The Soft Assault
By
Gregg Glory
PUBLISHED BY
BLAST PRESS
324B Matawan Avenue
Cliffwood, NJ 07721
gregglory@aol.com
http://www.gregglory.com
Contents
Epigrams
Unfamiliar places *
The Gossamer Gauntlet
Lifes Too Short For Unsent Love Letters
Living Alone and Dying Alone
Half animal and man *
Banquet *
Syszygy
Down to Earth *
Kimono Blow *
Rumplestilskin
Cannibal *
Narcotic Nirvana *
Cardiology *
One mated and angelic eve *
The voice that puts my world to worse *
Sewn together in a pouch of purrs *
Lyonesse by the Sea
Answering Machine Messages:
During and After *
Mandala Squalor
Morning Moment
Naked Eloquence
Hollywoody
Scold *
Mister S *
Hole for Soul
Surgery
Bellwether
Shine *
The Soft Assault *
Oblivion Vignette
* Audio Available
If that's what it takes, man, to get with you,
Then you, you are not my God
'Cause I'd rather die than to follow you.
--- Liquid Logic
Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.
--- Sylvia Plath, “The Stones”
When you see cruelty going on before you, you are put
to the all of interposing to stop it-- or losing your
sensibility
---- JJ Chapman
That was not to say he would give up looking to the
future. True, he was just a Cuckoo: scared and
weary and alone. But, so, in the end, were most of
his tribe: it didn’t mean all was lost. As long as
they could be moved by a minor chord, or
brought to crisis of tears by scenes of lovers
reunited; as long as there was room in their
cautious hearts fpr games of chance, and laughter
in the face of God, that must surely be enough to
save them, at the last.
If not, there was no hope for any living thing.
— Clive Barker, WeaveWorld
Atlanta, GA
Dearest Jane,
Unfamiliar places make me long for your familiar
body. An ardent urgency I had not suspected
distance could supply has brought your sugarpot
to a sudden boil among the peach boughs.
Tonight, you spoke of “living in the now,”— and
how I long to let my soul do so! My heart is a
history of desiring— desiring so strongly that it
crushes whatever comes to it (good or ill) until
that thing becomes integral with itself. This is my
meteoric bliss and patchwork, bastard and
disastered composition.
And yet— how deeply and completely I long for
thee! Dark vintage of my nights, coiled bedmate
of my days— our hours toiling in the sheets or
embroiled by our tongues, I long for them all
again! The crown of the root of my cock has been
too long unbruised by your cunning junctions.
The Gossamer Gauntlet
“You are a ruby encased in granite.” — Rumi
Dear Quixotic Fox:
I know that you said my poem horrified you. In the
poem, I was trying to give the classic abstraction
of “Gender” a voluptuous body.
I also know that you are afraid of the verities we
have already shared and which we can share
again in any moment you want to pick up a phone
and be in my ear and in my heart. It is your own
fear that stops you, and nothing else.
Listening Hard,
Ruby Granite
Life’s Too Short For Unsent Love Letters
Jane,
No. You should not see me. It’s impossible that you
should. For, you see, I love you. I love you like the
open sky, endless and magnificent and empty. It’s
not reasonable. It has nothing to do with control
or wise decision-making, and much to do with
hurt and with joy— both equally. That cannot be
for you. It’s impossible that I should love you,
that I should have these feelings and these wishes
for one whose heart I do not know— who is a
mountain in its mists, observable but
unknowable. It is not possible that I should be
able to ascend it; neither may I reside at its foot
in peace— it’s shadow has touched the shadow of
my soul, and I am shaped by this glimmering
darkness called life. Stay where your life is all
yours and none of it is given away. That is best.
Not this folly, this parade, this ignorance, this
mystery. Abide and be well.
Gregg
Living Alone and Dying Alone
Mole,
Living alone and dying alone is something that all
of my "artist" friends have had to come to terms
with-- and its the one fucking thing that kicks me
in the ass all the time and that I steadfastly hate.
It's the worst shit to me. But everyone with a
point-of-view feels it.
A lordly friend of mine says its what gives him the
courage to stay married (scary)-- because he is
SO alone. Alice B. Talkless always has put forth
that point of view-- utter alienation. Yet-- what a
crock! If I believed that, my good Mole, I would
drink every day, souse my brain and sauce my
heart with soul tunes and blues, buy velvet
sheets, rape anything that walked, piss on the
innocent, and beat on the sleeping.
What guides me is not what I "know" about
ANYthing-- but what I hope for everything. And,
since my imagination CAN, literally, encompass
the known and unknown universe-- I've got a lot
of responsibilities when it comes to making that
imagined universe dream itself to truth.
Yrs. In Glory,
gregglory
Half animal and man
Half animal and man in my shambling frame
I ache toward the open doorway;
wounded and wronged in my make-believe flesh,
blazed and amazed by a million teardrop eyes,
my every ear alert to illumination
in the star-flying dark and flak daylight-
I hunch against the wind of forever come.
Banquet
Sick ink
vomited belly up on the throw rug
as if I had forgiven it,
the swallowed ball
of my poisonous poem, a loaded ode
to limitlessness and light—
What trash!
as if the sky— vapid and superior in its imperial blues
didn't know how to bite!
Mistakes, mistakes!
The pen's a miracle of mayhem, wild slips
of a wrist once slitted;
the bleeding, careering nib,
a molt of details in the schizophrenic flow:
my mangy life,
my frozen embryo
carelessly cast from the shelf, unlidded
and palely little.
The cornflower fists
ache to begin, the watery lungs
two skinned, amniotic fish.
A bonfire, a bonfire!
Something huge and ruinous with real red in it!
That's what goes, what really goes
with this stone decor,
this face hung in a mirror slashed to tears.
