When the sweet air turns bitter
dogs bark in Occitan
and cats purr in Plattdeutsch.
Birds sing sotto voce.
My lungs, like plucked lyres,
rustle like threads thru dead leaves.
Mother has a hole in her abdomen
the size of a pugilist's fist with
the face of Jupiter's hurricane.
When the sweet air turns bitter
I sing about dogs and cats
with lost tongues as the hurricane's
bloodshot eye burns dead leaves.
Roused automata,
host on dresser top,
daily Matin's hushed Mass
hums discreetly from
Arisarum vulgare
Numbing Liturgy,
my tiny hand unsure
as ears brim with
Angels' chorus
I approach the Auto da fé,
a petit mort that grows
with every step away
from host's home.
 |
| "..for we are all children of one breast, teasing each other, squabbling, but still unable to separate." |
The turn from text to context opens a path away from being. Discount deeds, being will always already have been breath's deed.
An account anterior to thought's alterity. Exegetical horizons, distant clearings, illumine dusk in bruised blue. Light grows faint as soft words spoken open locked doors. All is at hand, naked as starless night. Print's black impression blankets heaths. Breath folds and unfolds the terms. Form tucks tongues in reverie. Rest relinquishes any wish to signify.
Dream anoints spirit. The distance from everything is equal. It is an alchemy where pale leaves become gold coins as they touch ground.
Pale banks fillet
pristine drifts,
carved lacunae
of light's scalpel.
Powdered faces,
ashen drawn Sun,
narrow eye slits
to nothing.
Our protest arranges an assignation with death.
In open space, the agora, we can't catch our breath.
So much to and fro, loss and gain, our craft heaves
On the cusp of sinking, swallowed by soaked leaves.
Eyes shine forged beams above high heather.
Hand in hand, like burrs fixed, we're one feather
Which buoys up to embrace bright Suns
And swiftly pass what pulse outruns.
Stars cling to her eyes.
Sun's warmth, like love's breath,
upon my neck...
So many zones apart,
temporal dilation
makes beds of eyes
and skin.
Burn cares away
in thick groves where
Parliaments take flight.
The day flags.
Art sits bitter
in dusk's lap.
I choose to lie because
I wish to void
the imperfection of being.
Flawless vistas compel
inexorable subterfuge.
It is a perpetual battle
against becoming vestigial.
Every lie a jewel,
multifaceted,
capturing riches.
In tones of night and honey
I'm sap flowing over clocks' hands
which tempers time sweet and sticky.
With firm strokes I swim
beauty's sea cresting...
Her eyes glint
deep below
like shark's teeth
mocks moonglow.
 |
| ...bound in the cestus of beauty, streaming out blithely into the beauty embracing repose...demonically absorbing everything, gathering all into its Saturnian poise... |
If Kant has a Nocturnal Emission
must he inform the Constable?
An imperative commission,
because antinomies annul autonomy.
Faust's dog was no Poodle
But a black Dachshund
Immanuel walks punctually
across the King's mount daily
as motley Owls soar aloft.
The constellate crown
blooms brilliant to sight
a crystalline bow
of radiant smile
above Hunter's shield.
Her stellar tiara
waxes finely swift
in starstruck eyes.
Plumes of silver flit
with crisp gusts 'cross
blue scrolls above
Light hews, gold with grey,
as bonny birds trill
sullen on stark limbs.
When words play cruel coquettes
and you're drawn to stubs
like puddle soaked cigarettes
the glacial hush snubs.
Where is the tinder
for sonorous bonfires?
Pegasus' canter
sears what inspires.
It stills the inner ear
with apathy's drone
and the dumbshow vents clear
the muted chill of bone.
