Saturday, February 17, 2007

[Adam’s Lament]

In the Garden of Reconciliation:

Ten Thousand Angels I walked on walking you
Ten Thousand Tears
Ten Thousand Limbs
Ten Thousand Rivers
Ten Thousand Lives.

Sweet rood,
Sweet odor,
Sweet door.

One saint carries the bowl,
The rest of us slip into silent quarry.

Red laurel buttons strewn,
Harbingers of light—
I place one under my tongue,
Feel the god of remorse that brought me,
Here, now,
Humbled in my days.

Strip my limbs as the myrtles:
I would my sinning bared,
Refreshed, &
Drunk on wider seas.

(Again, thanks to Enedina and Mary)

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[There Is No Love But Puppies]

Pamela down the street, no,
Up and down the stairs—
Yes, it was Love,
Yes, we were 9,
Of course, we would marry.
My lunch box I kicked for her
Up and down the street,
Up and down the stairs, &
Up and down the Vast Appalachian Trail.
“I will die for you,” I said,
“Like Daniel Boone in Booneville,
Like Mickey Dolenz in Clarksville,
Like that three-time loser Henry in fields of clay.”
“Do I care?” she said. “My ribbons
Are orange. I am a Brownie,
I am no Appalachian Fairy.
I’ll sell you my cookies, but only
AFTER we say grace. You
Say grace, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” I said,
Fingering the orange ribbon,
Or was it pink?
Or brown?
The beanie, I know,
Was felt.
Brown felt.
Wet in the rainy day,
It stank. It was clipped
In place, until it unclipped &
Fell to black wet ground,
& then ribbons,
& then tears.
It was our last,
The very last,
The only last stanza
Of our holy days.

(Poem written on ribbon, front and back. Thanks to Enedina Vasquez and Mary Earle)

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Wednesday, February 14, 2007

[Still One]

Many years still—
One, two, three:
Today stands,
For the jump.
Not a dream: You
Are vast libraries,
Watching the sun.
Tears drench—
Could the mind turn jade?
Snow in the east,
For now. Goodbye, &
Love—The Snake.

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[Orange Fever]

Night: beautiful tears,
And he walks. Three ciphers faint,
It is the year of fever.
Orange dreams, dreams
Naked like Bowery,
Keeping safe each city block.
The taste of
Madness whirls—
Its patternless pattern
Down the streets—a sign
I am come. Time:
5 a.m.
The tree waits
And the village looks.

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[All Umber]

After many years, nothing
But strength, outward,
By the granite gates,
Down the dark path.
Vast apple strides
& the day is green
& the wind blows
Who died of lust,
As so we all
Umber to
Sleep. Light is singing
In the poems, in my eyes, in the line,
‘… Apollinaire…'

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Tuesday, February 13, 2007

[Kapital Idea]

To him will occasion
folly. To lend for purpose,

therefore, is, in cases,
where gross is the question—

contrary to the interest
of both parties. And though it

no doubt happens sometimes,
people do both

the one and the other.
Be assured.

we are apt

to imagine.
Ask any man

who has lent
his socks. To those

who think,
to those who will.

He will laugh at you
for proposing.

Even borrowers
surpass the prodigal.

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Sunday, February 11, 2007

[Chicon: My Love in Blue]

The whiter the leaf, the less bitter:
Radicchio has red; puntarelle has narrow.

Endivia: intybus—

In a dark place, accidentally discovered:
The still-living.
Completely underground, in the absence:
Only the very tip, wrapped in blue.

In the Josaphat Valley—

Green. Rimmed. Finely cut.


Variation of winter,
Rich in many,
Never mistaken.


[for tina-chicon: 2.11.07: from pascal-chicon]

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Wednesday, February 07, 2007

[More Than Eyes]


She needs the forbidden honey flakes we will never have. White petals, white underside, he wondered if he had ever. They rambled, carrying her blue, the trains distant and littering. Across the river.

Her husband will miss the answers—not today, not the line, more than eyes.

I have answers.

In the twilight, I should be my father carving.


They rambled, the blue trains distant and glittering. Not today, my husband—I have answers.

Had he ever, the eyes across the river, my twilit father?


Distance glittering: my father, white river, blue honey.


Carve the distance, miss my father.


Ramble blue, more than trains.


More blue.



