sequence in summer of night embers and daytime lovers

This night in day glenned softly with the down of timber flakes strung along the open meadow has breathed in musky sequence the art off all our fellows, for too true is it that they are dark and clinging but yet also, there is something in their being that makes the blades of grass and yarn of heather flow with measure of what cannot be measured, through mere fertile contenance of adversity’s pleasures do those who hate us for their speckled beings make us shoot like cannon’s blossoms into the art-arch of the sky.
And in this day gleaned night we rust in tombs prepared by automatons who burst in billowy dress the day when it is no longer day, who’s art in lies is no art at all, but pale unreason as meaningful as a quick drawn blade.
Earth shutters its windows in tired repose, ill-seen and unrepenting before the beauty of even the ugliest rose, for not are we meant to live like flowers but rather to spend our petals on our roots that grow tender by spring rain in the early morning hours.
This night in day and this day gleaned night glenned softly with the down of dandelion embers does spark life anew with loving dust and brilliant white wisps of curled soft whiskers feeling for the air that lends its flight to the justice of distant laws and letters.

agape

I tell you that you are beautiful,
I cannot tell the waitress that she is too
nor the man with a peckish face manipulating his dinner
with a cheap fork.

I tell the waitress that she is beautiful
through a couple of ugly dollars
that say "Have a drink on me, as is custom,
have a pack of cigs on me, as is customary
when we are rewarding beauty caged by
robot behavior."

Far better to reward broken robots,
the ones who paint the chaos of paint dribbles
across canvases of life, like the man who ambles
down the street with an antique cane, the woman
who in the middle of the night with the stars shining
few, speeds down the middle of my street in her
electric wheelchair, intent and with banner flying.

Tell me I am beautiful at the love novel factory
and I will point to my broken parts. You, if you mean
what you say, will understand, as you have always
understood. Emptiness fails to realize.
Voids entertain beauty in orbits leading to
loss, and only the black hole of the collapsed human heart
draws its own death towards it.

Tonight, I declare the obvious.
Love and trust are worth more than money and deceit,
which is not a question of value or measures
but a question of authenticity.
Can you buy life with lies?
(A marriage to a job and a car with a woman you
see for a few hours to have sex with is not a life,
but the worst deceit ever pulled on the human experience
by you and the others.)
Can a person fool another into loving and trusting them
for the rest of their life?
Like I said, hideous obviousness.

But, listen...the obvious should be beautiful too.
Who fashioned it so that those who speak in swords
about old wounds should be laughed off, persecuted,
written off as mad fools feeling out the horror of our
mutual prison? You and I in our half-measures of love?
Others in their full-measures of hatred?
The tattered spirit, much misunderstood, poisoning
our lives with pretensions of greatness placed their
by our own childhoods and derided as egos by
the miserable misinterpreters? Fuck them
and fuck me too.

The moon, some stars, a few rays of light,
a painted prison blooming like a garden
and a handful of old coins from the penny jar,
beaten copper amid the worn glass of the world.

You were the only one to show me your weapons
amid a people deluding others with things.
Light-knife kept in your boot, all I saw in
other shoes were crusted socks and outlines
of broken heels. All you needed was an interlude
to glint an edge from your ornate hilt. I needed
a hurricane of pages and letters, poor documents.

Let us walk as lovers separated in our two worlds,
I promise I won't laugh at your void, as
You have never insulted my emptiness.

Too many beautiful words, so few weapons.
Words without hope, weapons without wisdom.
And so on...

habeas corpus

Here, drink through sorrows until they pass you by
There, think through tomorrow and future reads like lies.

Mere words disembodied from voice, spelling
Torn from the codex of the alphabet. I see you
Blooming softly beneath an enflamed and desolate sky.
I hear you singing sweetly amid the concrete silence
That serves as music for wilted eyes.

Words disembodied from actions. “The nebulous
Mystique of mysticism serves as a mural over
totalitarian factories as the vampire’s beauty
deflects the eyes of your heart from his fangs.”

Actions untold by words. The swelling of the ground
In an earthquake of anger, the split shock in the earth
When Lorca fell and poet’s blood warbled in ribbons
From his thin pale mouth. Spanish fascists painted
Picasso’s Guernica with Nazi aircraft howling earth-bound
In the way paintbrushes don’t. Machine-guns rarely
Crackle grotesque pointillism through canvas, and
Explosions lack the ease of cubism’s two dimensions.

Here, think through sorrows until they read like lies
There, drink through tomorrow and the future passes you by.

Words as actions. “Fuck you.” A hot prickling on the inside and a gasp.

Actions as words with idiots slurping their newspaper bowls for sugar-flavored gruel and calling themselves informed and cultured. Well, they have opinions like you and me. On hairstyles, what is the best button to buy for fifteen cents, and a single poem about the dream figure who will one day make them king while they moan in self-pity about Nietz Che and his philosophy of Marvel comic book heroes. But they know that their money is safe as long as they deposit their tongues into the right investments.

