Friday, August 28, 2009

Ed Ecco


The ambrosial kinesis
of electricity
rose from
floorboards in
sighing mists.


Ground baptised
by mystery's spill.


A pump's water
broke.

Every Mother's toil
gainsays alterity.

Professions
of faith
discarded by
misplacing the
switch.


Here the act
recreates order:

Labor's eschatophilia.

Everything flows
again,

even hands
over damp brows,

and the miraculous
is reborn
to cleanse.

Terre Haute(Inmate Timothy McVeigh, Federal Prison Execution Chamber)


I


Out of silence,
out of a point,
warmth flows

Acheron bends
within me.

Its warmth shrouds
My limbs from
Cold light


The Sun
never imbued
this warmth

I was a boy once
I laughed too

That laughter burns.
It burns
like eyes fighting sleep

I was a boy.....
I laughed
I cry


II


The high ground
was blessed
with one hundred eyes

Not a cloud
in these
sombre skies

And the city still stinks,
drawing its share
of carrion

As the dead monster
silently passes

Cold stares and
colder hearts
contain the image.

How a Coachman Died of Corns in 1830's Imperial Russia

--Count T------ had upbraided Lupin more times than the
Tsaritsa had taken ill when the word "December" was
mentioned to never discuss his corns in the Presence of
a District Councillor. Talk like that was enough to keep
him from the rounds at St. Petersburg for three years!
"Did you hear Count So and So's coachman had corns?",

as laughter rose like a tidal wave over him. These reflections
harried him like flies. For each wince he promised a good knock
for the dogged Lupin. "And just look at the way he shuffled",
thought the Count, "any man could see the poor fellow had them!"
--No,  Nizhny Novgorod wasn't far enough banishment for Lupin's 
mighty corns. They haunted the Count's every waking moment. 
Even in dream he'd pass through the Imperial Halls only to be 
taken to task by His Excellency for the shameful condition of his 
Coachman's feet. In the background the Tsaritsa would feel faint. 
He always ended up in the Caucuses the butt of some Clerk's lampoons 
on "The Famous Count Vaporcornikov". It was insufferable. 
His coachman was undermining him au pied. "What is to be done?" 
he mused as he took another pinch of snuff. He must kill Lupin.
--Count T----- thought up every charge he ever laughed about
in the company of peers at The English Club, where Prince G----
held court, for doing a Coachman or peasant in. The Coachman being
foremost to experience the artistic exuberance of these councils.
The Coachman in Russia was akin to the Concierge in Paris: He knew
everything and remained scrupulously circumspect. Such a delicate
balance was bound to falter at times. Sadly, Russians cannot help such
falterings. Each falter registered seismic consequences spreading from
the provinces to the halls of His Imperial Excellency in St. Petersburg.
--Three years on Lupin died in V---- running the gauntlet of "Two Pipes"
The happy phrase "Two Pipes" meant poor Lupin was to be
thrashed until the District Governor finished smoking two pipes. And,
of course, he appreciated his tobacco slowly, in the  grande style. 
Count T----- swelled with laughter watching Lupin hobble from
one series of thrashings to the next. It was almost enough to make 
him forget three years of Balls missed in St. Petersburg. Almost.


Tuesday, August 25, 2009

We Always Walk In Circles

We always walk in circles.

An illusion of return,
of homecoming or homesickness
wells up a broken circle
to cover the
cunning of annihilation
disguised by circulation
of blood and respiration.

We always walk in circles.

Imagine absent Suns
and wish ourselves
satellites,
beings practicing
cosmic liturgy.

Love is the radiant
dream of radii
to mend broken
circles within.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Caritas

To Tammay

Dab the spittle
and drag them from the rain

is it rain or the shower
waking me from
past squalor?

her odor elided by fragrance
cool and acrid

Dab the eyes
and drag them from the stain

Of dream,
Childhood, runny noses
and passing beggars
tarrying in the rain

their shivers float a cadence
cruel and tepid.

Bonjour de la Rose




Rosie's taken 
that pill again.

Painting the kitchen
with a finger-nail
polish brush,

Arabesques of cherubs
every three inches.

As her son
hacks with pneumonia,
She hums
an unwritten fugue.

There is a place,
One day,
Where cherubs
fly away as,
at sixteen,
that boy
opens his veins

and dies like
a promise.


A day when
Rosie tells a new love,
"You're just
like my son."

as Cherubs
weep down
dirty walls.

INRI the Navigator

daybreak, judea washed in peach,
light binds pilgrims' white cloth

day leavens as flat bread 
cracks over pitch and smoke

on an ass Elias comes,
the caps laugh 
and ladies sigh

each hoof beat 
shifts its axis

peach ripens to
burnt red as 
day fades

passover the proconsul's uneven sleep,
truth unsettles dream

the carpenter shifts a plank
and nails it to the mast,
our breath soars and is contained

His head lifts us 
past gates
where pilgrims gather.

Chorus Mysticus(21st Century)



All in transmission
Is but reception;
The unattainable
Here becomes elation.
Human fulfillment
Here is passed by,
Endless adolescence
Draw us on high.

Ode to a Broken Violin




There lies my violin,
made on sleepless eves--
closing dream for song......


