September 18, 2015

To their amazement the hyena
could sit and listen to Chopin or Bach—
the Nocturnes, the Preludes,
whatever, even Debussy’s Le Mer—
and see them as ancient maps
full of monsters and mermaids.

Listen to them roar—
Listen to them sing—
the ones who die are the lonely ones,
the ones who carry all your sentences—

not as words of amazement—
but as poems of silent daydreams and silent lies—
poems folded like an old map in an old attic.
Go ahead and listen.
Then eat the lion.


September 17, 2015



September 11, 2015

Why, my silent friend, are you still visible?
Even Orpheus, with his nightmare grip on
a hideous truth, satisfies the divisible
In us that wants all pain to be gone.
His silence, friend, is all I can give you.
His news of the underworld—
That it’s there—is a battle cry for only two:
She who believes the truth is a flag unfurled,
And he who thinks the flag unnecessary.
You! Sound the horns! Yes, you! cries Man.
If Hell has leaped into the true beneficiary
Of his true love, he must leave her a plan.
Of escape? No, that would increase the pain.
He must have her hide as something…quite  sane.

Regent Emergent

September 1, 2015

To whom should I address this verse except
To you, my sleeping voice? For only you
Can sing and still hear its song. Precept
Will follow hard upon a regency too blue
For eyes and ears except your own, that is,
That are mine. Mind and mine are always one,
So philosophers have shown. Orpheus
Always arrives to take control, has fun,
Then leaves.  So bestial. So like a man to fuss.
To forget both his song and his duty.
So like a king, his killer’s crib began
With an infancy vowed to futurity.
Yet regency is ended with a chair.
His kingdom is only a dream to share.

The Tea Ceremony: What Just Might Be Beginning

August 29, 2015

He wished he could fit its beak
over his own rough mouth
and not have the seagull betray
his knowledge of what to do.
The seagull had cried
and so he had cried too.
Its lips were red and pure—
that could be deduced. But what else?
What might just be beginning—
a cry that was sympathetic to
a knowledge that they all felt was
important, but no one could put
his finger on. This bird’s
too tight for flight, they said.
Too loose not to be real and regal,
not to be, simply, an example
of breath and beauty, cream and cake—
a tea ceremony of enormous size—
screamed at by the seagull
as it changed and changed again


August 26, 2015


Ariel of the Ground

August 21, 2015

To the prisoners of form: yes, escape is possible.
To the pensioners of time: no.

The doctors had assured them that that pain
On his face was only on his face, not in his mind.
That frown, those troubled lips, the scared look—
As if what he most feared, had come true.
But no, his soul was sleeping peacefully—
His dreams were sweet dreams of boys in cassocks,
Of young girls, not there for carnal knowledge
But for emulation—as if goats could be kids again
By pretending to be The Birth itself. True,
His face was afraid, almost. Truth:
‘Almost’ is a very big word here,
A mist over a time and place,
A mist to turn into a mystery.
To the prisoners, he was too big to see through
or around. His body was not of Shakespeare’s play.
He was not that old. He was not
0f that spirit, or made of those planets.
To the pensioners, his body was
almost of the ground—
almost touching it.


August 19, 2015
  • bigpot

The Angel of your Birth

August 13, 2015

That he was still alive, he never doubted.
The heave and push of his pulse remained strong.
His eyes were aflame.
If he could only laugh,
he would fit his eyes inside a balloon,
so they could float over the countryside,
alive with spirits, and still—
still sing to the cathedrals
as they languished there under the sun;
still be fond of God even though
in all your confessions hating
only the sin and not God Himself,
and not yourself as the sun rose
and the roses rose—
each one an insufficiency
a finny thing, canned and creamed
and boiled and salted;
and still see the green boughs
of summer as they
become winter’s bare bouquet.

Can you see the circumference of
the tree? Can you see the light?

Remain still.

The Terrible

July 30, 2015



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