Récit

We were never lost as young people say. Belief in
such aimlessness leads to romantic errantry.

Europe was grand, Paris sunny and soaked. The marsh
city sweat like a pied-noir stuck in Oran. We kissed coolness
and conquered Sun's tyranny.

Night winds lifted floral scents of The Tuileries uphill to
Montmartre. The Seine ran laced black. 

The lone white beacon, a suicide's face, floated past. 
We summoned passersby in tolerable French. All were comforted 
when Authorities calmly fished the body up.

Later that night we fucked passionately enough to forget death,
finding life worth the oblivion.

to HeJ

-"Qu'importent quelques vagues humanités si le geste est beau?" 

Harvest Song

Deep as touch,
suasive as voice,
a word breaks diversion.

Into farness
we, with tacit awe,
ride thoughtless into immersion.

The plain's wind-bent heather
rustles gold and sigh together:

To each equal measure
our shared, secret treasure.

Jawbreak

"Newton wrote not only the Principia but also a treatise on the
topography of Hell."

---Arthur Koestler


In pain and struggling to be reasonable, I stammer. My jaw
has a Heart of Pain beating dagger thrusts------ Again the
ordeal of an impacted Wisdom Tooth.
I shuffle by people with a humble, eyes averted, gait. The last
thing desired is attention. This is the antipode of my usual approach
to the world.
I have never loved everything so much. Pain brings everything closer.
I yearn for its repose in my eyes. Kindness flows from me as a kind of
physical contrition.
I am not broken and soon the Heart of Pain will no longer beat. Then
everything will return to its familiarity and I will seek the light of all.

Echo of Blonde

Narcissus
lost in
clone streams

Beholds
the gold's
rippled gleams

Light and lust,
eyes to blonde
clarity rise

Burning bands
dyeing fair
bleach blonde skies.

Lyra Nascitur

Listing in the bay
of a guitar's hollow

trembling string clouds
bring melodious rain

tack sail to climes
where day sets slow
as a first kiss.

Bad X

Eyes dry as canvas,
I was an integer looking for the Equation.
Nightmare played a waltz under hidden
seas. My horse pulled up lame. Darkness
granted a negative Damascus.

I was lost, no desire for being found. The Cosmos
melted into an Ocean of vomit, tears, and piss.

Sleep stood next to a lantern one block ahead. He cracked
a full-bellied grin. His laughter played an aching tattoo
radiating waves inside my head.

The wind blew coarse as an Early Church polemic. Foreign
cells warred inside me. A cloud's nipple offered false
solace.......And there I stood with my mouth open to the sky.

I was an integer looking for equation, eyes heavy
sandbags. Nearby a light bulb screamed light.
Sleep kicked at my heels.
The wind settled and I fell into a woman. She pushed me
aside.
Everything became whiteness and scent made my nostrils
burn. I became a pincushion for cruel angels.

The largo of a siren-like beep seduced me into rest's
capricious arms.

Parade

So many came
to watch
blonde boys
run bright
under cruel
Noon burning skin.

A new song
breaks from homogenous
housetops.

The Eventide strain
boys whistle
while beckoned by
dim blue light's 
placid blush.

April Dies Cruel

I

April dies cruel
as a child's
ideal.

The brushfire pall lifts,

Ashen traces
taken away
by evening rain.

II

Every morn
welcomes
the chaste kiss
of dew

Knowing April 
shall again
burn anew.

Labyrinth of the Continuum

"Clouds seemed mountains melting into empyrean."

Me, Visiting Colorado Springs, 2004.



The distance between any two points on a line is infinite.
It can be subdivided into infinitesimal units.

The space between two people is infinite when they are
not touching. That we do not go mad, miraculous. One room
away is another galaxy.

Leibniz's "best of all possible worlds" opens labyrinths of despair. 
To know when we are not touching
we are infinitely separate is too much.
We run, laugh, and hide in the "lace of soft words".
We ignore infinite spaces we abolish daily. 
Awareness of it would court madness. 

What we call close is unimaginably distant. 

Sound is an aural sheet we tuck ourselves under 
to set the infinitesimal.

Heartbeat a largo when she is not here. I sing her
touch. A spell to dispel all distance.

