21.10.08

DITCH & POND

To leave you at the lake of the mountain because things will never be the same and you want to be alone, leave me alone you say with your bait your tackle your little blue boat to row yourself into open or shade depending on the time of day, on the sun, on its leanings, on the year. when wind from the west fish bite best bite best, salt is heavier, you are gone, smoke hovers close to the ground, and blood that is blue is blue just beneath and the blueblood ox bellows a bit, wades flankdeep, ditch and pond at the ribs, the violet leather a suck sleek. the blueblood ox aches and when the drawers where you kept your leather things catch rain is coming, salt is heavier, sun rises red.

AUTUMN INTERSTICE

*AUTUMN INTERSTICE HAS BEEN REMOVED BECAUSE IT SUCKS AND  IT SHAN'T SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY UNTIL IT HAS BECOME SOMETHING ENTIRELY DIFFERENT  THOUGH WITH A TITLE LIKE AUTUMN INTERSTICE THERE IS NOT MUCH HOPE.  I HATE ROBERT FROST.*  

18.10.08

I PREY UPON THE YOUNG/THE BEAUTIFUL/ THE BRILLIANT

glut and spindlepricker lift your
gut and finger
beckon pause flick
flickfinger (does the gesture
linger/chastise/promise/quell)

limps a little a little
a little
careless wearing
same grin you wore
when wore the blonde sheath of your
skin before

you did and do
sir as you please sir
as you please and (as
Jupiter his own son
devoured) grin and bare
your tongueclick teeth.

14.10.08

LAMPLIGHTER

Lamplighter: I left
the bronzing brick and
sheets of steel that cut the streets
that glittered mornings left
cold night sweat in sheets, and cut
the streets with light I left you
somewhere inbetween
the lamplight left me
to imagine you
Lamplighter: I left you
pressed to drawn shades
thin sheets that pressed your sleep
into your chest, lit. Light
something, if there is something left
to be lit.

THE SPANISH ARMADA

a machine made from summer when
there was wind in the wheat
when the seeds of the wheat
put their backs into it
(may the wind be always at
that there)
and wandered in
out of the
wandered in and out of
your hair caught in gloating
convoy of toads
like the moment the Spanish armada awoke
to spanish pears palms weighted with
pears when they lost to the sea
the wheat in the wind
wheat will not grow near the sea
pears will not grow in spain.

5.10.08

IMAGE WORSHIP

Downward drifting of the treble clef, a spiteful tilt away the only movement I detect in the vacant blue bulbs that should be orchids, should be orchids by now but refuse. Mozart for the orchids, afternoon, everyday over and over and over and nothing but the straight stalk and a spiteful tilt away. the twentyfirst concerto, the andante, begging the orchids to bloom, to become something but they do not listen. In the side gardens the earth is cool umber and marbled with red clay and the begonias, this is the place where I bury my images, the ink cools the clay and I want to forget, I use my fingers to push the images into umber.

There are photographs of you from warm places, photographs where the dogwoods are bronze with the sun’s falling, photographs of you fallen near the creek, palms crushed into the umber of dropped wet leaves, the red stain of wet leaves on your palms when you rise at high noon. Photographs of you and I together in the green flash of the final sharp gasp of day, before everything cools everything electrified. But that was then, before I pushed my images into the umber of the side gardens, near the begonias, near the orchids that won’t, and wait for august to rise and bring the dry heat that will parch the photographs to white husks, curled, bluish at the edges, empty but for tired silhouettes, shapes that used to be you or me or something I loved once and want to forget, I forget why it is that I come to the side gardens afternoons, everyday over and over and over with mozart’s twentyfirst. I come for the orchids, to beg them to bloom, they tilt away out of spite, because you know, you know that orchids, despite popular opinion, orchids are not fond of elegant and fine things, orchids actually rather uncultivated, vacant, effete, insufferably dull. I come to push my photographs into the umber with my fingers, I come for the Mozart, and I come for the orchids that won’t. I come to beg, to forget. Tired, graceless, lost in the downward drifting of the treble clef.