West Of Rome (Alone At Last)
The horizon behind me is ablaze,
the eastern sky gropes its wide line
for a pale sun shrouded somewhere within
the turgid smoke of an unnatural day for night
descending like a final curtain on a love
left charred as I ride out and alone
at last, somewhere west of Rome.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
To Rain Redemption (for Alan Heathcock)
Along roadsides,
broken down Christs
with Winston cigarettes
dangling from chapped lips,
curse the daylight evaporating
from cumulonimbus tattooed skies
not ready, nor willing to rain redemption.
Along roadsides,
broken down Christs
with Winston cigarettes
dangling from chapped lips,
curse the daylight evaporating
from cumulonimbus tattooed skies
not ready, nor willing to rain redemption.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Marathon
Stay inside
This old hotel
With dead souls
Counting time to kill
Between a forever's now
And an eternity of idle hours
Stay inside
This old hotel
With dead souls
Counting time to kill
Between a forever's now
And an eternity of idle hours
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
An Architecture
words
hurtling
on the inside,
so I sit transcribing
their frenzied constructions
as they escape my consciousness,
an architecture of the soul rising out of
this new horizon I am feverishly documenting
words
hurtling
on the inside,
so I sit transcribing
their frenzied constructions
as they escape my consciousness,
an architecture of the soul rising out of
this new horizon I am feverishly documenting
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Tenderfoot
April stumbles,
Footing left wanting
Beneath the slip of rain,
Against the gale of wind,
Left tripping towards May
Where spring's tenderfoot
Might finally find a balance
Walking below the sure sun
And between strong blooms.
April stumbles,
Footing left wanting
Beneath the slip of rain,
Against the gale of wind,
Left tripping towards May
Where spring's tenderfoot
Might finally find a balance
Walking below the sure sun
And between strong blooms.
Monday, April 25, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Stupor Made Sober
whiskey kisses leech my lips
of their stupid grin, again,
my mumble bled pale,
nearly opaque,
my stupor made sober
in contrast to my stumbling
for the right words to offer her
whiskey kisses leech my lips
of their stupid grin, again,
my mumble bled pale,
nearly opaque,
my stupor made sober
in contrast to my stumbling
for the right words to offer her
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Almost-Vespers
She comes, my Shiva,
Hellbent, cold metal teeth
Gnawing on a hospital bed,
Bleeding me with Sex,
Raping me with Death,
Leaving a broken man
Baying like a wolf-boy
Alone in a wilderness
Of shadows and ether,
Gasping for my breath
In the middling distances
Between black and white,
The grey vapor inhalation
Wheezing almost-vespers
She smothers with a kiss.
She comes, my Shiva,
Hellbent, cold metal teeth
Gnawing on a hospital bed,
Bleeding me with Sex,
Raping me with Death,
Leaving a broken man
Baying like a wolf-boy
Alone in a wilderness
Of shadows and ether,
Gasping for my breath
In the middling distances
Between black and white,
The grey vapor inhalation
Wheezing almost-vespers
She smothers with a kiss.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Antlers (inspired by Tantra Bensko)
Shadowing the past,
Antlers down off a wall
Whispering in a round
The details of an accident
Informing the chalk outline
Of your life, even in death,
Where dreams still reach
And flicker in the half-light
Dawn of fog-drift dirt roads,
Masking the last embers
Of white-hot memories.
Shadowing the past,
Antlers down off a wall
Whispering in a round
The details of an accident
Informing the chalk outline
Of your life, even in death,
Where dreams still reach
And flicker in the half-light
Dawn of fog-drift dirt roads,
Masking the last embers
Of white-hot memories.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Sentiment/Sediment
Sifting oceans
in search of fossils
to inform me,
From where?,
so I might
at least sense some
connection to,
Why am I here?,
before I am
dead and long buried
beneath waves.