Of kite string and
Mop-handle,
bow fashioned
from a willow's branch--


Broken


The symphonies I led,
solos for
dinner parties,


An Orpheus-lad I was.
Changing river's course,
gathering forests,
swerving stars
from the First-Mover's
Intent


Broken


So come dream!
Peel away
another songless
eve.




Saturday, August 15, 2009

Uteran Cantos

Terre Haute, Anno 1988






I

Upstream we go little fishes
In Hymen's river of fire,
Carrying all where it wishes;
Choose to linger expire
On shores of fatal kisses--
Bloated bays of alluvial mire.
A warm eve of faithless stars
Veils what careless Ananke mars.



II

Asleep in the soft shell,
A broth of blood and spittle,
I hear the rush of every cell
Mumbling past like bubbling kettle--
Rounding full the drapes of dream's swell
'Til a cloud of shapeless figures settle.
As this strange sea lists
This gentle bark is banked in mists.



III

O splendid sea of suasive night
Cradle me in silken black!
O first fire closed to sight,
Obsidian bloom of hidden bract!
Unmoved by the absence of light
And kicking pricks of spurry lack.
Which hook wide eyes and pinch the gait
As against our brows limits grate.



IV

Tossed sea shaken by audible shadow,
Brow swept with waves' metred eddy,
Tremble as arms brushing limbs of willow
Shake off the apophany of touch unsteady.
Rock gentler when murmurs cease to throw
This sea and calm tucks in the canopy.
The salt-bitter foam ceases to billow
And I rest 'gainst the vault's vellum pillow.



V

Kick gaily lad and roll the fleshy sphere!
Bend loving ears to the Foetal cask,
A timorous finger press cries, "Here!".
Kick 'til midwife drops her grave mask
And lets loose ancillary fear.
Go to as whores revel in their task,
Further on the world of penury opes its legs
Asking each to drain their casks to the dregs.




VI

Too big for the sea, galley's beak
Stretching the flimsy veil.
Past Hymen's pillars steersmen peek,
Still the sea won't close its shell.
Earth-Shaker! Vainly you seek
To break her with shady vale.
Godly hands founder
Before the sea within her.




VII

Ashore in light I cry below
Heaven of terrible suns,
Girt with silver blade's glow,
Cutting what eye shuns.
Be it shores of burning snow
Crimson dyed where sea runs,
Past the splayed pillars
Pale under cruel stars.


A Holy Vision! The Virgin Mary On My Ass!


Friday, August 14, 2009

Dam

We no longer move.

Our eyes open
like slowing wheels,

pulleys strained 
by rope's burden.

Stone upon stone
skies carried
by the concrete wake,

diffuse sediment
through steel veins
into city's heart.

Another deluge
floods valleys---

                     her hand rose
                     but could not pass
                     cheek.


Jubilee



I


The day, silent with labor,
hastened the demise of dusk's calm.


Youths danced in the square.

Their soft limbs
coarsely figured
by tambourines'
frenzied clamor.

Shadows glided, undisturbed,
'cross tacit house-fronts

As the horned moon
began its lonely rise,

Jealous of the
fire in the city square,

And the crowds
gathering 'round
its gold.


II


Paper lamps swayed
left to right,

Slow as a mother's smile
opening,

Drawing a lazy arc
above our heads.


Tuscan Eos

Soft pink spills up from land's end.

Grassy slopes, damp with Eve's dew, demurely glow.

I've endured night's heavy post.

My eyes distend and bloom like flowers.

Search for a Melody



I


The Sun was covered by
A purple robe.
Regal Night arose.
Day's broken promise
Shatters crowns
to countless stars.

Progress, illusory thing,
shadows bruising
my heels.


Reprove stars
and place it on your breast.

They shine for others,
humbly fading
with Night's conveyance.


II

The Cosmos is
breathless with
First principles

Her eyes again,
more wondrous than
Constellations
showering from
Ivory fountains,
rise to crown
this canopy.

Amish Boys


Smiles broad as
wide brimmed hats,
dazzling under
Sun-washed empyrean...

Lashes long as peacock tails
strike softly on the lids,
shutting eyes.


A few times more
and we're buried
in musty hay.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Innocence and Curiosity

My little sister died
as I, with paring knife, 
freed wings from
her shoulder blades.

She wished to fly above home
and brush clouds away.

Her peaceful face... 
Mother, why scream?
Not a cry from her mouth.
She died rapt in the dream.

The knife's in the sink,
shiny and clean. 

Sunday, August 09, 2009

Humble Deity

Silence of open space,
hungry birds hedged in stillness
greet Gods and give place.

Proud Mothers and Fathers
hide loss from fledgling eyes.

The Universe does not sing praises.
Bow low lest your head
gets singed by stars.

Vendors of the afterlife,
where are your needy deities?

Only acolytes
and reckoned hearts
stretch out hands.



Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Economy

"M-C-M' is therefore the general formula for capital,
in the form in which it appears directly in the sphere of
circulation."

Capital, Volume 1, Karl Marx.




I


Clip my ears
with hard
truths


The Sun's light
is not gold


and debtor Moon's
silver is
dross.


It narrows the eye
with a bright tide;
Not of waves,
nor bowstring,
but kaleidal.


I wept
like a barren
Queen
when the
Cosmic Exchange
crashed without
falling.



II



Brothers!
Your approval
builds hovels
on my back.


You took the mint,
leaving me with
onerous credit.


The coined heavens
are counterfeit


And economy is nothing
but cruel alchemy.