They, Thus Created

Black fire

which does not burn

drowns each in the amnion's bliss.

Black fire

athwart the warm-blooded

still mourning the deaths of gods.

The now

self-idolatrous masses

thus, created in their image-

the sensuous abyss.

The sun hangs over this darkness.

We watch it rise and fall,

the moon.



Black fire surrounds us.

Even in Sinaloa

it is raining down.

We can not hear the melody.

We can explain,

we can explain!

Black fire is the engine, is the crucible.



Black fire in the palms of Socrates,

whose optimism quells

the dithyrambic pulse.

At last- we discovered the heavenly farse!

Now we do not need to die.

In one leap, no birth, no death.

A leap without feet or eyes.

Black fire surrounds us

in our image.

The abaddon of the senses

folds unto itself,

the soul and the myth.



Even in Sinaloa

it is raining down

on humanity.

We can hear the melody.

We can explain,

we can explain!




But,

the sun,

moon.

Poem of Longing- For Igor Lesage

Coming to, count four walls
One, three, the puerile frith
Between opening eyes
And seeing.
Wiry light befalls the
Hemlock

Does glaze the iris
Of my fevered gaze.
There, on the stool
Old ink once was
Speaking
Now quiets itself

In an abstract
Frontispiece.
Shh, stifling wind
The unwavering carnifex
Purloigns the mercy
From ripening

Slavic fruit.
Shh, stifling wind
Wears led
From the ground
In an iron
Mantilla-

To feel restricted is
The wind's secret to life.

Nine from the Spring

There are false muses bending before you in fits of laughter,
Writhing in groves where flowers have fallen into
Sacrifice before the ancient roots of weeping trees.
Who now will write of these monumental structures of nature,
As we no longer look to their dumbed greatness?
We shall not turn the abstract into a God,
And we can not hear that universal snare being
Released from the bell tower- for the old iron of
The bell cries but a distant echo,
Startling new birds from their perches.
All is wrapped in black smoke and even the sun
Sees the abyss and wavers across the sky in drunkness
Like a beggar crying on the cathedral steps,
Where is my Madonna?

Indeed there are false muses winding clocks
With filthy hands in pools of memory.
Herald I must, that not reverie alone concerns me,
Nor other naturally occurring whims of humanity.
It is a testament of today that I struggle to endeavor,
While false muses do cantor the spirit of the time.
That which has past occurred is the premier curve to thought.
Insoforth, an understanding of genius has died.
And it is just that we should suffer so, our past grievances.
Those men that have died in the laps of others and
Been sculpted out of stone, have not been made gladder;
For they have been forgotten not once, in vain, but twice more.
Fear will reverberate upon every turn of the century.
And thus will go on, the poet without Mother, until
A crowd has gathered to shed light into
That tenebrous spring.

June 9, 2009 To Berlin

Deep into the Deutchebahn, people lay naturally sunder. I suffered their words through the hill-ridden landscapes of Belgium and to Germany, whereupon every hill mounts a monument or temple, exemplary and for-noted, as many before me would attempt to harness its magnanimity with not my pedant inking, but commendable toil and fist. And every so often, bold letters do punch from the squarest of buildings. Difficult is its breath, like rusty pulses of trains gliding rail to rail, yet there is an infinite sadness in the wind quaintly tussling the trees. Blankness wraps itself 'round the muscles of windmills which redirect the wind in places it has not the strength to go on. Regard, this feminine wind playing softly with stiff German fingers. Discreet wonders emerge from the distance as the sun's last rays illuminate the gossamer skin of all things. Much more languidly now, we roll along the thick of the forest where, sustained are, long dead branches by the neighboring bush, and drowsily, they drop to the floor into an anonymous chaplet of thorns.

Aix-en-Provence

On the Cours Mirabeau,
There are sculptures of Herculean men
Supporting wrought iron balconies
Where aristocracies once pulled their shutters closed.
Forsaken from the impiety of plebeian mannerism,
The vehemently blessed hath renounced their divinity
In a religion of mirrors telling nothing of the soul.

