Circles

So the sun turns
And spins: circularity
Is a facet of everyday
Life. Don't you see
How sound also
Rings around gongs,
And penetrates into
The vortex of our ears?
These vacuums swell
When rain in its alacrity
Engulfs the rhythm of lakes,
Transforming solid water
Into curves. Our existence
Also runs in circles --
Thought perceives ideas
In the clarion tenor
Of a ring, joined in itself
And the thing it conceives;
Faith is a circle, and time,
First herald of all ripe plums.

Dioxophy

If you hurl it away and say
'Things exist,' proclaiming loudly
And in the daylight, it is true
The world will continue to turn,
And the intercessions of twilight
Keep spinning, drenching the peaks
Of the night, whose serenity
Glazes the swamps and pastures alike.

But why? Is there any reason
To ask the question at all? Will reason
Run me less than passion, meaning
Blind circumstance and whatever I think?

As much as I would like to conceive
Of a harmless space, a perisphere of peace
About the eddies of material
Being, still these changing currents
Are the rip-tides within as well as without.

There is no logic abstracted from logic:
The ground soaks up the storm,
And the storm soaks up the ground; far from the earth,
The best bet is to lash the sails to the deck,
To take quick action, and quick thought:
The unity of a man is as his being does.

Let Be Be Finale of Seem

If you want to take a grasp, do it in such a way
That the language precedes the rationale,
Stems from it, forms and informs it.

If only everything grew in our mind: rage,
That our plans don't allow the shapes of things,
That language itself shatters,

As if there were some ultra-visible force
Pushing away everything we can't see,
Until only the impingements of voices and color,
And the bodies of accidents were left. Yes,

We want everything to be intentional,
And every intention our intention;
We want the world to hang from the string
Of a necessary tension. Small men,

Who don't know the order of things, posit God,
Last arbiter of reason. Small men,
Who know nothing, are stringing themselves
Into frustrated little bits, glaring everywhere,
Trying to get their say. Love is supposed to help this.

But how seductive, to render everything
Into the hurricanes of our unquenched being:
Things are riled up on the inside, and it is curious
If the sun never gets in the way.

Circumlocutions

Say the mind is a ring, and twirl three times;
Now twirl in the circle of your twirls, but cross-wise, so
Perpendicular twirls slant-wise ring
Around themselves. All of these twirls, in the axes of their crossing,
Have their own particular meaning, particular beings –
Each is endowed by principles of motion, principles of semblance
Seeming through and up the whole. In the interaction of these parts –
Of swirls and rip-tides, whorl-pools, slides
The priority of life, the truly spinning tongue.

IV (WIP, R2)

O matrona dona, traversez le corps: the travesty of the body
Was in mind, in the bells, already floating
Up so many streams of Labrador red, the ravished head
Of Eurydice’s muse. Ephebe, Galatean, celestial
Admiral, tell us your name: the wind
Held that, and capered by caravels, the branches knew it
But could not say. In the forest, cool, were the pillars
Of bees, and more than bees: the beginning of song,
Past capes and admirals, sailed on the savage
Of Evergreen reds, meridians where the latitudes talk. Desirous capes,

Straits, we beg sagittiferous wind, we beg clouds, we beg storms –
Gales; nightingale moons, something swoons
In the unfolding air, gravity’s crystals half there,
Half obscure in the arc of the twilight.
If the storm-shafts penetrate our ships, we beg a sinking,
Sloping into the salt, a tilting, these gravitations of
Celestial will. Everything is made, Muse:
The cloaks are wearing twilight, your significant gifts are descending,
The sky is slopping and slavering on the prow:
So we ask foaming will, Muse, foaming good will.

