in the closet

for a belt to hang me with; She

Sold me upriver to the Devil

for my repentance: Would

I sully Heaven

with my Attic of Sins or have

I been banished

here

to Stand in Solitude forever -- The girls

laugh, the

pure angelic choir sings for me

its praises of

the unbridled Mind; Soul

is not Substance, it is

Hellfire, "It hurts

Mama, it's burning," --

and United -- together in my imagined

purity

we are One -- I am

an acrobat

who has forgone the Net, I step

out on Earth

with

snarling dogs behind me, the juice

in the old man's cup

drained

and Swallowed; they will

Steal your thoughts, they

know your heart, they

will constrict your muscles until you faint

dead away

without

sound or fury; here, in the

darkness

there are no Answers; there

are only Prayers -- We

suffer the knowing of acute

orations, we become

Sages

of our Pain, our

own intimate Saviours -- We can

bear it all

except the Fear, the

livid day's nightmare

Crowning us with Suffering -- Our eye

corners

itself in Silence, we call out

to our brothers

but cannot make Ourselves understood -- we become

Mute icons of a heretical Despair, shrinking

before

women, children; all of God's creation made Crazed

in our

enlightened machinations -- We

are the Dead, we

leave our Wives

in Purgatory and bend toward

the trees; there, the Sap bleeds

and we cry hard

stones instead of tears, we are

driven

through a pulsing wound to some Semblance

of Revival; -- We

Will wake another day

to Surface

and Survive --

*

true to Us –

She was born under a hard-light, arms

sheltered and Strong; her lips

pursed She utters a Prayer of belonging, hope

for her Children, intense generation of

fulfilled Restraint; she

belongs to this army of Night that awakens

in all of Us

a Surging of blood, a Soothsaying knowledge

of Purpose

and Intent -- Who is it

who will Stoop before her beauty and

be Alarmed

by her Presence?

We cannot keep Time, here, we

shudder with an archaic aching

of bone and flint; we

wake to waves flowing over our

bodies as

we succumb

to an attainment subtle and Sharp --

the devil his due –

this unhinged idolatry makes for a bitter Scene – it

opens the Senses to despair with

mute conditions for survival – who

would stand abreast of the Crowd and howl with

mean derision? These subtle imps

masquerading as victims imply a unity which is

not heard nor felt; we

have become our proper underpinning

here out to sea without a

compass or a guide – We balance

hope on our broad shoulders and communion with

the waves here searching poetic irony

and inclusion – all the stars revolve in a vicious

circle to bring us round the drunken

shores of a high fidelity – Where were you when we

arrived, naked and starving, at your door?

Had you left for us some direction we could not

understand?

Sere glimpses of a hot sun blind us briefly; who

is it who submerges intensity for revelation

here uncovered? We walk the jungle

routes into the depth heaving up words of guttural

promise and intent – Vines snake

their way under the canopy while parrots sing their

uncanny melodies out of sight; We

are your diamond-deserts, your hoped-for oasis, the

plunging of your heart into the fire –

we can sense you warm hands caressing our supple

neck, your almond eyes slanting in a pure release – we

who had bowed down before you

in another life seek remittal of our Sins, a hope

surging for sublime oration – we call to the

medicine-men to heal us in our Sickness, his

hot coals cooling in a sudden mist the steam

issuing in atonement here, again –

The Creation of the World –

black Ice, the covert

operation of a clinging operatic instep unveiled

we lay on the floor convulsing

god untangling our electrical impulses

to Sing a river into being there

by the rocks abutting purple cliffs with

whitewash and Sacrifice our

pregnant Women and wishing millions building

in our minds

an architecture of sense our breath blown

through skies unsheltering havoc

and blue bliss; we

get down to basics of arrival

seclusion fruition remittal – the animals

bray, moan, whine

in stuttered contractions our elders

round the fire whisper

incantations of Sense and Spirit – children

run frightened to their Mothers

as hunters

submit their logic to the wood – hazy

dusk yearns for

blacker Night the shadows shiver in the air

we the still ones with our heads held high

scrub our cheeks with moss and

chew gently on twigs the root

vegetation of a spare repast – what

God is this who

retracts, conveys, distorts, twists, uncovers

errors, riddles, jokes, parodies, parades of

unquestionable unions?

Are we on our own, Now, to craft

Our evolution as

we see fit? What

manner of inspiration

shields us in our brilliant Light?

We are each other’s intimate saviours

here inclined

to bring our Spirits high

and justified – We are in this

each Other

and the World --

talk to her

talk to her, she may see things differently

she must ache in motherhood, in Silence

waiting for the word to come down from the Sea

and wash her in its cooling balm its violent

nature not unknown by those of us who dream

a wicked dream, a nightmare spent in solitude

beneath a Sky; it is here that we may seem

to be a little more cantankerous, in this abode

where shelter screams all day without impunity

our hearts out and longing in our breast

as every phrase beckons to us its ferocity

to chide the very devil from his Nest –

Is it here in your foreboding that you Sing

your verses ripe with venom, bite, and sting?