Sifting oceans
in search of fossils
to inform me,
From where?,
so I might
at least sense some
connection to,
Why am I here?,
before I am
dead and long buried
beneath waves.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
West of Rome
I set the proud lions upon her and headed dead west,
rode red the faltering sun like a slowly dying steed,
my worn gray shadow elongating out behind me
til dusk called it a day, more like a decade,
and night fell blue beyond its own black,
and quiet, save for the distant sound
of her being torn limb from limb
whispered in my waiting ear
from east over a shoulder
by a witness, the wind
pale beyond white,
feral with a fear
of what I alone
uncaged.
I set the proud lions upon her and headed dead west,
rode red the faltering sun like a slowly dying steed,
my worn gray shadow elongating out behind me
til dusk called it a day, more like a decade,
and night fell blue beyond its own black,
and quiet, save for the distant sound
of her being torn limb from limb
whispered in my waiting ear
from east over a shoulder
by a witness, the wind
pale beyond white,
feral with a fear
of what I alone
uncaged.
Monday, April 18, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Let It Come, Let It Fall, Let It Land
Let it come,
the birds carry
good news
in their beaks.
Let it fall,
and bring me
new hope
in my hands.
Let it land,
I won't forget
the miles
it has flown.
Let it come,
the birds carry
good news
in their beaks.
Let it fall,
and bring me
new hope
in my hands.
Let it land,
I won't forget
the miles
it has flown.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Weather Patterns
It snowed the week I met you
in early May, nine years ago,
and so I can't help but notice
the large flakes falling here
in April almost a decade later,
and on the verge of a new start
just as we were in that spring
the season forgot itself as well.
It snowed the week I met you
in early May, nine years ago,
and so I can't help but notice
the large flakes falling here
in April almost a decade later,
and on the verge of a new start
just as we were in that spring
the season forgot itself as well.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Of Weeds And Rails
Far off train from my childhood carry me back home
to parallel memories of place and possibility,
of destinations still as yet dreamed of,
but somehow sensed well before
they tore up the tracks
all in the name of a
nameless progress
no one remembers now,
lost to wild mint, to mallow,
to common ribwort and chicory,
to tiny yellow blooms of groundsel,
to pricking thistles, the tumble of weeds
azoic along remnants of rusted rails I still walk.
Far off train from my childhood carry me back home
to parallel memories of place and possibility,
of destinations still as yet dreamed of,
but somehow sensed well before
they tore up the tracks
all in the name of a
nameless progress
no one remembers now,
lost to wild mint, to mallow,
to common ribwort and chicory,
to tiny yellow blooms of groundsel,
to pricking thistles, the tumble of weeds
azoic along remnants of rusted rails I still walk.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Spring Pear/Ice Orchards
Spring pear tastes like rain
in a mouth dried by winter's salt
and gelid winds through ice orchards.
Spring pear tastes like rain
in a mouth dried by winter's salt
and gelid winds through ice orchards.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Coevals (Animal Brain, Human Heart)
My childish thoughts
linger,
of revenge, of envy,
coexist
with the more intellectual
sense of satisfaction,
capacity for forgiveness,
though they wrestle
about the room
knocking over
furniture
of the
soul,
as the animal brain grins
and the human heart frowns,
self-actualization left stranded
somewhere in the wilds between the two,
enduring these coevals
on its slow ascent
to higher ground.
My childish thoughts
linger,
of revenge, of envy,
coexist
with the more intellectual
sense of satisfaction,
capacity for forgiveness,
though they wrestle
about the room
knocking over
furniture
of the
soul,
as the animal brain grins
and the human heart frowns,
self-actualization left stranded
somewhere in the wilds between the two,
enduring these coevals
on its slow ascent
to higher ground.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
At The Hip
It still walks along right behind me,
even when I stop, blow my nose, count stars,
spit, piss, pin the words in my head to the ground,
do the math, puzzle at the raw beauty of another sunset,
think about the shit you have to keep from saying every day
to people half as smart, half as aware, half as alive - so, instead
I tell my shadow, "Go fuck yourself," knowing it could really give a damn.
