Tuesday, September 7, 2004

Fallen from Allegory, Pears


from window pane
allegory fell
pears of
blue danube played
in minor key, slowly;
wind, personal
-- soul excrement --
ejected by thoughts
needing room
( 6 x 6 x 6?
sometimes we do not appreciate the
architecture); 

then
I,
eye, and another,
casual passerby,
voyeur,
thought life -- when
boxless, not eaten for
breakfast with skim
milk -- fast,
or at any tempo or heat,
must cost you dearly:

Pears do not come cheaply,
at least at this time of year.

Soon fallen pears have twins --
for the thought of pane brings the Winter.


Tuesday, May 4, 2004

To the Daughters of Sceva.




Somewhere I went blind in the conversation --
between the epidermis and the angels --
somewhere my stomach lost its way
amidst the tangles of a prayer and an
agony, an anger, and all I hate; here is a scar; there, the wounds:
all they breathe -- can we not form a circle, brethren,
an imperfect oval to scream at our oppressors?
But the images burn deeper than the words:
I took all the precious porcelein perfections,
pictured the angels skating across their smooth, body-washed shells,
saw the angels' traces, the less-porcelein pained faces,
the ethereal ballet,
the euphoria of one salt water ocean masked by another,
the liquid rose smiling at the black heart processional
projected to all as a cherry blossom joy.
I know not how many angels can dance
atop a pin, nor less do I know
how many have danced upon you --
what red slippers they wore, or
if they performed Swan Lake and the shell was the swan,
or if you ask for encores,
or if the show sells out -- and how often.
Yet I know this night hurt.
I know the heavens broke loose with a shout,
and archangels, legions with blessed wings,
trumpets of the spirit (the spirit is the sword),
they descended tonight upon my red tremors,
they did a pirouette and I have lost breath and
appetite, and I feel silence, clammy as death itself,
I have a need for Tylenol, and let me effuse:
Can I not cast out angels
nor summon the demons at my command?
Can I not have arms of such love
so as to encircle the universe?


Friday, April 16, 2004

1 Ryan


I see the youth,
playing dress-up to put on a show,
to say, "Watch me conquer the world
in an eight minute speech and then,
Judges of the World,
maybe you'll love me.
Maybe I'll be human.
Maybe I'll have worth because my skirt flows to my knees and
I can communicate your Ideals.
Maybe my parents will care, then.
Maybe you'll see through my make-up
or my father's antique suit.
Maybe you'll see through to my soul and
love me for who I am."

But I never loved you for your mascara, Children,
nor did I love you for your words.
Usually you make me laugh,
all you children parading around as
grown-up monsters,
playing make-believe,
as if the omniscientknowitalllawyerwhoworshipscostbenefitanalyses
was a human who loves,
who feels,
who longs to ride the winds of heaven
and taste romance's heartache...
like you do,

you, who cries your soul into your hands at night,
when the game has ended and parents sleep,
who is anorexic or sexual or depressed
or raped or lonely or angry or
merely in need of love because
the world has sodomized you and sometimes,
when you feel as if some pills would help,
sometimes you wish that God was dead.
But He is not and the night will only grow stronger,
so:

Children,
I'd rather you be a slut
who falls to her knees for grace,
than the superficial lovechild
of the superficial leeches.

I'd rather you taste the death of love now,
to know who lied through their fearful teeth,
than later when you realize what's fantasy
when you're forever chained to reality.

I'd rather you spread your wings to fly, ...and fall,
than clip them to please the vultures.

I'd rather you'd mature
so these words would not stir your passions.

I'd rather that the clamours of the masses would please you less
than the whispers of God.

Love, Children--
Love is curious.
Some say it is a many-splended thing,
like oxygen,
or strawberry shortcake on a warm summer day.
But it has little to say on a cost-benefit scale,
nor does it move the economy
yet it moves your heart
for your heart thirsts for Anyone,
a someone who cares to know you're hurt.
Let me say, therefore,
that I care little for your dress-up and make-believe,
that speeches will end and
beauty follows the path of tears--
down your cheek as life slits your wrists.
Children, I love you.
Yet I love you beyond the games,
beyond rules, and
beyond communication.
I love you for your very selves,
in the inner depths of friendship,
where parents cannot reach it or harm it,
and love will never die.

Thursday, April 1, 2004

She


She drifts through the world-historical
with cigarette in hand,
her vodka in glass,
and God in her soul,
painfully scratching at the skin of her self,
learning to breathe the Infinite Love.

She is beauty incarnate
in the divine sense of the Feminine,
as if Eve was redeemed
in the Paradise we lost.