IV (WIP)

O matrona dona, traversez le corps: the travesty of the body
Was in mind, in the bells, already floating
Up so many streams of Labrador red, the ravished head
Of Eurydice’s muse. Ephebe, Galatean, celestial
Admiral, tell us your name: the wind
Held that, and capered by caravels, the branches knew it
But could not say. In the forest, cool, were the pillars
Of bees, and more than bees: the beginning of song,
Past capes and admirals, sailed on the savage
Of Evergreen reds, meridians where the latitudes talk: dire capes,
Grim straits, we beg sagittiferous wind, we beg clouds, and storms --
Gales; we beg nightingale moons and the crystals of twilight,
We beg something swoons the unfolding of air, half there,
Half obscure in the arc of the twilight.
If the storm-shafts penetrate our ships, we beg a sinking,
Sloping into the salt, a tilting, these gravitations of
Celestial will. Everything is made, Muse:
The cloaks are wearing twilight, your significant gifts are descending,
The sky is slopping and slavering on the prow:
We ask foam -- good will, Muse, foaming good will.

Posseder un corps: how the flame licks the questionable lips.
Posseder un corps: in swoops, in lashes, in tongues of flame.
Posseder un corps: I've said it thrice, and the sweet sucre.

Posseder la vérité au moyen d'un corps, dans un corps, entre un corps:
Enter and penetrate between the folding cover of ecstatic sheets,
Between and through, penetrating essences, entering the collimations
Of the secret âme. Âme secrete, chanson, colombon
Pourpre des pèlerinages: Dis-moi ce que tu sais, et où je vais; dites-moi
Le travail et le receuil, le seuil des secrets. Secreted collusions,
Feuilles par écueils, the questioning rituals of the unknown,
Bring me unquantifiable peregrinations, raw and mottled
Birds, bejeweling doves. and the secrets of those doves:
Take your flights through the upper air, and the lower air,
And glisten the ether. Ethers, fumes, transports, extases,
Et tous ces sons qui sont jamais dits, déjà et encore.

Predestination

I am rage, and good
At turning a blind finger to the sluices of the night.
How immense and unstoppable, the sluices of the night.
The tightness of her corpse
Twists like a wheel grinding on a concrete
Scream, howls and blood in the distance. This dark
Tapers like a carrion, a candle -- keep the candle --
Organs of decaying wax.

If I twist myself a monolith, who will be left?
Only the livid face of the night,
Only her slime-green, palpitating breath.
Still I will give my all to her:
Death, who loved me from birth --
Grim death, who sucks my fingers and my dreams.
I am the pleasure principle, revolting,
And I am diminishing into silence:
The marriage of silence is the key for blue souls.

From Work in Progress (Invocation)

III

Ho, the twilight! Ho, the curving
Of the last docks. The lights tarry
Like moons on the river's ceiling, luminaries turn
On the steel edge of memory's past.
Where am I walking, walking
Under cameos of moonlight? Echoes brood,
Breathe back upon my breath, echoes of the muse
Sprinkle crystal like the stretch
Of powder under feet:
Crunch and crunch, these are the sounds
Sharp by the lurking boats, hunches
Of the dockyard, these are eternity's sounds.

If I Knew a Charm to Spell Doom

If I knew a charm to spell doom,
And spread myself like lightning
Across tatters, I would harp it frugally;
And I would lie in the deep quick
Where close things beat,
And keep myself hidden
By rushes. But the cities are glazing,
And the long blades glisten and dry
In exorable heat; ice falls
From the dripping cows, and black
Is more than a slip can perfume. Things
Are a rushing center, foundering
Like a gelder rose. If axes knew the north,
Then bitter fruit, and rabid red:
Colors are eating me, life
Is on the wing -- I've lost the way,
And not a word to sing.

I Am (R1)

A cripple with a red cane,
Craning his neck for a snatch
Of dissipation;

A Molester of plums,
Crutch-kicker, and butcher
Of hobbling ladies.

I rob babies, jab
The ends of lollipops
Into their eyes.

Always with a sharp tooth for disaster,
I have supped on human blood,
Enjoyed the screams

Of fatal penetrations. I have pushed myself
On something hard, all dagger like,
And groaned. Pleasure

Is my only consort; I raise hell
To pay him. I cultivate abscesses
On my nose, and pick, and sing

The siren song of death.

