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| I hear you, distant star,
ball of fire from afar:
I hear your silent cries
and their echoes in the skies.
You speak for me, dead sister
and the world will never know:
they won't see my sad disaster,
and your tears will never show.
I see you, distant soul,
longing coldness, aching hole,
black as every song dismembered,
drinking light to quench your desert.
Your pain is ageless, not your own:
I drink the bitter hemlock too.
I have known life, I have grown,
now death hovers: this is true.
Your death, immense and slow
like the wings of some vast crow,
reflects (and will, long past my sleep)
my plunging through the water's deep.
Your throes that started before Greece
was but a hope within a distant dream
will end (perhaps) long past the peace
that will engulf our final scream.
But for this time, you speak for me,
my smallness lost in your immensity. | | |
| I believe
in the silence
that pure ice emanates:
it contains
every note
and its opposite, embraced.
I believe
in the vast
inexplicable wonder
of a man
in the distance
recreating white thunder.
I believe
that the world
is the will of a blacksmith:
but its beauty
devolves
from the smile of the artist.
I believe
many things
made of crystal and water.
But for now,
mostly I wonder
if you'll reply to my letter. | | |
| I.
How I wonder at the flame:
is she burning, is she tame?
With her breath of golden light,
does she shiver with delight?
Does she feel my eyes upon her,
that devour her with hunger?
Does she smile at my futility
and my transfixed inhumility,
at the red fires on my cheeks
as my breath her vapor seeks,
at my hopes that pierce the night?
II.
Or is she perhaps oblivious,
like the starlight or the insidious
sun: who will shine no matter where I
am: who will live beyond the sky
alone, as I hope to never be:
the unknown would sink into the sea
of slivers cut from every hope
of silver that I twined (like rope)
to hold me on the ship of dreams
like gold would sink into the green
abyss of the Sargasso waves
if this (inebriating) dance
is seen only by me, in trance.
III.
The flame's gone out. The dance is over.
And the clouds are gathering over.
All is passed, all was a dream.
And the dawn comes, like scream.
| | |
| It is that hour of life again: when things
go blurry at the edges; I am tired.
There is a calm and soothing hum around me
and somewhere a TV speaks into a silent room.
The world is contained in my memory
and Bach comes in and visits, by and by,
like an mischievous being of sound.
Tomorrow I'll be rested and I will
immerse myself once more.
Tonight I look from a far distance
as the earth revolves beneath me. | | |
| I fall through life, bemused
at its kaleidoscopic wonders.
They leave my eyes abused—
as ears after great thunders.
The winds that whip me carry scents
of rocks and blood and roses,
a bed of which is where descent,
thrill, wind,—existence—,closes.
And I, I reach to grab the now,
the ever-nascent evanescent,
to steal its taste of passing how,
of curious why, of endless present.
It slips, though: water made of chortles
between desperate clutching fingers—
ever-emerald leaves of myrtle
float by, chuckling, on this river.
Yes, I am human, not a dam,
I must select a few dear drops
(tear drops, true kiss, the taste of lamb)
to fill a jar with (till all stops). | | |
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