It still walks along right behind me,
even when I stop, blow my nose, count stars,
spit, piss, pin the words in my head to the ground,
do the math, puzzle at the raw beauty of another sunset,
think about the shit you have to keep from saying every day
to people half as smart, half as aware, half as alive - so, instead
I tell my shadow, "Go fuck yourself," knowing it could really give a damn.
Friday, April 15, 2011
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Our Penny-Wise Shadows
With uncertain economy,
"Forward ho," and we're off again,
leaving only our footsteps as artifacts
for those who still track us, to marvel at
well after we have followed a series of new suns
so familiar, we no longer cast our penny-wise shadows.
With uncertain economy,
"Forward ho," and we're off again,
leaving only our footsteps as artifacts
for those who still track us, to marvel at
well after we have followed a series of new suns
so familiar, we no longer cast our penny-wise shadows.
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
A Failed Conspiracy
all the strange summers we have
hovered above
speaking in tongues
our pollen manifestos
of better days,
stuck in the limbs of
fragile locusts
and
beautiful hawthorns
along with
white plastic bags,
sad with weeks
of spring rain and wind
and left sagging
in a failed conspiracy
by the time autumn
brings leaves and dreams
back to earth
all the strange summers we have
hovered above
speaking in tongues
our pollen manifestos
of better days,
stuck in the limbs of
fragile locusts
and
beautiful hawthorns
along with
white plastic bags,
sad with weeks
of spring rain and wind
and left sagging
in a failed conspiracy
by the time autumn
brings leaves and dreams
back to earth
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
Demon Pockets
fingers into snakes
not foraging, but
moving in magic
unseen constriction
like these hells I hide
of what wasn't Eden
fingers into snakes
not foraging, but
moving in magic
unseen constriction
like these hells I hide
of what wasn't Eden
West Of Rome / new poems 2011
I Desire I
everybody is running through the streets
naked and on fire,
chasing dreams they themselves drowned,
looking at their hands shaking
with an epilepsy
that comes from always wanting
where as i desire i and sit in the quiet
of rain and fog
waiting patiently to soak again in the sun
everybody is running through the streets
naked and on fire,
chasing dreams they themselves drowned,
looking at their hands shaking
with an epilepsy
that comes from always wanting
where as i desire i and sit in the quiet
of rain and fog
waiting patiently to soak again in the sun
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
On The Other End Of Eight (reprise)
Here at peace at last on the other end of eight years gone
I cannot reconcile the sullen, scarred face I once wore,
slashed beyond recognition by the absence of love,
a mad vacuum where hope sleeps alone and prays
for scar tissue to come and kiss away a pain
only three thousand setting suns can heal.
Here at peace at last on the other end of eight years gone
I cannot reconcile the sullen, scarred face I once wore,
slashed beyond recognition by the absence of love,
a mad vacuum where hope sleeps alone and prays
for scar tissue to come and kiss away a pain
only three thousand setting suns can heal.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
At My Feet At Last
All the predators -
vultures
without talons,
wolves
without claws,
sharks
without teeth,
- at my feet at last
All the predators -
vultures
without talons,
wolves
without claws,
sharks
without teeth,
- at my feet at last
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Without A Map
The hard road well behind now, the fork where fortune led us together
swallowed
by a horizon left holding the hindsight of our blind faith in one another.
The hard road well behind now, the fork where fortune led us together
swallowed
by a horizon left holding the hindsight of our blind faith in one another.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
A Halo Spun
The rhythm of Heaven
found in the curl and tumble
of his soft, auburn-brushed hair,
a halo spun by a mother for an only son.