Imagine Me an Evil Man

Imagine me an evil man,
Cripple with a red cane
Craning his neck for a snatch
Of dissipation;

Imagine how I hate my friends,
Eat their frozen plums,
Spray their hollyhocks with lye,
And burn down barns for fun;

Imagine...but I have done despicable things:
I have cheered at babes who stab their fathers,
Yearned to bear round brimming vats
Of blood like wine: my soul has supped
Always with a sharp tooth on disaster, and I enjoy
The scream of fatal penetrations.

I open the doors of my home
To thieves, debauchery, and gamblers;
I have pushed myself on something hard,
All dagger-like, and groaned. Pleasure

Is my only consort, but I'll raise high hell
To pay him. When, weary with my wounds,
I drag a whelping heart, then I'll urge
On siren death:

But don't think that I yearn for the abyss,
Or ape anticipation; my yawn is one long
Seedy grin, that plants the years with locust weeds,
And furrows them with homely deeds.

II (R2)

Memory built the Palaz of Hoon
From candid glass and brilliant marble
With pieces of the afternoon, and twilight soon
Thrown in for grace. The structure toppled
On its own foundations, leaning first toward obelisks
Of dawn, then dusk, then shivering like a mirage.
The marriage of fond thoughts conceived
Its columns in the sky;
Trappings of the bird made cages
Only western ceilings. It was all
Like a symphony; it clashed and made itself
The kind of edifice it was.
Inside I saw bright tears,
And speculating stars.

Work In Progress

I (R2)

Becalm the days and quiet nights
That, supple like the palm is supple,
Branch and thicken in the chill
Like bamboo branches out
And thickens in the twilight air:

Let me turn again to coasts
And blue meridians,
Lands of tigers sapling on the cast
Of preying shadows,
Blazing fur and eyes of leaf
Piling on august leaf,
'Til islands like quiet obsidian lie
Along their leaf-meal decadence
The ocean's calming rim,
Surrendering to barren rocks her breasts
For the suckling stillness of sands.

II (R1)

Memory built the Palaz of Hun
From candid glass and brilliant marble
With pieces of the noon, the twilit soon
Thrown in for grace. The structure toppled
On its own foundations, leaning first toward obelisks
Of dawn, then dusk, and shivering like a mirage.
The marriage of fond thoughts built columns in the sky;
Trappings of the bird made cages
Only western ceilings. It was all
Like a symphony; it clashed and made itself
The kind of edifice it was.
Inside I saw bright tears,
And speculating stars.

Miscellania

II (O)

Memory built the Palaz of Hun
From shining brass and brilliant marble
With pieces of the noon, the twilight symphony
Thrown in for grace. The structure toppled
On its own foundations, leaning first the one way
Then the other, like a mirage. The marriage
Of fond thoughts made columns in the sky,
Trappings of the bird made cages,
Only western ceilings. It was all
Like a symphony, it clashed and made itself
The kind of edifice it was.
Inside I saw bright palaces,
I saw stars, weeping.

Becalm the Days (R1)

Becalm the days and quiet nights
That supple like the palm is supple,
Branch and thicken in the cold
Like bamboo branches out
And thickens in the upper air:

Let me turn again to coasts
And blue meridians,
Lands of tiger saplings urging on the cast
Of predatory shadows,
Blazing fur and eyes the color of leaf
Piling on august sheaf,
Until islands like quiet obsidian lie
Leaf-meal in their decadence
Of ocean's calm, surrendering to barren rocks
Her breast, the suckling
Stillness of her sands.

Becalm the Days (O)

Becalm the days and quiet nights
That supple like the palm
Is supple, branch and thicken in the cold
Like bamboo branches out
And thickens in the upper air:

Let me turn again to coasts
And blue meridians,
Stripling lands of tigers,
Saplings, urging on the cast
Of predatory shadows,
Blazing fur and eyes
The color of the wanton leaf
Piling on august leaf, until islands
Like quiet obsidian lie
Their leaf-meal residence,
Where ocean's calm
Surrenders to the barren rocks
Her breast, the suckling stillness of her sands.

