"Bead Buttons, Brooms and Nails.."

Not unlike the notions I keep on the sill
Against the slow grind of a stealthy sun
Whose circles are brooms flying
Carving wrinkles in a traveling sky

I am a secret resistance, as a day
Standing upright in a wind tunnel
As Time drawing a bead on circumstance,
And the high art of chance

Moonlight Sonata

Having no place to remain, we place ourselves
within each other, in hopes to lengthen the brief moment
of translation when we understood the language,
conversed freely in joy.

Our hearts transcribe each other; signals of salutations,
the form of a dance we so roundly turn, its taffeta
and gloves, it's polish and cologne; it's ragtime and gin
reserved for some other region, not the heart
whose language is still pure.

It is a lie to think of a blackened heart, a phrase we use to
describe something else entirely, something lost, not found,
something out of order, deprived of grace; depraved, for
depravity is not of the heart. No, if we knew the heart,
we'd understand the shining city on the hill.

Because it is not of the moonlight's glow across the dance floor
that we speak, rather it is she who speaks of us, as if we were her all,
as if we were suns upon which her face depended for her features,
else how could she be known?

There is no independent gaze, only the reflection of a singular
intent, as though angels in their dissipation needed some air to travel through
to practice their appearances. Soft blades bend in breeze, hills of sand
grow into mountain ranges. Mountains carve into shapes that are erased.

God speaks with the stuff of numbers that combine in infinite formulae,
a pure language of gesture, best described by lovers.
Everything that gives light is dependent on that which makes it shine.

Liberty

Singing onward,

a dull ache inside

the inner ear,

and a neck grown

past its natural length

from peering over

uncounted generations

of stonework

in bone corsets and

shifting hemlines,

from ankle to mid-thigh

to the decorative crotch.

She is an anachronism

from a future levee,

a dike built to shelter

a rumoured cosmos.

dike: a bank of earth formed of material being excavated

easter

When it comes to truth, who wants to believe it when it means giving up that comfortable sound..

Bach's eagle

He sleeps in me,

and dreams.

I move in subtle ways,

lending an ear, an arm.

He turns restless, at times, then

restive, obtaining both peace

and journey.

Blossoms recede beneath new boughs

and occasionally, a gardener comes

with his shears.

Branches bend and slightly shiver after

the weight of fruit falling, its only sound,

or birds, their brief encounter

this feathered song that takes flight

from a cradled egg that breaks like night.

O how he told me, showed me, the heart is made

of sticks and twigs lined with fuzz from its own down.

"As the modulation rises, so may the King's Glory.."

Bach, Canon per Tonos

Replete

As a living soul, I am replete

with silences

for the sake of my own history,

the aphoristic body I lose

for a moment,

or these moments,

marked by our voices.

And the voices sing, no longer

at the mercy of language,

with the chorus of the land somewhere, someplace,

outside the story-choked scape.

Something is seen, but one

doesn’t know what

because they behave not like

bodies,

but like weightless thoughts.

Aceldama

I

“Who is my mother?”

All those galaxies ago, where I burned and practiced the cold flame

and mined the mirrored ore of apexes from

quantum peaks and wordless defiles,

I never had a name, because just when I think I know anything I am

reminded of doubt, and because I am reminded of doubt,

I must consider it as a possibility, because if God is one

for whom all things are possible, then of course it would follow, the

impossible sits in the palm of His hand, along with all possible

worlds and outcomes, beginnings, and maps to beginnings,

next even, to I myself, the trembling and blink of the not-yet-fledgling,

just pecked out from its shell. Is that my mother’s

voice I hear, calling or cawing?

I try to translate, but it is, after all, only sound, and in this emergence,

still contained in my own context, I can only hope

to agree with outside meanings. What if instead of Live,

she means Die? Or if “Come here, my love” means go to Hell? It seems

that her mouth moves, but her words are the gestures

of one flailing in an agony of departure, of a fear of severance

from all that is possible and good, of sickness in Fact,

and I, still damp and not having yet accumulated other choices with

which to compare, begin to gesture back, in the same

muted tones of fury cocooned in helplessness, a smile

being the first beseeching plea.

II

God says nothing, as fathers often do, but holds me there in His palm,

along with all that is impossible, and so, of course, I swoon,

believing this motion is time, and begin to feel the pull of it,

Newton’s apple falling from Eve’s hand, and enter the world of recondite

splendours, powered at the very least by clocks, placing one

inside my body, and picking up its cadence with my feet.