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Tuesday, February 06, 2007

[Stolen Yard Signs]


She needs coffee, the honey flakes “don’t have to be invisible” round trip, the Milk Street left dog ramble. They have said nothing, remembering only a white dress, brighter and more distant across the river. Friend or foe—decisions, decisions: I should be there, helping them decide.

I stood on the tarmac hugging my child, that kid in pieces, morning twilight far away.


Faraway friend, I should be there: Milk Street, bright across the river, remembering only white. Honey flakes, kid in pieces: decisions.


Round trip ramble, be there—white dress remembering: invisible: mourn far away.


I stood in pieces, remembering Honey Street.


River: coffee and milk.


Far away pieces.


Brighter eye.





Ever the thief of hearts
Restless caves, disguised tracks

Rorquals in deepest waters
Empyreal wisdom run down

Encephalon over the restless falls
Stillness reigns, stillness quivers

Kinsmen, listen to the crush
Of night’s upheaval

Rosettes of the astral piers
After the reasons for lost love

Knaves of the blackest heat
After the gold rush

Song for the listless heart.



Vision paled
The heart lurched—faltered
Mountains drifted, as did I
Leagues beyond memory
Leagues beyond the call of night.
I asked into the last owl’s wisdom
She reveled in mercy
I was spent beyond repeal
I ask you, with head bowed
Why the axe to my heart
Why the dreams that wander
Why the river’s veins bursting
In a throng of mildewed wine.
If this were heaven, I would ache
Till morning, snared by the thistle’s beam,
Echoing down her long dead year.
Prayers for the living, prayers for
The rest of us, those who lie,
Those who rust. Equality
Rots the core—I have no more
Child to spare. This speaks to no one.
Empty the bowls, empty the house,
Empty the river’s run to sea. Dark horses
Stray, dark horses weave their tails
In my dreams.
This will be her empire, the one that
Falls apart. Will she rise with the sun, or fall
With the slivered moon?
The beeches weep, the pines rage,
The aspens call down their shattered heart.

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Saturday, February 03, 2007

[Thinking of Rand McNally: Affectionate Theft]

In the neon cross of afteryears, fire the wisdom of children, the children of grace, the children of Solomon’s bend. We are after the cinnamon dawn, the angle of jealous repose, the visions of generous bite. Is it any wonder we wrangle the nights of catastrophe, with withering flight?

into your valleys
around your bends
down by your rivers
under your oceans
over your skies
singing your mountains
breathing your trees
drumming your bodies
praying your dreams

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Thursday, February 01, 2007

[One Down]

hot Africans dating site,
“Oriental” women want to know you while
live nude girls on lee treviño
that’s big lee, bigger than
you or me
bigger than his putting daze
bigger than his morrow
bigger than his guaca—mole
bigger than his april shower
bigger than his Mesopotamian sunset
bigger than his astral rhymes
bigger than his channel 9

i watched lee, i forgave the nudes:
it’s a big avenue—electric.
it cherishes moonbeams, while
the rest of the world cherishes tigers &
Giselle. I’m not counting
the forgiveness of sins: too many to count.
el paso needs a dead father, is screaming for one,
the avenue of trees.

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[No More Still: 19 Honey]

steeplechased her quandary
touched by quiver of air
island weary down the ladders
calypso drawn calliope wary
katharsis of black night
yestreen dream summerdrowned
dank the swither of ancient folly
agonized bloom, agonized
recklessness in querulous flight
kestrel no more still hovers
wizened by wonder
ignescent her life's fashion
darkened grain
fresh gale in morning
lenitive the hand's touch
opalescent eye opalescent squander
westing - beyond
echo, beyond furnace heat
radiance inebriate:
y intercept of the coming dawn

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[HoneyEleven: For Passion Osprey]

Savor the flavors spun down years
Torn from books cooked
In sauces for nought and the naughtier
Cries of bliss cries of bodied
Kalligraphy cries of tumerics
Yellow will her
Daring of the souls inventions
A better heart sees
Racing for no cover
Kured in the bodys juices the bodys
Whale of resurrected bone
I am the one who whispers
Laughter is my other sign
Down your aprils down your
Flights to rios of the mountains heart
Left to fend for passion
Osprey soul
Will hover crashing Loves waters
Hunger is its own best friend
Over the mountain of sexual
Nurture even as the souls
Etched fire
Yields not.

One of 25 acrostics written between 1998-2000, for the chapbook "stickydark." The recurring acrostic down the left margin: stickydarkwildflowerhoney

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