Indications of a Love Supreme

HI

The soul exists like a hard and cold
Wax imprint of our faith,
Which bares the changing mold
Of seasons and designs, until the mind
Effaces into varying degrees and shapes
Of satyrs or sublime supremacies
The blushes of our times’ disease.

EGO

The flame of my embraces is a whisper
Like the sound of thought, a temper
Of trembling faces by the grace
Of constant metamorphoses expressing
The beauty of a few laces flickering
Like streams of flame in the smoking breeze.
My ardor shapes me, true –
But I wear the searing shapes more truely
As the flame, translucent of my rainbow being.

Fall, Rome

"Quoniam quidem circumventus", inquit, "ab inimicis praeceps agor, incendium meum ruina restinguam.”

Fall, Rome. Let the corpse of Tityos,
Embroiled in his molten, sear-
Bronze edification of sin
Like a holocaust of erupting oak,
Shattering branches through spokes
Of the claustric sky in spores, exploding,
Tumble, cataclysm, crack
The shafting ground like smashing
Sheens of decimated glass.

A Poem that Sums and Summits

"Rime being no necessary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verse, in longer Works especially, but the Invention of a barbarous Age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meeter."

The poet doesn't find the poem, nor poem the poet:
Because the poem does not exist. These lines
Cake the snowy page, like swirling flakes
Of soot, marring whatever was. Meaning
Is only a mean of the invisible sea of atoms,
Some function of calamity, and swerve: precision
Blurs too closely and too far, the mountains are not
Anything but mountains. Let me refocus:
If I intend, my intent strikes like a scar across
The whatever blankness of the poets' minds,
Since I, the reader of the read, am reading still:
We write each other, just so and justless, the way
A rocking plow plunges into the sea
Of its own making. Nothing will ever be,
For nothing comes from nothing. My perfection
Is only one action in a series of actions, a chain
Stretching itself in curious ways, but construct
Of that train, an art of minimum application
Reapplied and going, absolutely, nowhere.

Ecce Homo

I'm outside the student union, pipping at my flute,
Trying to erect ancient song but, insofar as it is ancient,
Failing to master the working and works.

I've been expelled from the cultural center
By women who want to be women, saying,
"This is our day to be women, to wail
About our vaginas, explain
How everything different in life
Is really because we are women." Onstage

They'll cry vortexes of desire that their mothers
Were never quite the same after that day
And the snow and the brightly charred
Oven; they'll defame men or screech
Erotics of joy in a nibbling breast,
Or grip their bodies and twist
Amply and leer, "I am a sensual woman;
Look at all the pricks I've
Fucked." And they're probably right.

There's even a man who will grab his crotch:
"My vagina's a thick, six inch penis."

I don't have a vagina.
And I probably never will. I can still say
It makes it difficult for me trying to find a song,
When all these abrasive harpies are
Always angry about something.

I thought freedom was the intimate joy of being
Human, and that's all we could hope to become;
But there's always something stopping us,
Holding us back, pushing me out of the way.

All These Cackling Gods

I

If the pieces were falling...
A mind disjoint like a cut
Leg throbbing, swimming
Through the blue pools
Of narcolepsy: spasms,
Emerald bleeding spasms,
Something tensed off to infinity –
Where are all these bleeding dragons,
Mommy? The mother is not
Cropping limbs, but infernally
Frigid, cold. In the distance
Will the sunflowers
Melt? Demeter cut, slut the meat,
Slice, chunk, rut of a sea
Borne breeze,
And quiet gates.

II

I am not in the country of the found. The swollen intensity,
Oh my ankles, will my shoes gum up
Eventually? The sand is the color of green shut-up
Mermaids of umbrellaed intensity, flapping their inbred fins
Over the cool moss. Strokes of hair-delicate moss
And clam-shell eyes, does the sinuous curve of the sand
Mean it? I think I've collapsed on some state of paradise wounds
And the snow.

III

Coin. Mint. The machine goes glug-glug.
It was the passionate intensity of the machine in the
Coin. Mint. The machine goes glug-glug.
It was the whirr-a-gig of the joints joining
Coin. Mint. The machine goes glug-glug.
After awhile you grow dizzy
And faint.