April Imperium

Green as these words are, they ring from the rostrum of an Imperator. A sovereign 

desire dwells within. I long to be the center of attention, a Sun to satellites starving 

for my light. I am insatiable. Hereafter, every month must be April. 

April shall embrace me with softness, its dewed kiss. I was borne from and for April. 

I am cruel as the time I wish to embrace. The Sun's smile seems so kind, yet it burns. 

Still, I love April with all my heart. The time and clime, especially its cruelty, appeal 

to my lust for Imperial Pomp. Bring White Horses and we'll ride through eternal 

April, rose petals anointing our brows and thorns adorning wrists. 

My bride's clouded eyes mirror the flecked blue of April skies. 

Then comes night and her empyrean of dark hair...

Assiduous He, Deciduous She

Parable:

Some toss with fallen leaves. Each breeze 

occasions a fall. Fragments, like bodies 

that never know, settle where they may.
Some wish to be wind. Hoping to make each 
leaf their Orithyia. Winds, like men 

that never sow, scatter this tilled way.

Moral:
Trees shed leaves of the book,
seed sprouts epithalamiums.

In Lieu of an Epilogue:

"Hymn to Aphrodite"

Bend your star-clad eyes
to a lover's hushed sighs

One who treads a middle way
and lets your will have its say.

Love will or be wanton
and with tears or song
we go along.

I Am Wonder-Foul

"Thereafter, he ennobled shame."

---Jean Genet, Journal du Voleur



Allow me to humble myself.
I'll leave the exalting to you, dear reader.


1. I enjoy picking my nose and eating the dried mucus and dust
folks call "buggers". I also enjoy picking scabs and eating
them. They are salty and delicious.

2. I can be disarmingly civil and even charming to people I detest.
I call it "two-faced considerate".

3. I honestly think physical beauty is a sign of inner beauty, and
ugliness is, likewise, the mark of inner foulness.

4. I enjoy the smell of my flatus.

5. I am too lazy to kill the scores of people I feel are not worth the
air they breathe. If they all died tomorrow, I'd be amused.

6. The happier I am the greater my enjoyment of cruelty.

7. It is not out of depression or anger that I write the above.
It is out of a desire to be open.

8. I feel one must hide something from all people; their very
own secret world.

9. I reserve the right to be disgusted by people who drink beer,
go to Starbucks, have a LinkedIn page, bite their fingernails,
and enjoy reality TV.

10. Disgust doesn't disbar the ability to love someone. Disgust,
oddly enough, is a form of fascination.

Piggy Bank Heart

Everyday I put a few coins in its porcelain belly.
The rattle is an enchanting sound. Reminds me of
childhood and shaking a can with rocks inside.
Now the bank's so heavy it rings with every
shake. Oh! The dreams of wealth hidden from
all eyes. Shall I build a castle?

These days fill my heart with heavier coins.
A smile, laughter, or her voice fills it. My heart,
nearly full, swells with new treasure.
Riches that exceed all dreams ever minted.
My chest thunders with each beat.
Am I bursting with fool's gold?

Pet Thoughts

"Mental furniture gathers the most dust." 

1. Laughter solicits our insides. The solicitation makes us regular. 

2. Don Quixote contains the best critique of Descartes' "Cogito ergo sum" avant la lettre("The Story of an Impertinent Curiosity").

3. Hoffman's "Mademoiselle de Scudéry" is an apology for Jean-Jacques Rousseau's sinister influence on the French Revolution. 

4. Every star is a Celestial Womb. 

5. Science ends where Religion begins. 

6. Consciousness has overtaken every stance on Ontology. There it fails. 

7. Day and Night are an aspect of the mind/body problem. 

8. Each word is placed with the rigor of a picky woman arranging the furniture in her new living room for the fourth time. 

9. The Ted Talk/Focus Grouped messianism of modern politics begs the anger and nominal polarity that digs too deep for its shallowness. Most are dissatisfied with the political realm(excluding political pacs and corporatized party machines). But it is fashioned to displease, hence the perennial appeal. 

10. The Brain is a parasite with a stem(Spine) and tendrils(Nervous System) which controls its host. Please do not prattle on and on about spirit or soul.

