Tuesday, November 17, 2015
If the eyes be the window to the soul,
then Venetian blinds my emotions,
blurring another Earth outside,
mandolin of light
When I open them white prisoner bars,
they clatter like the bones of saint death,
I jump - they list - like sinking ships,
Hate cleaning all them individ'l slats,
dust and nicotine... remember man
yer made from dust and nicotine,
O, let there be light!
My tattoos are stained and polished tendons
like blinds with an equalizer cord,
tasselled with gold, yet indifferent
to my needs for light.
Monday, November 16, 2015
Reading The News
Piles of cinders and ash!
burning laptop cauldron;
pouring forth bitumen and sulphurous fumes
like vehemence upon a desolate shore!
Vomit of drones and bombs!
burning seas off Aden;
Beirut and Paris swept into Etna's maw -
like pyroclastic clouds of evening news!
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Les cigares jetables de 400 souffles...
sumptueux, vert, grises, rouge,
pour que vous choisissiez...
Choisissez s'il vous plaît; O, que vous choisissiez!
avant la fin du monde,
avant fin de la vie,
la prière est tout c'qui reste...
et dix-huit souffles, plus ou moins.
The throw away cigar with 400 puffs...
comes in any color almost,
sumptuous, green, greys, red
so that you might choose...
Please choose, O, that you might choose!
before the end of the world,
before the end of life
prayer is all that remains...
and eighteen puffs, more or less.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
This is the year the neighbor's tree came down;
the wind and rain was like derecho
a sinister derecho
like I never seen before...
and then a crash!
like Kapellmeister Bach slamming fast down
upon his primeval Himmelsburg
frightening his twelve obbligato woodwinds!
So I called my neighbor
and he did not know me,
and asked if I wished to clean it up
and I said I did not have a chain saw anywheres
near that big, I mean, by Santa Muerte
and Lord Death...
I have not the mortal mean Scythe
to cut, to chop!
To thin out the surplus population!
We've closed up for the winter
and the fence rails where it fell
and still broke and splintered,
but I imagine I can still see the full foliage
of its first fall! when the leaves
filled our back yard full fifty
feet from its trunk!
And even now my vision is obscured by
that fallen crown of leaves,
just as I still see the long gone rock garden
and the wisteria alley with its swings,
and outhouses pushed over on Halloween!
I see through cataracts of the past.
Moon and Sand (Photo: Russ Bishop)
When Isis was but the name of goddess love,
Aphrodite, Venus, Ishtar –
the city walls were virgin pearl,
and books were ivory.
Our love grew like the kudzu of desire,
beneath the bright scratches of shooting stars!
the bed sheets were magician’s charms,
our eyes were like gazelles.
Now in a world seduced by war and disease,
the over-ripe perfumes of ghosts!
we can yet bear witness:
no victory but of love!
The gardens have no tears left to water them;
the mowing madness of gasoline
engine-hordes have run through the ecumene...
All solar schizophrenia lay out
around the thunder-struck Jerusalem
bush, red now in this leech time of autumn.
The grass is dead like selfie-bleeding
celebrities awaiting the compost
cenotaph of fame.
Matins are mid-morning.
I throw prayers at gods like piles
and bundles of laundry heaped
in dusty unused corners of my room.
I sweep the blessings
indifferent from the dust and dirt
that layer dark my floors
but scatter diamonds of light while falling.