IV

In the glades of the Sam Street paradise
A man is walking, walking
With a very tall cane, and the transfixed stare of the knob
Like a golden gate. Clack, clack. Each clatter on the back
Of the pavement clicks like a key through the rest
Of the pavement clattering, clacking: clack.

I Want My Work to Work (R1)

My poems, for instance, are not cream-filled confections
From France, meant to appease the sweet-toothed
Tip of the tongue with honeyed sway and the nibbling
Shine of a novel chorus, caramel faces, mint-wreathed
Every brow -- though I will take some of the bitter
Variety, licorice lozenge, wormwood, the absence
Of decorous iris and lily-root, amaranth and coquillage
To castigate your parasols, sea-purpled chocolates:

The past is not a buffet, we are not to feast
On the sorrows of women like scrumptious
Frogs' legs, shelled snails puffed up and stuffed
Into wounds -- and salted, deliberately savory
With tears, a cooked bounty's harvest
Of delicate gore; the great artist doesn't serve up
Our delicious and saucy fate, mirrored for all time
In glozing decanters of Lethe wine, so that the mind,
Inebriated with intoxication of a supreme
Being unjust, can vomit this fond extravagance
Up into the malnourished bowels of memory, whose poetry
Is sputum. Someday a doctor will come

And prescribe a ground diet of barely, chafed
Wheat, something hard and close to the rock
And its life-giving streams -- change tiramisu
For bee-dripping lees, a visionary sip
Of wine, the flesh and ascetic taste
Of pleasure. For books, like people, corrupt:
All the more gluttonous shame!
When Shakespeare roofs the human head
Of penury, I'll wrap my crown in loquacious
History, and squint wide-eyed at his glory.

I Want My Work to Work

My poems, for instance, are not cream-filled candies
From France, meant to appease the sweet-toothed
Tip of the tongue with honeyed sway and nibbling
Shine of a novel chorus, caramel faces, mint-wreathed
Every brow -- though I will take some of the bitter
Variety, licorice lozenges, wormwood, the absence
Of decorous iris and lily-root, amaranth and coquillage
To castigate your parasols and sea-purpled chocolates:

The past is not a buffet, we are not to feast
On the sorrows of women like scrumptious
Frogs' legs, shelled snails, puffed up and stuffed
With tears, salted and deliberately savory
With death, and wounds, a bounty's cooked harvest
Of gore; the greatest artist does not cook up
Our delicious and saucy fate, mirrored for all time
In diamond goblets of Lethe wine, so the mind,
Inebriated with the intoxications of a supreme
Being unjust, can vomit this fond extravagance
Up into the malnourished bowels of memory, whose poetry
Is sputum. Someday a doctor will come along

And prescribe a strict diet of barely, ground
Wheat, something hard and close to the land
And its life-giving streams; tiramisu gives way
To lightly honeyed cakes, a visionary sip
Of wine, the fresh and ascetic taste
Of virtue. Books, like people, can corrupt --
All the more gluttonous shameful!
When Shakespeare can put a roof on the head
Of human penury, then to loquacious history
I'll bow my crown, and sing his glory.

Voyages

Mad on the philtre of an unfined love
Refined into the nuances of the August moon
And found again in the translucent mirror of the lakes
That reflected her, a reflection of uncanny purity
Drowning in the cries of the gulls
Mirrored again in the passing silence,

I thought of wind chimes and blue umbrellas,
Transparencies drenched with moonlight, bathed
In the silver incandescence of the stars,
Untrusting black shine that overtakes the moon
In a singular howl, shapes of the black cliffs, of the black land
Bathed again in the singular shine. Like a ship

Gliding upstream, whose deck glistens
With sealed off water, and renouncing the visions
Of a fog-thick land, my mind drifted again
On silvery wings, and in the space of three whole days
And argent nights, three perspirations
Of moonlight matching and quenching the aspirations
Of the hollow sun, a single second or a moment
Was all that transpired in my wine-dark soul.