The rhythm of Heaven
found in the curl and tumble
of his soft, auburn-brushed hair,
a halo spun by a mother for an only son.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Un Gioco Al Massacro
In between
nothing but blood
Blotting out the pastel chalk
of eviscerated summers we lost
And the distant, strained remains
of what once was children's laughter
Forgotten in a wind of selfish wants
and a war of words waged long between
Butchers pale at either end of their regret
where the rain falls red but washes away no sin
In between
nothing but blood
Blotting out the pastel chalk
of eviscerated summers we lost
And the distant, strained remains
of what once was children's laughter
Forgotten in a wind of selfish wants
and a war of words waged long between
Butchers pale at either end of their regret
where the rain falls red but washes away no sin
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Color Wheel Collapsing (for Rachel)
She stood there transfixed by the droning, ephemeral,
color wheel collapsing sunset beyond the pane
colliding against perspective - the horizon -
her hands outstretched, overhead
into the abstract arc of a diver,
toes curled with force,
poised to plunge
out a window
and into
herself
She stood there transfixed by the droning, ephemeral,
color wheel collapsing sunset beyond the pane
colliding against perspective - the horizon -
her hands outstretched, overhead
into the abstract arc of a diver,
toes curled with force,
poised to plunge
out a window
and into
herself
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
In The Cloud-Like Impermanence Of My Mortal Poetics
stutter -
we can never say everything that need be said
shutter -
we can never capture everything that need be seen
incomplete/imperfect/impermanent/
as the subtraction adds up to less than we expect
and so I stammer to capture the word, the wind
with less than perfect diction
and so I clamber to catalog the wild, the world
with less than complete collocation
as I shudder in the length of my receding shadow,
in the cloud-like impermanence of my mortal poetics,
realizing within the word, the wind, the wild, the world
that it is easier to conceive of the infinite, than the finite
stutter -
we can never say everything that need be said
shutter -
we can never capture everything that need be seen
incomplete/imperfect/impermanent/
as the subtraction adds up to less than we expect
and so I stammer to capture the word, the wind
with less than perfect diction
and so I clamber to catalog the wild, the world
with less than complete collocation
as I shudder in the length of my receding shadow,
in the cloud-like impermanence of my mortal poetics,
realizing within the word, the wind, the wild, the world
that it is easier to conceive of the infinite, than the finite
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
The Windpipe Crushed
Hanging,
feet swinging freely
from contentment/
Suffocation
with a smile/
Asphyxiation without awareness
of the rope slipped 'round
a willing neck/
The windpipe crushed
never knowing why
Hanging,
feet swinging freely
from contentment/
Suffocation
with a smile/
Asphyxiation without awareness
of the rope slipped 'round
a willing neck/
The windpipe crushed
never knowing why
Monday, April 11, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Masafuera: Farther Away
At 38 I let go,
allowed myself to drift away
from comforting familiar reflections
in a shark infested, increasingly murky sea.
After almost a decade adrift
I have at last spied a shoreline,
a rocky outcrop, a Crusoe sanctuary
where I am hidden from all whom dared try follow.
And I am farther away as well
from the desperate impression of a life,
a landmass of secure, safe, but sullen connection,
an impermanent Pangaea of shifting, separating emotions.
At 38 I let go,
allowed myself to drift away
from comforting familiar reflections
in a shark infested, increasingly murky sea.
After almost a decade adrift
I have at last spied a shoreline,
a rocky outcrop, a Crusoe sanctuary
where I am hidden from all whom dared try follow.
And I am farther away as well
from the desperate impression of a life,
a landmass of secure, safe, but sullen connection,
an impermanent Pangaea of shifting, separating emotions.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
As I Hold Water Moccasins In My Aging Hands (for Jim Harrison)
The shape of the journey:
irregular, irreversible - a river
flooding its banks to swallow
old LPs, rusted shed tools,
and, the love of a woman
now wearing another face
as I hold water moccasins
in my aging hands
and piece together my youth
from Polaroids, vague memories
of a trip to Syracuse and
the smell of smoke coming from
a neighbor's burn barrel
on summer nights four decades gone -
there where I was no more than a shadow
in a hooded sweatshirt chasing fireflies,
still unaware
of the speed of light,
of the number of feet in a mile,
of Newton's fortuitous falling apple -
that even gravity cannot hold us
to this world forever.
