Sunday, November 29, 2015

The Other "Ave Maria"

Poem Overheard on "Barbara Walters Presents"

so much depends

the test-



Massy Dark

The rain comes and the earthworms spill like fingers of Aphrodite
over the wet flash of black
bleed streets of cultivars, such pinkness
through pinkness
Wicked queah hash of puddles thrown
alongside their pea coats
down by the foggy bookstores
Flak of real words
makes their mousy necks more mouselike
I need a massage
from all the Oxford commas

For M.

He is a beautiful piece of stone.
I say/owe to him. Of him.
This is a gay love poem.
This is offshore speculation.
This is office work.
This is about and to the stone.
It must be morning.
Lambent white stone so.
I see that he is just a hunk. And more of it.
I see him in it.
I see him inside of it.
The person.
Candling an egg to see a sibylline fetus
except this is marble.
A piece. I see him as a piece
of himself or the self he isn't,
a canard of glass pieces,
smooth quashed orbs,
the thing. I think I see him of it.
Liminal cum,
Liminal ago,
Liminal person,
Liminal bus.
I really mean in it.
The gay hard the stone of him.
I see him and he is a hunk.
He is hunk.
I am just sitting here whispering to his form.
Which is concealed.
Under the white chalky dust
of the ghost leaves
of the surface of the cube.
Ecco it.
Now removed from hunk.
Which is all mine.
All of me.
I say to the stone.
The piece.
The hunk of an inside job.
A stoned man.
A formaholic touches
the sharp corner
of the trapped shoulder.
Stone is not as the fog,
This is an alcove of white nothing.
You do realize
the mind is whittling everything down
to a container?

Ezra Pound's Dictum

Ezra Pound's dictum was "Poetry should be at least as well-written as prose." I'd be much more generous and go with, "Poetry should be at least as well-written as Jim Morrison." Ah-cha-cha.


Thought has a rival
and it's a dark planet.

The Station House

Our station house is made only of windows
It is nothing but an agglomeration of variously tilted glass panes
Suspect as Neptune
The moods of dire tea party
The kittens left to languish
It blazes in a long afternoon
The unhaunted station house
A looking out a looking gin
But there is no entrance no egress
The light does it come from inside or out
Who knows but that light itself
That Saturnalia
The ticket booth is there
It is as there as Hart Crane's father
Who invented the Lifesaver out of twisted motives
Hart drowned
We accept its presence as a symbol of a symbol
This is too complicated
We want to change our pants
We escalate philosophy
To dine
We grow tired of waiting for the train
Forever outside the station house
On its rain-shined platform, under its glass eaves
Where the shapes of birds' feet are inflicted
On a subconscious, on tweets of dreams
Sigmund please
These birds are uncomfortable
They are seamless
They are sewn into the picture
Handmade chapbook
Of vintage o heart
Of mud of leaves
O few pills
The human train is coming down the tracks
It is combustible it is polluting
The station house lights up with a beam
It comes through a cloud that feels quite ill and clutches its side
That cloud is just being dramatic
The station house is nothing but windows
They come aflame from inside or is it an out
It is nothing but windows
The station house is near
Have I said that before?