Words as activity, flowing velvet. Peach rhymes with a similar mouth. Roving poet. East lines drawn through a telephone’s shout. Morphing sub-let into deep freeze storage of furniture meat. The birds called collect. Wonder-movement under a whorl of amusement. Laughing whirlwinds. Long-distance regrets.

Oh, we have lost our involvement!

Don't you deny either that our workings in whirlwinds
are ways along a torn road where our crumblings
scatter like new dust from urns. I have seen your
labor devoid of pleasure, and know the tools you
cherish are not your own.

A speed of cars with human hearts
could drown the blood on the streets,
and a halt of prison stuffed with men who move
could not rot the crimes a driver keeps
behind his oil light, beneath his hood.

What motion seems picture-sane
in this cobbled crippled heap?
A flash of a knife, the arc of a gun,
a violent show-down on a motionless
screen?

Or perhaps
a honied lamb with golden wool and curls
who cherishes the grass it eats, the
flock it meets, and the razor edge
that makes it butcher's meat?

Oh, we have lost our involvement!

The truth we mourn lies in sandy dunes,
shifting with flourishes of acrid wind.
But its not the ripples, the color of land,
nor even an old camel tooth.
Its not the desert, nor the sun, which
meet each other like two simple hands.
Its not the moon set in the black above,
its not the oasis, though like a jewel,
seems set by love. Its not the dew
of one-time rain, its not the howling
old refrains, its the simple and speckled
grains that with no rhyme nor reason
continue to remain.

Oh we have lost our involvement!

Give me Lorca's green guitar
on which to sprinkle our sand,
give me Laura's red violin
on which to notice our hands.
Give me Robert's yellow clarinet
on which to mark our land.
Give me Melissa's blue flute
on which to play our stand.
Give us instruments painted red white or blue
give us a piano the color of the moon,
give us a lute like a comet or two,
for you have taken
what little music we have made with our hands.

simple sky

Allow us simple unscientific sky.

Who wants to live beneath information,
To lay in fields among nipping night
And hear the descriptions of chemical nomenclatures
Echoing within starlight the statistic’s rate
Of miles per second, or to feel in breath
The patterns of nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon dioxide
Predicted by measured descriptions counting
Off new numbers on each numbered day?

Our lives are numbered enough
For us to not breathe blue.
The distance between allotments and bills
Are astronomical enough in cycles
For us not to know the black holes
Of the human mind. Tell us
Instead that gravity is love,
That we are held to the earth
As though by a lover
Until we slip away into her embrace
To be wed in earth forever
With the sky arched as a forest bough
Blooming with the flowers of silk clouds
That mean only rain or thunder,
That mean nothing molested by a number,
That mean ‘always’ and ‘forever’
In sky and light, in night,
In sunset leaving it’s pink embers.

Sick of the yellow moon,
Its firefly light ignored by drunkards.
Mention the moon and you become a fool.

I am a fool, constantly and ever stupid,
Attempting at the wonder of a mere moon
Or the sublimity of quiet clouds as
They pass between astronomical distances
With only the help of a little wind
On a cold night. You were my little
Wind, and I the fool, large and ugly
As the everyday.

And now our small musics.
Passing in store aisles or a little
Comment at a restaurant, you who
I recognize in all women remain
Too kind. This jazz in the hospital,
The flowers at the prison, your
Little lips. How your beauty
Thinks of everything but ‘beauty,”
How your lips cautioned mine
Against hate.

Too traveled now, the two of us,
To know the old phone numbers.
Too traveled now, the world among us,
To ring like bells for the limit of our old youth.

Sometimes I am in some times like times some
razor clock hand slit like dying farm birds
and other times I could but speak
of the cloud's shadow speech concerning
other times.

It is too late for pretext,
you leave your reading clothes
where they're donated to the war.
The great weak widows frail in house
and desperate in home will rise
to collect the garments of your luxury
just as the policemen came
and beat your grandmother with a hose.
Your context is a foot bloodying
your magazine rack, your meaning
just lost in tragic circumspect traveling
to the safe parts of the world
known as insane asylums by the dangerous.

Sometimes, other times.

In other times, sometimes
swept female hair licking wind with perfume
and embrace's velvet voice singing nonsense
at his and her's melodic choice,
their audience not made from eyes
but others who touched touch in a kiss's
red woman whirl, in the wind's strutting
through free fall hearts pulling on love's
parachute twirl,
above everything
though with everything above,
a feeling like that.

Do not make me compare the contrast
this time, other times it has cried my
tears. Sky, bird, sky, plane. Burning
houses with flaming wind and rain.