The shape of the journey:
irregular, irreversible - a river
flooding its banks to swallow
old LPs, rusted shed tools,
and, the love of a woman
now wearing another face
as I hold water moccasins
in my aging hands
and piece together my youth
from Polaroids, vague memories
of a trip to Syracuse and
the smell of smoke coming from
a neighbor's burn barrel
on summer nights four decades gone -
there where I was no more than a shadow
in a hooded sweatshirt chasing fireflies,
still unaware
of the speed of light,
of the number of feet in a mile,
of Newton's fortuitous falling apple -
that even gravity cannot hold us
to this world forever.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Gold In The Shadow
mining memory
for gold in the shadow
your diamond smile found
in between the soft folds
and hemispheres of forgot
memory, mine,
a shadow caching gold
mining memory
for gold in the shadow
your diamond smile found
in between the soft folds
and hemispheres of forgot
memory, mine,
a shadow caching gold
Friday, April 8, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Playing The Wrong Piano
Playing the
wrong piano/
Transposing crooked notes
left by Cubist lovers/
Floating overhead in pale gray rooms
of their own construction/
Alight with atonal words on fire
smoldering as I smoke backwards/
Exhaling John Cage cancer
and imperfect rings of emphysema/
Wheezing a broken, blackened melody
I cannot breathe/
Sitting here beneath the arbitrary rhythm
of a strangled symphony/
Above a tuck of tails trailing
an exit face flashing before ivories combust/
Knowing I can always just
hum myself to sleep
Playing the
wrong piano/
Transposing crooked notes
left by Cubist lovers/
Floating overhead in pale gray rooms
of their own construction/
Alight with atonal words on fire
smoldering as I smoke backwards/
Exhaling John Cage cancer
and imperfect rings of emphysema/
Wheezing a broken, blackened melody
I cannot breathe/
Sitting here beneath the arbitrary rhythm
of a strangled symphony/
Above a tuck of tails trailing
an exit face flashing before ivories combust/
Knowing I can always just
hum myself to sleep
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Donnée
In blue,
or rather,
annotated,
likewise
though,
from the heart,
such as
a novel idea
set in stone,
eventually
worn away,
discolored.
In blue,
or rather,
annotated,
likewise
though,
from the heart,
such as
a novel idea
set in stone,
eventually
worn away,
discolored.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Dyed In The Wool
Between the two of us, a gentle boy,
a soft amalgam with curls shorn to expose
a subtle coat of arms, beneath which he will be me
and he will be you, the two of us, long after we are gone.
Between the two of us, a gentle boy,
a soft amalgam with curls shorn to expose
a subtle coat of arms, beneath which he will be me
and he will be you, the two of us, long after we are gone.
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Beyond The Great Curve
This light, bending, passing through me and on its way
to touch the rings of Saturn, to illuminate the edges
beyond the great curve where souls wait in silence
listening closely for the shadow I have added
to the glow that was here, then gone.
This light, bending, passing through me and on its way
to touch the rings of Saturn, to illuminate the edges
beyond the great curve where souls wait in silence
listening closely for the shadow I have added
to the glow that was here, then gone.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011
Pagan Eves
Within me, ribs
caged
wanting release
and so with the remainder
of my broken teeth, I tear,
I break them loose
with the chew of sinew,
the shark bite of cartilage,
the mastication of marrow
choking my
own muffled howl
stifled by
bitten, bloody lips
carrying a kiss
for all the pagan
Eves I will fashion.
Within me, ribs
caged
wanting release
and so with the remainder
of my broken teeth, I tear,
I break them loose
with the chew of sinew,
the shark bite of cartilage,
the mastication of marrow
choking my
own muffled howl
stifled by
bitten, bloody lips
carrying a kiss
for all the pagan
Eves I will fashion.
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