Conference of the Century
The birds in their conference
speaking in tongues
speaking praise to someone
from the shelter
of their aviary
while the boy
lies dying in the mud
below
* * * * * * *
such an antiquated scene
written on stone
with chisels and pigment
olive trees are scattered
across the slope
of the mountain
there is the memory of fire
seen in the blackened traces
that always face south
* * * * * * *
and somewhere else
far lower
is a ring of stones where
a performance takes place
each day
at precisely the same hour
a ring of memory locked in place
until the century
breaks apart.
Generations
Pynchon in his prime wading
through the syrup of his memories the cracked
and groaning history carefully placed
and pigeonholed between the wooden
blocks and barriers that separate the naked
theory from his warm and sticky appetite
ungrateful Pynchon luxuriating like
a father’s child that knows with such a deep
instinctiveness that blood overwhelms
psychology and that the craving he
suppressed for far too many years can
only be extinguished by a quiet failure
oh Pynchon your sweat stained body
your filthy mind how both of these cooperate
to flood the world with the quiet light
of excess by the narrative fog
of objectified revenge by the spreading of roots
and the untapped fruit of your unfolding.
Last Night on Earth
Bright light became a limit
a retreat from color a fading out
as we stumbled past the pit
that constantly burned smoking
and stinking filled with
the detritus of winter
the moon glaring as it slid
along its well-oiled wires
shaping distant strategies
our fists of bone in white and blue
each hand unlocking a possible
future tense and flooded
salted metals enclosing us
trapped within the sweetness
that we quietly despised
that terrible night when
the moon turned grass to silver
and all was liquid and dissolute
bright lights seen from underwater
triggering the pivot of an eye
triggering a longing for music
that floods from depths of mind
to the ice-coated surface of
a silent lake an empty lake.
Peacocks Hold Their Place in the Landscape
There were peacocks among the sculptures deep within the muddy groves that we stumbled into peacocks that flaunted in ways that the best art could never do quietly fitting into its apportioned place within the landscape
the day was cold the ice still clung to the surface of the mud that spread to fill the widening gyre of tramping crushing up against the bamboo corridors
every work that we thrilled for a compromise between abstraction and placement seemingly impossible for it to be moved to any other location its absolute sanctity identified by interactions by lines that stretched on invisible wires to create a web of knowing and beauty across a field a level that rose above the shape of individuation
and there we strolled in filthy shoes unwitting as we traversed those pre-planned routes that gave us perspectives that we failed to recognize as manipulation a perfect alibi for the joyous rush of our sensations
the whole a dialectic a deferral of conclusion to the philosophy of movement a world of stone and wood and the brilliant feathers of the peacocks and the two of us enmeshed within the structures that held us captive.
Moon Comes to Accept Winter
More moon appearing so continuous
it’s a mouth it’s a corpse it illuminates
the sex we fight so hard to hold at bay
so restless my angel so desperate
for movement as I communicate
by touch alone my tongue still
trapped as heavy as a granite slab
* * * * * * *
what happens when this life is ended?
only one of us can be the survivor one body
dust the other decaying organically
within an endless stubbornness beneath
the moon that shines on our obsessions
the moon – a whispering of starlight swept
clear by such a heavy-wristed sponge
an erasure of all residual egotism gleaming
sickly and painted by a blood moon
the pain-wracked glimmer of midwinter
we have traveled in time unrecognized.
Maybe All of This
Maybe air so hot and penetrating
maybe the body that fits
exactly spine against spine
maybe oil that floats on water
like a second skin
never to molt or shed
maybe the neon that floods our darkness
that ripples across a liquid surface
fragrant with gasoline
the underlying perfume of any city
maybe the flashes of fire that threaten
to overwhelm a star filled sky
on a night of clarity
maybe the interior of a silver maple
where insects have turned the heartwood
into dust
maybe a plume of smoke visible
from all six hills
that surround this town
maybe a dirty window reflective
from the buildup
of the soot of decades
maybe the weakness
of arthritic fingers failing once again
to loosen a bolt
maybe pens and books and staples
scattered across a desk
maybe the upper lip that you trace
with your finger remembering
maybe driving the lesser traveled road
maybe all of this or maybe
nothing at all.