Soon, I am ravenously hungry, and the frigid air begins to warm, parading

in sheets like tasseled mirage, and I step out on my first quest, the

quest for Sustenance.

III

She was a surrogate, from whose body I hatched, and I starved on through

my youth, suckling finally in my late adolescence on

that verdant acclivity sometimes found by the grievous,

its approach being so discreetly occluded by Hope that most of the well-

meaning continue on their level ground, tilted, as it were,

by the phenomenon of aspiration, believing all the while

that they, in fact, ascend. Alas, poor Yoricks.

So it was that I was nursed, with the effervescing milk of Rare Fortune,

by a green and growing hillside, a tawny hillock in fall~

the alternate breasts I turned upon to take my fill

and I listened to the singing of her lullaby of bees and cockle shells,

her amaranth sighs and muguet bells, and then her swaying treefulls

of golden leaves, their rasp a fairer comfort than the punctuated

expectation, those sudden telegrams which increase rather than interrupt

such silence as my birdlegs, these animated twigs,

seem muffled within.

This rustling became a peaceful reassurance, like the white hems of motherly

underskirts after twilight, brushing softly the bedlinens,

leaning their rosemilk aroma over snoozing innocents

to outen wee nightlights,

to tuck, at last, the babes with prayers to see them through the dark, like notes

in a wailing wall, vast and black as night; mothers, all, eventually,

named Mary and mantled in steep blue myth, crowned

with the narrowest and most breathtaking spires of gold, set with philosophers’

stones, which initiates know as perfections of circles, revealed only

by the tips, the convergence of angles, of the great cornerstone.

IV

O Christ! Thou Instance of vertical flights, your moment a transmundane eternity

hidden in plain sight.

Raja Manna!

I raise my sandwiches to you, stain my lips with your wine! How my heart beats

its weird joy, delighted in its gilded cage, preening and warbling

along about the lilies of the fields, but for your gentle mercy,

Aceldamas, all.

My cocked head and my bird eyes, black as space to the blue between, spend the

day wondering if my perch swings me, or if I, by my weight

and movement, make it swing, for when I light upon it, it moves,

and I am fascinated, almost proud.

A·cel·da·ma ¹ (ə-sěl'də-mə)

In the New Testament, a potter's field near Jerusalem purchased by the Jewish priests as a burial ground for strangers with the reward that Judas Iscariot had received for betraying Jesus and had later returned to them.

Aceldama, lit. "place of bloodshed," from Gk. Akeldama, from an Aramaic phrase akin to Syr. haqal dema "the field of blood."

And So Romance

became the scorn of their happiness.

He courted Heart’s Desire, wooing, and

she, with full knowledge of what she was doing, fell down

into the down of his Cupid wings, insipid, insouciant,

implacable things, unfortunate pillows of delight

that as easily reassemble and take flight

leaving in eventuality, that complacent virtual reality,

a bland astonishment; the sad recognition of boredom,

the unromantic moments that misconstrue time.

Tending the garden, i slice my finger on a spade

my blood flows bright enough to decorate

the graying hour. Instead of ardor,

duty speaks, contains like a vase

the cuttings which will no longer

wilt in their ground.

Some i dry and keep around, reminders of

roots that grow deep somewhere,

pilfered by that sly scoundrel with his bow.

Tallow

What to eat? What to eat?

Down in the dark nest of the street

with news of the trumpet’s blare

drowned out by air and the mute

faces of coin rendering fat

from the alphabet for simmering sin,

faith’s antonym.

How does the tallow make light?

Comet

There was a nail in her pocket

taken from a cross, and across the street,

their bodies were dancing like human drums.

The night caught fire and took flight,

a comet burning across my eyes,

and through the long hallway left by its tail,

a trail of mothers standing in their doorways,

watching children leap across millennia like fences,

to land casually on this day with its

six silver discs, glinting in the sun.

A dime chinks into a soda machine, and

I see her coming, she’s coming down

the sidewalk, she’s coming around the

mountain, here she comes, with electric

six string six shooter, or is it a bow and sling?

Tall in the saddle of a fender mustang, too

spent to want anything anymore.

Finally wanting nothing, now, absolutely still,

paralyzed with wonder or starvation,

she attains the will.