Much has passed unseen as fateless clock hands
Do not recall the spaces between their bold-faced destinations.
As if, per chance, something has keeled over
Between the gaps of this great net that shall result
By no other murmuring than cranial capacity,
Then let it be- a singable notion,
This humane naivety- unknown.

But save all conception of time,
Now I sit on that same gentile Cours
Whilest pondering leads me to people
Walking freely in the street.
I know not bounteous claim of the multitudes
Of black cloth flapping its wings as precisely
As hands flipping pages in belfries of books.

The French are as quick to change society
As they are at conforming to that which
They have molded accordingly,
But what would any poet have written
Of mortality this or that?
Regard, the strategically lined trees
In uniform rows, aesthetic bliss!
Louis the XIVth wroughtly desired to
Cantor outside through a corridor paneled
With the paintings of nature.
He was too fat to look up at the opulent sky
And see the vision of Cézanne stroking
Its graces with pink elephants.

Cars are dancing around four fountains
Whilest those same inglorious people
Are seeping through,
And in a dark corner on the Cours Mirabeau
The poet's eyes grow fat like sponges.

The Gate

And nectar, which provides fair bugle for the feathered humming fowl,
At once removed, remains the pith of a flower.
Earth be protected from the prurience of life-
Thy golden sliver of renaissance persists between
Petals and air.
Such is the purfled gate whereupon wing and beak do twitter
Further searching and anon to golden water at no end.

Hence due it may be to pay homage to Bacchus
Who did have in the depths of his red-stained glass,
A bundle of pearls.
Into these depths 'scaped the bundled sea virgins
Filling his belly with disagreeable coil.
Let it be known that even the wine god, bastard of vine,
Lay immobile betwixt common medlar,
Seeking refuge among its cool verdure-

Hereby posing candidly impositions of desire;
At once, which is the flower that boast the nectar most divine?
Here the flower hath birthed a most treasurable serum
And, in turn, it hath flaunted thine serum dubiously so.
The hummingbird hath taken with fervid insatiety
Therein, 'tis not the flower that boasts
Profoundest sweet nectar,
But the blind captors.

And the birds are flying with much difficulty,
Oyster shells lay barren and exposed,
Bacchus curses his hands.
For in these hands he can not admire
With mind of that mingling
In which they are accused.
And to tempt oneself impetuously with slanted joys
Is to redefine humanity, mocking demi-god to god.

Who, I ask, shall consider thyself challenged
With one hand full of pomegranates
And the other, hard rubies?
Was it nearest today that I gathered,
It is only when one does require
This which nature provides,
That we shall defy indulgence
And be quite still, as she.

Moth Elegy

I.

How impatiently do I take life's lessons
Spoon after spoon, in mouth again?
It is sojourned, a cycle of measure
Whereby stands before a ladder betwixt.
That which divides soft heat of the evening
Is a roof that I should hope to ascend,
O' sweet corpulentia, seraphine evening
Forever, definitively, makes amends.

II.
A sentient master opens his book
Whereupon I graze listlessly upon its bound spine,
Amongst its blank pages, a pitter-patter
As I continue trailing nothing behind.
And much like the courier with his sachet of letters,
Uncertain- his foot holding finds no peace,
How precisely he delivers of that unknowingstly,
A duty kempt with incorrigible ease.

III.
And still the mystery one delivers
Stains the palms with chimerical ink,
O' what qualms progress from days of naivety!
Still, I am spoon-fed by the ageless rind!
Uneasy is the fledgling mouth which
Distracts fresh thought with movement.
Pitter-patter,
Trailing nothing behind.

IV.
The solitude of human action
Trots lightly like the cupboard moth,
Its diaphanous wing bathed in solace
Chary as not to shed its dust.
For it is the cupboard moth who seeketh the flame
Despite the flame be not the sun,
It leaves no trace for I beseech
The journey long be quite my own.

V.
How austere the world for newborn moths
Who cling to bulbs with no effect,
And tedium clings also to the poet
Who suffers near drearily, the dimness of light.
It flickers and flaps from the poet's own candle
The effect be most gentle save obscurity to sight.
As wax curls the wick in dulcet waves of a shoreline
I continue trailing nothing behind.