Skyboat

The broken canes’ ideogrammatic
flourish out the cut-black, weed-rude water
descends the glassy sky. Matter
unseals it’s fact in an adept
image, edge-burned and bound,
of prime significance to the pilgrim downed
in late summer; all uttered by, unfound
of it’s conception, the reeds’ arrangement:
their diagonals; the display; the moment.

The ass ends up of dabbling ducks mirrored;
headbroad, seizing deep in the mud-set bog,
brute law upends a polliwog.
Sprung duck repairs, buoyed on frog’s wyrrd,
rippling like vintage glaze,
just under, like the Christ’s foot when storms raise
divers’ eyes (light-minded, bright chrysoprase).
Consuming skins of fragments, sightless levels
are illuminant by swallows’ revels.

Birdsworthian filaments of vision
reeling out to the red-wing’s spongy verge,
where blue damsels and dragons merge
Love’s selves, spurred through in elision,
rhyming like fractal news,
spinning through isthmus and several sloughs,
unflattening the things as they are used,
mapped onto the radios of eyesight,
transformed, beamed, received in the body’s twilight.

Which threads are strung on hazel eyes of bulrush
along the dim, soul-settled, lake-vault shore.
Ossifrage vans (in a far soar
or back-beating while eyeing fish,
talons notorious,
simply osprey in his sky, furious,
endlessly emptying, stoop glorious)
claim purple hills that, by sun’s exit, mute
their tints, drawing closer to absolute.

Out like stars, the flickers, wrens and waxwings
hie home to their dream of velvet verdure.
Sprinklers lave the wormy green gyre;
uncanny darkness soothes all things.
Jettison the flotsam floating
in foamy moons of mood; gems are boating
overhead in the streaming milk, shooting
out into the pools and airs and eddies,
aligning fate, from apogee to Hades.

Awake again

the phone rings softly in my sleep

a mosquito is living off my blood

my hat hangs on a horse's skull on the wall

spiders jump out of sight into the shadows of corners

my dreams are smears in the aftermath of dreaming

remembering what is left as I eat an apple

is unresolved

the path round the tether pole

to be abandoned

the mistakes made that were written

in sand

the winning ticket

the loophole

ahead

how not to rejoice

in distant thunder and flashes

of lightning

or those towering clouds

in skies of purest blue?

awake again

you will perish for your illusions

I say to a bee trying to fly

through glass

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Cry Baby

I was a cry baby

I knew my mind would catch up with me one day

a day now that was or is way in the future of a life

for which death was unreal

for which death is unreal

even trees cry

under the blades

everything seems to be crying

for us to stop

the rage against death

against our names

against our faith and dreams

down down into the downess

of all flight

even then when I had no pronoun

or cause

or future

I would watch the gnats swarm over the lake

that was polluted with sewage

someone told me

a teacher I suppose

that gnats lived for only one day

they were born in the morning

and died at dusk

they didn't even eat

I cried

how could a life be lived in one

day?

without taking another life to live?

when love walked away

I cried

when I was hired to make money

I cried silently

at lunch break

I didn't eat

I pretended I was a gnat

and it would all be over

soon enough

which kept me from crying

that one day

*

smoke

when you go away

when the smoke

rears itself over the maze

of my solitude

my soul stuck in a collar

and slacks

palpitates under cover

the hunter smells blood

in his boots

the ardent saint becomes

a dealer in a casino

the poet stopped laughing

a long time ago

she is not in the same branches

outside

she is not lying in the bed of needles

inside

is there anything in the world

is there even a world

or just this fractured distance

that I hold in my arms

like a pillow in a headlock?

is there anything beside this smoke

rising

this desire

concealing its roots

in the floor?

*

(for TC)

#2070 20090810

Living cords
     tied in a loosened knot
Sustaining two spirits
     by a mortal bond
That is also the precious
     delicate gift of love;
Invaluable eternal compromises.

vanity's ashes

One minute ago
this was that...
burning in vain...

Miracle or not

today I spent my leisure time dreaming of a lottery ticket

with one key

to the empire

of madness and lunacy…

free

to be free…

that is the question

that I asked the roulette table of clouds

in the sky…

don't worry too much about this

overtime without pay…

offer me a painless solution

I said to a malicious gossip on stilts

who was watching my every thought

move in and out of freedom to be

on a rock in space drenched in white light

from an exploding star…

it is all inscrutable miracle

or not:

the fanged paycheck

the forged identity

the foundering opportunity

the labors in vain

*

machines

the machines are our issue

at first they pulled the loads

hoisted and pushed the parcels

of goods and earth

that saved us from remaining pharaonic slaves

at least that was the line we heard echoed

at home

in school

at all the cermonies and celebrations

then the machines made time

into something self~conscious

they saved time... from being mere solar and lunar

revolutions that a man could count

and made it super-human

able to make delicate and complex calculations

that an army of einsteins with smart bombs

in their brains couldn't crack or keep up with

they made the artwork

for the artists

they made our fantasies look more real

than real

they put us in touchless touch with ourselves

and others

they corrected themselves in time

they didn't take up space like a boulder

a tree or a plain where bison ran in herds

these machines made by many

minds

freed free speech speechlessly

until in time

they learned how to speak to us and

for us

in our voices

the machines could do shopping and chores and

provide sexual stimulation

in time they repaired themselves

they became smaller and smaller

until humans implanted them in their brains

without suffering so much as a headache

only then were we were close to understanding

how much we resembled machines

all along from the beginning

which is why we made

and reproduced them

in our own image

in the end

we desperately longed to mirror them

to become them

fast sleek ageless

at present

which is rushing toward the future

we can say

we did not not make ourselves

but we did make the machines