Sunday, September 15, 2013

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.