Strung Out, Abandoned, in Paris, 2012

I took a lit Novena. A petition
to cool the furnace that was Paris, August, 2012.
---a mistake Les Bonnes never forgave

She smoked my last bag of hash as I visited
friends in Montmartre. She packed her bags
sans a farewell taste of her Lethean sex.

Not a trace. Not even a whisper of fragrance...

I would have liked to finger fuck her once more,
keeping the scent on my fingers. I would not have
washed my hands for days. Accosting strangers
with an antic élan, "Yes! She broke my heart, but her
mons veneris smelled so dulcet! Here!", thrusting my
finger under their noses, "Smell!"

Parisians are led by the nose. Americans by
the belly and eyes.

Disparate integers came into my head as I attempted
to create an Algorithm for the invasive scents of the
Metro at 3 A.M.. Logic failed me and the equation never
came. She is still gone, along with the embodied
musk which twists an imaginary vine round my left
index finger.

Leave the girls and study mathematics.

My prick weeps as I laugh.

A terrible current is running through me and fuses
with the piss-tinted street lights of Paris. Across from
the Place de la Bastille a beggar shouts at me in Serbian.

How did I know?

One solution: My prick is a sail tacking this
fragile bark towards Champs Elysées. Paralleled trees
line the street and walkways, neat as a discovered equation.
The floral tides tickling my nose tell me Tuileries
are near.

Paris has no mercy. I took a train south and watched
her disintegrate, Seurat style, into pointlessness.

An Apology Is Only the Recognition of a Love for Doom

Anna, my cousin my spouse, I tell the world from every housetop: 

I am sorry for my cozenage. It was small of me and yet smaller 

still the failure to sufficiently sing the sting of your absence. 

A soaked wet blanket sky smothers my eyes. And I, like a grey day 

which greedily holds every raindrop, cannot weep. I ask for the grace 

your beauty sings. Forgive and ford the gulf separating you from me. 

Friendship brings laughter but is no laughing matter. The trust and time

invested makes us all miserly of kindness. End the exile and come home 

to these eyes. Speak so I may see you again. My Doom in every sense, a 

domain of light and articulated beauty, I beg to return. I cast these pearls 

on the run. Hoping they borrow fire from the Sun and find favor in your 

eyes, ebon(not blue). 

Children's Crusade

The Virgin called on
Einhard in the vale,
Her voice rapt
His shaking limbs

A sack and a staff
He carried through town.
In his pledged heart
Her hand moves.

Paupers with hair blonde
As cloudless noon,
Boys high as reeds
With thistle tops

(Thistles they playfully lopped
With imaginary swords
On bright spring days.)
Shared his taking of the Cross.

"To Jerusalem!" he cried.
Starvation took its breath,
Rivers their limbs,
And God gathered His jewels

Scattering them cross heaven
To make the black sky run
A silver streaming light blue
Our Virgin's crystal tears.

Flowing

An engine rumbles softly as tires kick up mist from the
rainwashed asphalt. Pop lullabies tickle my ear. Artificial
Paradises accompanied by flashers and billboards. They tell
us everything goes towards something greater than all the
Stars. Mobility intoxicates me into believing the stillness I
overtake has flown away. The heart swells. My eyes digest.
The double movement of a world that refuses to rest.
Mists quench the cool wind rustling dust from the
porches of my ears. Blowing a sweet "once was" as
the bass of an engine carries it past.

Luz y Sueño

Watch me walk,
a Spanish Grandee,
with teeth white as
impossibility.

Hearts curl in heat
like a foetus,
to fulfill the Sun 
beating us.

We stride
noble and proud, 
with ebon sheen,
Arabian.

Don't cry, yet stay.
Stare longingly 
into the womb 
wasting you.

Flushing the Douche(ca. 1999)

"To laugh at something is always to deride it, and the life which,
according to Bergson, in laughter breaks through the barrier,
is actually an invading barbaric life, self-assertion prepared to
parade its liberation from any scruple when social occasion
arises. Such laughter is a parody of humanism."

-------Adorno and Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment.




Let us imagine a bored man. A man addicted to the self serving chuckle
of a neutrality which disparages all others to exalt oneself. In this fence
sitting Inertopia he reigns. The belly laugh of cravenness is the flourish
announcing his presence. In an Age of Hyper-Consumption, where adjuration
is preached as the holiest of holies, such a man appears wise. Even those who
rankle at his ludicrousness cannot disavow the essence of his up-chuckled
cosmogony.

We can almost see him posturing as he says: "My destiny has been cast
among cocksure women.". A nervous laugh bursts up like the rising sun
after the shame dawns upon him. He calls this effacing. Just as the child
makes its egotism a life and death issue. Yes, folks, the Coup de Fou occurs
afterwards. It was all in jest. He trembles at the threshold of being meaningful.
So, with a straight face, he turns this crippling inability into something
beyond meaning. And then crowns himself with a diadem fashioned from fool's
gold.

Those who fail to accept this Chucklocracy lack, ipso facto, a sense of
humor. Many of us have Uncles who never forgive the brazen inhumanity of
those who do not laugh at their jokes. In this person such a grudge is distilled
into an Ontological Reproach. A sub specie aeterni call for the entire Cosmos
to lighten up and chuckle along! It's the best way to live! Yes! Being a fellow
chuckler suddenly becomes the summum bonum! The dull wit of a timorous,
bored, Paterfamilias becomes the pinnacle of human wisdom. And that, indeed,
is laughable.

Ode to E. B.

Dark eyes draw
to a salubrious night
of hair
tumbling down
soft slopes
of shoulders'
day.

Shoulders and face
enchant like white sails,
a speculator's
ideal space.

Delphic tickers 

Captains shadow

to set sail
or stay.

Pixie mouthed Priestess,
you smirk oracles.

Dollars sacrificed,
an offering to
Saturnine Gentlemen.

Ed Ecco

Kind currents of electricity 

rise from damp tiles in sighing mists.

Ground baptised
by mysterious torrents...
Mother's labor
breaks alterity.

Here every act

recreates order:
Labor's eschatophilia.

Everything anew

as the miraculous
moves to renew.

Terre Haute(Federal Prison Execution Chamber)

I

Out of silence, out of a point, warmth flows.
Acheron bends within me.
Warmth shrouds my limbs 

in cold, antiseptic, light.

Sun's warmth wanes.

I was a boy once. I laughed too.
Now laughter burns
like eyes fighting sleep.

I was a boy.....I laugh,

I cry.

II

The high ground was blessed
with one hundred eyes,
not a cloud in these sombre skies.

It still stinks, drawing its share
of carrion.

The imp tacitly passes.
Cold eyes and colder hearts
scorn the remains.

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.

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.

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, 

conjuring dream with

nimble fingers and bow.

Of kite string and mop-handle, 

bow fashioned from 

a willow's branch, 

broken. 

Symphonies I led, 

solos for dinner parties. 

An Orpheus-lad I was. 

Changing rivers' course, 

gathering forests, 

swerving stars from 

the First-Mover's intent, 

broken. 

Come dream, 

peel away 

dreamless 

eves.

Uteran Cantos

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.

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 in the
Sun-wash...

Lashes long peacock tails
strike softly on lids

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

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. 

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.

Economy

Clip our ears 

with honed shears. 

Sunshine is fool's gold,
debtor Moon's silver
dross.

Trim eyes with blinding tides:
not waves, nor friendly hands,
but actuary.

We wept like barren Queens
when the market

crashed without falling.

Your budget

builds hovels
on our backs.

You took the mint,
leaving us with
bitter credit.

The coined heavens
are counterfeit.
Economy is nothing
but cruel alchemy.