Brushfire

"...the same wind which extinguishes a lamp will fan a fire..."
---Beaumarchais, The Barber of Seville.

Dreamless, stirred by the doleful call of mourning dove, 
I woke to an urn emptied world. 
A Bingo Parlor pall decked morn with a dirty shift.

My nose itched and seconded my lungs,
I coughed.
Above it all, perfectly circular,
waned a piss-orange Sun.

These skies, the likeness of Bellona's pyre littered vault,
"The smoke-kissed tombs of heroes"
as Lucan, the Matricide, sang.

Though glutted with ash,
day's sharpness stings.

Maypole

Bellona rises
after another
radian of
Luna's cover

Blades bend to 

paring eyes,
she tills flesh 

for spoil.

Blood jets from
Maypole ribbons
lashing spring air.

The Hush of Illusion

Candlelit tears
mark molten gold
down staged
faces

Mellifluous reels
translate
lit cups on
this field
to every home

Each light,
a bullet-hole
in the Ptolemaic Heaven,
shines down

An open field
yawns light
into voids

where mute shades 
of blue glimmer.

Caves, Skies, and Hollowness

Measure is the man in all things. There is a robust love in insulting another. The effort in critique implies an interest beyond immediacy. I explain this to my love. She refuses to understand. A blank stare tells me more than all of Horatio's Philosophy. A being that kills something inside her once a month has no right to plea "feelings". She bleeds eggs out more than slash and burn farmers rotate crops. Alas, it's murder for the Egg without my seed. Misogyny is merely man's revenge for the guilt felt for the egg we, each man, fail to fertilize. Menses is man's blood guilt. It moves us. So we hide in caves or scan the stars to evade her wanton eyes and fall into ditches with our heads turned up to the stars. In Latin--Marcus Terrentius Varro, "De Lingua Latina"-- the etymology for cave and sky originate in the word "Hollow". Back to hollow eggs and love best curated in self-criticism.

Fragments of a Synaptical Storm

Show me desire and I'll have no reason to live.

-------a Stoic's fall into Cynicism Ca. 320 A.D. , Mediolanum.


1. State the most trivial things as Metaphysical First Principles.

2. Never succumb to the temptation of understanding.

3. Treat time as it treats you. Waste it until it wastes you.

4. Rest is the rarest, therefore the greatest, activity. (Olympian)

5. Refuse to believe in the accidental. You'll be a High Priest soon.

6. Curse wisdom and laugh with the little girls.

7. Defend Cannibalism on the grounds that all animals eat each other too.

8. Treat the truth with levity and broadcast lies with total faith.
You'll be a Messiah or Mahdi.

9. When the wars end nobody will ever sing again.

10. Crying makes me feel like a helpless Monkey.

11. Love is sympathetic magic. Sympathy is not magic.

12. Syllogisms, oh dear!, should never be made. It is a Logical
Minotaur maker.

13. My apologies to Hegel or any other uninvited piners.

14. Empire is so Outdated. I do miss the forthright haughtiness of Imperators.

15. Of all the Disciples Judas is my favorite. He was the Midwife of Infinite Grace.

16. Every time I write Midwife I think of Socrates and Plato.

17. I love my parents too much to be a Christian. I am with Tacitus.

St. David the Armenian(In Memoriam, Major Frye)

Rainbows, which occur often, are neither miraculous nor significant.

--------Gaius Plinius Secundus, Natural History.



Wispy clouds passed over the moon like cheap hotel curtains as
I sped past St. David the Armenian Church. Its stone face shined
a few moments before shadowy misgivings crept across. I thought
of you, Wisdom, and how you perished under the Sun. Just before
marauding Scythians snuffed out your hearth-fires.
It was in light loving Persia, darling. It seemed the sky continues
to fall on creased brows there.
I also thought of you, Major Frye. Your sullen cage has been cast
off. Now you are free to sail above all the dross we still treasure. We
are not lucky enough to understand what that encompasses.
Our heavens are limited to the Moon, Sun and sometimes Stars.
Tonight the moon was so full it stole the spark from every star. Heavenly
bodies have a gravity which contain the living. A gravity your spirit
has escaped. May what you see now make your soul swell with joy. May
what you have left behind shine like stars in new heavens. Heavens we
will all, someday, gather under.