Muse, Or So

The seer in me enter shards come,
the darkness of an abyssal forest
ran with empty fingers that once
love had worn.  The leaves that
fed and gaunt chainmale hands
wore of temptation’s red, my dry
hair tossed and my corpse spent,
empty lyre of silver sinned strings
that still played vibration’s silences,
a dancing chaos of uncreation made.

On London

Rapture for the voyeur, the pimelated
tower of stones stuffed with scars
sang orbits in our shrouded city abound.
Their staffs of splendid jewels in thicker
fog than the city or its crowd, bound
together with the teething poor, spittle
of the waxing man with saxophone’s lull
in alleyways before had sowed, anteregum.
Each footfall a breach of burrowed souls
that gape above with carved names and
dates that hang as fruit rippened on branch,
plucked and tossed to tithers of wrecked
haven, bays rung in raven speckled gallows.
The Abbey a morticians revolt, each cross
a vagrant moss ran across the bespeckled
graves as ran “Homo sum, the adventurer”
still chilled in le couer du Londre, den
man nie finden kann, nor eye from afar.

An Underwhelming Under-appreciation of DFW from Past-Self

Hello dear readers.  It has come to my attention that DFW, in many literary circles that I am undoubtedly not a part of, have stormed the minarets of the ivory towers with DFW(David Foster Wallace, for those of you new to the sport) novels in tow.  It seems strange to me, now, reputo, teetering between procrastination and auto-erotic-sapiosexual-masturbatory-calisthenics, via profuse altercations with self and surely the convivence of a third party verbal-sparring partner, that would heretofore generate sparks of tenuous lexicographical combat which would yield obfuscated -presumptuous pretentiousness, albeit- apprehension to the reader, whom could only attempt to grab with his or her (preferably “they,” but the unfortunate entendre of plurality is too overtly narcissistic to the dearth of readers that I do -with pleasure- have)  fleeting attention(sic), that such a literary form would become so notable.  I, however, in passing back over time spent in the folly of youth and the predicaments of dilettante illiteracy, realize, now, clearly -or more clearly at the very least- that I, or whom I hope to ascribe “I” to -cyclical writing can be so profound, was under-appreciative of DFW’s methods to madness –Read: Mad-ness, Read: Genius.  The method that DFW brings, and continues to bring after his demise, is one of complexity in interwoven stories that demonstrates what good literature can do, with or without, such vortexes of erudite extrapolations.  It pulls the reader down.  Down a rabbit’s hole of symbolism, allusions (keep up), and, hopefully, self-pondering -Reflection being the more apt choice of word, but pondering giving more lee-way to the idea of profundity intrinsic in {some} literature.  This depth, dare I call it reality, to a story is the key parameter that gives it life, its ebbs and flows.  The ability for our minds to not only engage with the story, but live in it.  The feeling of literature that moves us, its deepness, is not found in the ability to make us peer over the edge of brilliance and see the shadows, it is the sensation of falling, that the clothe on Mary in La Piatra is not clothe at all, but stone, and we are the billowing of the fabric, the shooting of the shadows, the arch of the back, and the suppliant hands facing the heavens.  Great art is to turn supine while falling, catch glimpse of the stars above, knowing that looking down gives of no indication if our view of the Earth is merely a zoomed in picture of where we truly are.

Escape the Forest

The fading forests timbered; shadows
plummeting as I hoped to absent encroaching
dusk, rabbits, like specters, whisked along.
My ears so pricked to the sound of berated
mud, footfalls like a young raging creek,
where only poorly held infants could
drown.  My element inclined to clear that
glade of swallowed bottles and cigar boxes
that others had laid.  The meter of my gaze
ran down river trails and lasting suns – against
the backdrop of intermingling clouds, soon
to blot out the rising mountains of the night,
to parch their peaks of stars and dreams of flight.

The Stories We Make

Of angels and Mensch, as sun rose
to brighten the light-forgotten turf,
to culminate our waking, our breach from that
darker day. Where a woman in a red
hood stood by each streetlamp and she lit its
hue, and where a man in all black
locked the back door to a theater’s pews.
As acts had ended for the night and we put
on faces of glamour and homeless light,
dancing on rivers of pavement low,
and peopling marble skins with
a dandelion row. Sun’s bearing tow, a
brandished flaming soul, that butchered
the stone and forced masks of shade to
be cast, eyes that acted to still and
words that borrowed sublime. Only nighthood
dared our cracks, our untenable gray stony
flow, combed black in knots of weeds, layered as
covering dusts from a second snow’s final wheeze.

My lots of Metal, Wood, and Fired Clay

Parking lots with their harbored
doors, each metal out and in a
seeking, find home somewhere.
Tasked, that if I had loved enough
to turn the key, then home would
be behind that fabled door, a room
with a draft that fires with arms
could forever warm. That hypnotic
place I would not run, but sit and
mumble “Mom Mom Mom,” my
stainless harbor of cabins filled
and trains that all ceased to have run,
as tracks were not needed and weeds
took the lots of metal inlayed doors.

Gone

To bird’s chirp and dive, that rudy
feathered accordian of morning come,
all those dancing couples, whose rain
had still more to run, the flight paths
realigned above and then did I wonder,
where is the succoring song gone?
Where is the soft calamity of winter’s
frost?  Where is the old man, named the
same, that carried me to sleep and back
home again?  My robbins, my finches,
my filthy crows, and bright eyed robin
riches, how you the early morn decor,
both with song and with sorrow, or
brightness I can indelible see evermore.
Diaspora of feathers’ fate brought you
among, so that I may find rags of lingering
night, before that rising we call the sun.

Puppy, an Ex

All that’s​ dust has veins, its sprouting
nectar like weather that trampled the
soul and our supple downpour came.  I
recall but the flood of 6 years spent
in idle mud, as eyes turned and found
a city with stores and terraces, apartments
and old roads that used to sing as
loud as our rain-drenched hearts.
I recall, or hope it is true at the least,
that we would go out into soft sheets
of pelting crystals’ furore and find puddles
the size of our feet, that only shadows
or mucky memories could expire.  All that
was left, dead skin that had shed, and
old memories held too long in hope’s bed.
Where, now, for am I?  As was and to be is,
both a waking clarity of all pain saved
when lover’s rain dried on paved footprints
against​ my dusty corners’ bleeding lanes,
as I remembered the puddles that wrote:
“She is rain.”

Exuvia

The morning sun, golden bubbling
honey trapped in oaks and ginkoes,
Puddles – those depressions of torn
sky, a woman’s last hat, and a man’s
only pair of gloves.  Wedding rings
in hellium gas, as our blue voices to
filial peaks and punches of old red
turn.  Soft hair that kept its shape
from the lover before.  Why friend,
I could shave it all, layer off layer,
as orb bared from orb, just Schichten,
tiny glimmers, Matris Geschichten.

Home

To bird’s chirp and dive, that rudy
feathered accordian of morning come,
all those dancing couples, whose rain
had still more to run, the flight paths
realigned above and then did I wonder,
where is the succoring song gone?
Where is the soft calamity of winter’s
frost?  Where is the old man, named the
same, that carried me to sleep and back
home again?  My robbins, my finches,
my filthy crows, and bright eyed robin
riches, how you the early morn decor,
both with song and with sorrow, or
brightness I can indelible see evermore.
Diaspora of feathers’ fate brought you
among, so that I may find rags of lingering
night, before that rising we call the sun.