Love

Campfire

The light fell on us
and you noticed how     
I had dropped the eye/I
to see 
without a maze of mirrors

I used to write
"you and I"
[self-reference is for famous poets?]
with regard to 
a Pozzo and a Lucky,
but as the language decreed,
the twigs had snapped
into the baritone of the firewood. 

yet
I seem to think
there is a little bit of "we" 
about us
in the bite of the fire--
we are together in chaos,
if not order. 








On the Eve

Image result for snake mouth art

Must I announce
in bleak pages,
what the resting man in his pocket-grave,
once told me–
of a fool
who falls in love
and calls it liberty

He told me of closed hearts
condensing into closed spaces
where minds trebled
and the melody,
siren-ed like a police car
passing away in the damp of
a night turned pale with cold.

I looked back at him
like a fish betrayed with dust
and thought of philosophies
of eununch-ed-heartbreaks,
sparrowed with words.

But a book grasps upon my throat now
for I have known what I had rejected–
the tyranny of my blood-forged hierarchies,
borne of those girls wrapped in timber,
smoked from the fog of waiting
–past the clock–
for the kettle of war to go off
and a return home
towards welcoming back the enslavement,
for the fullness in the braids
to rubber-hold

Then, I ricochet,
twist and turn under the sheets
in a boomerang
I return to what I have outgrown
and what’s more,
to see it while I do that.

I think of a snake,
it’s opening jaws,
I think of an unravelling,
it’s anarchic arched back,
I think of giving away to myself,
whenever there is a war
for the love can be full
when it is moon.

Occasional Corridor

Image result for medieval surrealism monk

Varo Remedios – Les Feuilles Mortes 


There is an ineptitude
in excess of feelings
that devour all the words,
until they are encountered by a large door
painted with a medieval-mourning,
clothed in a monk-brown;
it is really not strange
for me to be deeply in love
and to be found at this gate,
it is a segue
doubly-enshrined
by disbelief in yet a higher altitude
by no higher altitude altogether,
as if Meaning,
eternally slipped away from the mouth of the language.

The Gift



Sleeping Beauty painting – Victor Gabriel Gilbert 




The words have already been used before
and what is more for me to say
but
to
go
into
my inventory
and solve a puzzle
of conjuring words that actually look like
the steadfast knot of peace
that has been gift-wrapped upon my monkey-heart.

The gift of happiness
that is always so uncanny,
but never with you.



The phone call

48/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image
Art: 
North Star by Dadu Shin

I guess I cannot write it–
the pain is too saturated
for the stars to become
separate,
in a constellation of a memory.

In the dark,
I held up my neck
and I listened to your alien voice
and from the haunt of the silent space,
one might imagine,
it was accidentally passing by.




The Mistress


43/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image
Art by 
Von Vera Boldt hochgeladen 



Dedicated to Sylvia Plath

A tarry pool of crows settle up near your feet, molten,
From a fire in the prison of recklessness
That surrounds bees and beasts alike
‘I can’t
I thought I admired your face’ till calamity
Met us in embrace
Gurgling out seaweeds in her night robe.
Fine,
I had fine sapphire knives
Waiting for you—what a cliché
But there she was
I fell in love with her face
Because you loved her so,
And that was my fate when the lady pastor clucked
About life and his seductive lover,
Death.
Death
Wearing a savage coat of mud on a fine summer day
On which lilies were burnt on stake and were dried like bedroom sheets,
Underneath which
Lies the bald moon
Rising in a soliloquy of
She and me—me and She
A lullaby.




Paranoia


42/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for crow surreal


She climbs down a staircase
But in my harbor
There is neither a She nor a Staircase
And it is just the gin I drink every day, which assumes
A form of pirate’s gold smudged with the regular green muck
Found at the bottomless goblets of the brothel house.
 
I know her. I have bathed in her mind and body.
With a housefly’s busy routine,
A bull stirs me
In a jar full of magpies,
I’m a crow,
I deceive
And so I am deceived.