Icon

Icon

Take in the gilded skin, and, with your finger

trail the lips, his Ouroboros fleshed in pink,

Cast the teeth out of silver to suck the wind

like a stream of flowing mercury,

Sculpt the gauntly handsome face,

carving out the ear, the cheek, and the chin,

Imprint your thumb into his throat,

plunging right through the sternal notch,

And, slowly brushing the wound’s release,

draft the line of blood along the chest,

And pin the garment of his loins

embroidering his flesh.  

Entwine your fingers in the sinews shredded by

a squall of Roman whips.

Weave through his toes, graced with your lips,

your fingertips smoothing the soles.

Embrace your effigy,

his blood still warm, still blazing red.

And looking at his bludgeoned eyes,

you ask through bloody lips

How will you endure this state you’re in,

in love with God and loving Him!

Trade Off

I do not enjoy the popular trend in modern poetry in which words are disgusting and too many of them result in the accumulation of bad karma.  So, especially in response to the Lorine Niedeckers but also a bit to the William Carlos Williamses, I have written an objectivist poem.

Trade Off

note cards &

          typewriter keys

scatter

               

words overflow

from a desk,

shattered

   

by a pillar from when

the condensery

                   burned down.  

Waiting for the Bus on a Foggy Day

Waiting for the Bus on a Foggy Day

A foggy night led to a foggy day

 and the sky rested his head upon the earth,

 and all the hair he had spread on the bed

 in curls consumed the pillow,

 white tufts and grey dispersion.

 Under the heaviness,

 the earth, though great, was crushed,

 and yet he willingly submitted to this weight,

 to feel the sky upon his chest,

 against his lips.

I was waiting for a bus,

 while others waited for rides back home

 from either strangers or friends,

 ready to put themselves in another’s hands

 and vanish in the mist,

 in the expanse of grey.

I love the mist that makes the lights

 mundanely on the street,

 return to their first shape,

 the antediluvian flame of God’s Starry Night.

I love the feel of air that is not wind,

 heavy and thick with heaven dew,

 and breathing in and feeling dampness in my breath.

I love to feel as if I’m lost,

 ungrounded in some shoreless sea

 surrounded by miasma

 clinging to me and to the land,

 consuming all that is not near my sight,

 as if I am alone amongst the vapors.

But the sky does not rest on the earth forever,

 and he must rise from off the bed,

 and earth must let go of Heaven’s hands,

 slowly return the clouds,

 let them be drawn into the atmosphere,

 cocoon us safely from afar,

 and though the clouds will be distant again,

 that state is temporary too,

 sometime the fog will come back,

 and lay with you, and maybe then,

 praise God be so, that maybe then

 when next the clouds rise up,

 you will rise up with them.

A Study of St. Barbara

A Study of St. Barbara

Her palms fall to the floor

to stick--

her veil uncoils

from her neck and brow

kissing the ground under her long virginal

strands

her pale gold neck, unhinged

from the shoulders,

rolls out of place

as her breasts swoop to curtain

either side of the ribs

popping through her frail chemise

and her chin’s jutting masculine

propped by the tower

fixed between her knees

and her fingertips

stroking the arabesque

of the windowsills

jolt when the violent gust

of light

illuminates her lips,

burning her teeth and eyes,

singeing the lashes on her cheeks

of gold,

holding a talisman

of sanctity

inside her heart

woven between the veins

blossoming

electricity

floods from the sky

in through her body,

out her lips

striking the executioner

to the ground

in one sweet, holy kiss.

Hyacinth

Hyacinth

Petals insect the sky,

 buzzing the smell of rain,

 beating their wings

 with which they instrument

 a flood of pollen over me.

Always, I hear the wind:

 a hand rubbing my neck

 biting with gentle teeth.

Breath, breath, breath,

 it is so light to breathe, so soft upon

 my tongue, my lungs,

 but air, it seems, has formed

 in its molecules

 some lead that drags the sky,

 down with my organs

 to heaven’s opposite: the earth.

The frothing soil specks consume

 my name, my face, my features.

And though the earth devours me,

 I find the cause of my distress

 within the sky above.

 It is the sun and western wind

 who push and pull

 at my appendages.

The disk weighs down on me

 setting my back aflame

 while drafts pull me up

 into a gentle hurricane.

And so, one part of me is stuck

 within the clay; another part

 is caught inside the clouds,

 pulled and pinched by air.

I am two parts severed,

 with legs and arms

 bound in the leaves,

 forced to salute the sun

 till time itself has passed,

 and even then, still I’ll salute.

Gods, take me off this earth

 or lay me in its bowels!

 I don’t care where I am placed,

 I only want to be placed:

 to know my realm,

 not be compound

 some vernal in-between.

If I was born a man,

 I want to die a man,

 and let it end at that.

But since I live, I ask,

 is it the sun who has

 betrayed my nature,

 or is Zephyrus who I must blame

 for my afflictions?

Should I accuse both my suitors for this

 sick transfiguration?

If I should choose a single god,

 who deserves my poison most,

 I will suppose it’s you, the sun,

 who has not given me

 the choice to live or die.

All life should linearly lead to death,

 but my birth within and out of earth,

 repeats.

This once dead Hyacinth,

 is left a floral prisoner

 strapped to the wheel

 of seasons, spring and time.

It will forever turn,

 and I with it, in constant cycle,

 without a chance to be at peace,

 or sun my skin by you.

 Without a chance to reflect your light,

 Without a chance to return your love,

 Without, even, a chance to breathe.

Erastes

Erastes

Your eyes shiver under their lids

seeping through skin

their liquid vision slithers out

to baptize me

old and naked at the doorstep

of my love’s infancy.

You are the augur of adoration:

when you smile,

I descend,

and kiss your feet,

wash your legs,

cleanse my rugged hands

in the refuse of your bath.

Then you draw the life out of my leaves,

sap from the wood,

while I, blinded by bliss,

cry through parching lips for you:

“drown me, drown me--let me drink

the saccharin,

and crush

the berry of your maw!”

And I grow wild,

venomous,

a thorn outside the flowerbud,

vines clung to your body,

choking it.

But you could tame the savage heart,

ring the beating flesh with steel,

if you opened up your soul to me,

made me in your image: young,

let me love you, inside/out

and devour you!

So, if you return my stolen youth,

I will plant the seed

and water it

and with my hands

provide some shade,

and with a beam of glory,

become the sun,

and grow the vine

inside of you.

If you can make me young,

I’ll be your throne

of flowers.