[»»] In the Alchemy of a Garden
[»»] Dropping a Bomb on the Louvre
[»»] A Cypher
[»»] As Cold & Passionate as the Dawn
[»»] A Burning Question
[»»] A Final Gathering
[»»] A Curse
In the Alchemy of a Garden
of a pagan god.
fuzzied & furred.
of the brightest illusion,
a luminous love —
heart of an omniscient sun —
a naked moment
of blinded Archimedean recognition
& the well-well-
-well of symmetry again —
the meteorology of this simple soil.
& what of her edible symbolism:
a metaphor for all-that-glitters
cross-pollinating with our own?
In their nefarious dramatis personae,
Odysseus & his crew
bungle on to find Circe,
but the eye is not always sovereign or seen.
This flower garden
is taking on the colors
of human dreams &
the burning desire of every orphan.
Dropping a Bomb on the Louvre
like the skull of a small mammal
polished by insects and rain,
enveloped in loaded silence, a gun.
Are the screams across the water,
simply the neighbors quarreling?
Is anybody watching?
As long as hope retains
that trace of ocean green, it sweeps
away all the other voices.
A cipher taken on blind faith, perhaps.
As between two lovers, like a dollar bill
that holds no reality beyond its face, the currency
offers great reward to a vibrant imagination.
When did the god of faith become the god
of hard cash? All those schemes, extracting
sunshine from the purgatory of earth.
Literal or allegorical, mystical or demagogical,
but pierced through with a million sorrows.
A desire for things that are of this world
in avaricious hands, bursting forth to weigh
and clutch and display their greatest worth.
perfectly and correctly allow themselves
to be decomposed into roses and passion
— Roland Barthes
reaching for a reflection, the mind
was rudely battered by a thrust of ineffable vision?
Where did the book vanish & carry off all the detail?
or, is this the same story even though
it looks quite different on the page.
All that speech made visible, all the sound
contrition of the heart, a confession of deadly sins
& a strange capacity to imagine in order to feel.
Ah, here it lies eroded by slight of tongue, rogue
thoughts as knots on a string, the dead conversing
in bullet points across myopic centuries.
How else could they make a rose bloom again
from its very ashes. Every page may be an oracle
in amorous entanglement — & yet, the first lines
were not songs of love, but checklists of things,
of grain & livestock, of tiles now turned to dust.
Perhaps we should follow the tracks of their creatures
across the pastures to reach the end, or perhaps,
just perhaps, we prefer to be passionately lost
As Cold & Passionate as the Dawn
more than fading
whispers, a lens
within the lightning
gaze of time,
a misconception —
or that crackling
illusion of fancy footwork
in silent woes.
Let me therefore
exhibit a better standing
among this community
of hardy old poets.
A Burning Question
with candlelight and hope,
furrowed foreheads, a nervous tick,
tongue pushing back teeth
and the clock turning backward.
She’s moving as if she had seen
the pyramids being built,
the slow rise of China’s Great Wall,
man being shot straight
into the astonished face of a moon.
What is bone? Wren asks,
clasping her grandfather’s pocket watch,
waving her finger as if it had a clue.
Hess strains, wipes his eyes
and soon tables turn. Hold hands,
he says, and they do, gripping each other
for dear life as they tread by magic
not back, not ahead, but straight through
the great wall of time. Are we not all, he asks,
without exception, descendants
of the same unoriginal crime.
A Final Gathering
with bids &
an evening sky
the house —
it is lovely
above the city
in the flight
of the snow geese,
honorable exile —
still, the party continues
& the streetnoise
beneath the sniffles
& the coughs &
that faint voice enduring
I might be thinking
we are divided
like thieves, when
a trembling pre-
monition that things
of substance, suddenly
washes over me.
we are not of that breed.
We read far too much.
God is hectic.
select their own candidates.
Don’t be afraid.
The greatest sinners
the boards as they walk
toward their imagination.
A fine, delicate touch
is all that is required.