Saturday, January 30, 2016

Eye Spy


Eye Spy

I spy with my little eye
a unicorn on a piece of pie,
an iron cross and a butterfly;
I spy the day I die...






Asleep I was
a wasted storm, a wandering
rain in stony void, blowing
over shabby
sparrow bodies on the scree,
over cast-off rocks
warm from the hand of lust, thrown to kill
in hunger and in pain, keyhole-seeing,
bent, your face again.

I awoke
rigid in a night
of fallen birds, back
still pressed on the wheel of love,
your bear-brown eyes, your
warmth on mine, your laugh as close
as dawn to day
before the waking
breaks it all away,

alone then, and more alone to come
locked in a crime no exit wound explains,
for the angel and the demon boys agree
they'll never open doors for the likes of me.



~January 2016








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Images: Sanctuary, 1965, by Max Ernst. Fair use via wikiart.org
That Which I Should Have Done I Did Not Do, 1931, by Ivan Albright.
Fair use via wikiart.org


Sunday, January 24, 2016

Occultation and Conjunction


Occultation And Conjunction






Our dance was like the firefly's with night,
sowing the black fields of plush eclipse
with frail and sulfurous intermittent light;
or like the dotted waltz of Moon and Mars
spaced ringing in the void on the ellipse,
made to shudder close and rebound far
to the heavy metal strings of sun's guitar.
So close were we, so paired where gravity slips,
to earthbound eyes it seemed we sometimes touched.
Yet one of us was always unconjunct,
occluded and deluded in the rushed
ambition of a self-rule lost to us

for in that moonlit field of anthracite,
what struts like a planet is really a satellite.




~January 2016



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Photography  © Daryl Edelstein


Thursday, January 21, 2016

Mayhem Road





Mayhem Road





On the mayhem road
it's a long patrol
down and down,
where the bad seed drops
and lives to grow

where the black oil flows
where the rocket burns 
where the blood gold glows
where the dark star shines
in the falling fog,  cold

where the child is lost,  long
where the old can't find,  spent
where the young must hold
the killer's mad hands,   sprouting
strong

on the mayhem road;
broke down alone
in the monochrome,
their lips are black.
No color leaks

from the grayscale night.
The dun dust glides
a cloudy sheet
across the girl with no breath,
face we can't bear to see

of all we once were,
of the damned we'll be,
companions on the long patrol
to the dead that grow
the mayhem road.







 ~January 2016





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Official music video for Tis a Pity She Was a Whore, by David Bowie, from the album Blackstar. Lyrics here



Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Day In January



Day In January




This day

so cold, so grey, its icepoint knife,
its ashen-snowed walk-thru oblivion
where spirit steps freeze on fossil tar, raucous-
haunted by midnight crows, torn curtains of love
gone stiff in mid flutter ironed in sleet
that slants in through the windowed hole,

is a rose-colored palace, mottled red
by Mars, bleached clean by Venus
doored to the infinite city
quarried from stars,
growing up like an oak from
a foundation of rot

where what once lived ripens a
turned-under death for
another month to feed 
the secret green of possibility
with all its peculiar used atoms.

This day

where the ghost steps wander 
like a run-on sentence
under the widening moon,
the wolf moon, the hunger moon
made for the hunt.




~January 2016









Process note: wolf moon and hunger moon are Native American names for the month of January. Thanks to Josh Hart for the picture behind this poem.









Photo © Josh Hart, 2016 
All rights reserved.

Saturday, January 16, 2016

SHE




SHE





Her tangled tongue tides infinitely, a stuttering sea
pounding the sense of sand to nonsense.

Her hand is a foot, her pale beak-hook
tears liver from a red-cursed god on a rock.

She sneaks her wings off the mariposa
to discuss the death of a crawling worm

all for a bloody flutter and fall, to pound in our ears
her liver-flecked lie as sweet sufferer's sense,

her mirror eye all on the wrong side, broken
but bright, reflecting the shine of her fracture-knives

cutting deep as she can into watching clay
but clay won't bleed and SHE can't see

that no more will we
ever have what SHE needs.


~January 2016










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 mariposa: Spanish for butterfly




Sculptures by Pablo Picasso, photos by Karin Gustafson
All rights reserved to whoever owns them.