Heat, heat
anything to exhaust
this caustic blank in my being, torn calendar—
Journals, drawn loves, alien lines
poems mouthed from poems
—dead-weight papers pushed to a death heap
a Jew harvest at Dachau—
Perfect things
as final as a corpse,
ashes to ashes.
The matchsticks itch
to finish it.
Irritable Rubicon
of lava, language vulcanized on language,
I cross you languidly.
I am nearly asleep
in the oxygenless air. I am tired, tired,
tired of curses, tired of cures
tired of the alphabet.
The wall, infinite sheet,
turns intense as an oven, the nails
must be melting...
And here I stand
awash and exhausted, perfumed in the rolls
of corpse-smoke,
words burned to whorls.
Too tired to live, to die, to anything
kilned in skin.
Syszygy
A whirlwind in a Thrift Store assembles nothing
although it suggests a shape. A bowtie,
swung on air, flutters without function
because no neck is there.
There is no bleak coordinate
to rally the flags and flairs;
no hairy simpleness untwisted
when bras and socks litter ascending stairs.
Eyeglasses doubt their doing
(no matter how pinched and proud their glare)
when through their frames of hardened ether
can go no softened stare.
But a belch out of Brahma
that moves through our tube of voice
(no matter the nakedness of our stance)
can clear the spirit's molten soma
or club bright diligence to trance.
Red suspenders written by a finger
on some supple manikin we love
leaves a mental trace that lingers
far longer than any snapping does.
Yes, clothing is the vocab,
the richness of what's said,
the silken bounty of hot balloons,
the droll draperies on the bed.
But it is the Alpha and Omega
of eye and heart and ear
that fill out their airy outline
with the grammar of a dare.
Down to Earth
We’ve landed at the restaurant. Imagine that!
Plastic seats and an oiled eggplant head
Eating itself with a painted fork, with kerchief
tucked in.
A feast! A feast of cow-skulls,
Staring and hard, a mad Egyptian emblem of “brief life.”
Oh, I’d as leif
Noose my neck
On your oniony tongue and grief
As eat the bitter sprigs laid on my plaid plate.
The yogurty folds of melted milk-slugs
Slopped to a standstill, a yellow hill,
The maggoty disaster of a vegan salad!
Yet here we sit, the paralyzed pair,
Hump and stump,
Too drunkenly sober to ever get up.
Who but us has smashed our lives to pieces?
One piece, two pieces....
Oh, too many pieces to count or fix!
That one looks like post-war France, Maryland that;
All of our magic plans have gone
Back into the magician’s black hat.
Timid rabbit, silent as me,
Already minced and brewed in the mulberry stew
You vomited in the bathroom—
Half an hour, and almost didn’t come back.
Tell me, tell me,
One finger, or two?
How many hooks or claws does it take
To snake your guts into the toilet
And water your eyes awake?
Kimono Blow
Stirred eyes, lambent hands
Grope, stroke and lock
On the God-prod, the poker-pole, while red stone robes,
Judicial and exact, flow slow blood floods
From neck to heart to cock.
Your mouth moued to an exquisite squid
Flicks, sips and whips
The nodding blood-knot. Purple, imperial
Whirl unwrung above stung-hung nuts,
The daisy-anus, the lumped legs.
How like a heart it hurts,
Circular spurt and jerk
Into an emptiness of spit the size of a head,
Glow-globe toned with bruised velvets
And hot as a hiss or a piss.
This is the her that turned me twenty.
This is the act that soured all honey.
This is the night that cut away the day.
This is the feel that cancelled the real.
This is the time that mimed eternity.
Alive and dead on the slab again,
Burned, turned and horned
I made your waded pleasure feather wetness;
A fortune of fine-knit phillips ticked
Your broody veins insane on the scripted sheets.
Rumplestilskin
This hiss, this effortful fumbling at the spinning wheel,
A whirl of confused gold and one fine thread
Pure and tense as silence
Flies from the gnome’s knobbed fingers that pull at the flow
Thin as a hummingbird’s urine;
Masses of fineness
Gather at his neglected boots, clouds of extravagance
Churned from dirty straw.
And now
A maiden’s motions move through the loops; pinching, stitching,
She weaves a molten cloak for His Majesty’s child,
The sun king.
She uses every trick in the book to perfect it: her smile,
Her looks, her intricate skills, her willfullness
Honed on a husband of rock.
She shakes out the cloak. Millioned glimmers
Shiver down its breaking back. She’s proud.
The gnome’s eyes shine black.
“Magnifique! Too bad your son shall never have it.”
Her face falls to scars, irritations.
Her eyes cross.
“Oh... oh... Rumplestilskin!” she cries
Into the surprised sound of silence.
Cannibal
Casual, usual
A face floats on its wavering stalk;
Look at it talk, talk, talk.
Watch it shimmer in the mirror
And dissolve, a tactless absence, a sore,
Hole for soul,
A nothing that wounds and wounds
With its teeth, its tongue, gassy solvents
That pick and ply til all’s undone.
Look at it— loaded and goading,
A sucking contusion, wary and scarlet
Winking open only to eat
And eat and eat.
Watch how it swallows, grinding its stone molars
On a glass eye, a wooden heel,
Whatever the survivor had found
To replace itself with— a quick fix,
A snatch of branches, sticky love,
Any useable glue;
Anything at hand, at heart, anything
That would do.
The flaccid face bloats on its spoils.
Bigger than mirrors, it floats its way out.
Grandly, hatefully,
Empty of everything but plunder and hunger.
Narcotic Nirvana
A bhudda-man emerged in my dreams.
Orange sherbet draped his limbs,
His head a mahogany dollop.
His fist contained a shard, a glimmer,
Simple and sharp as his easy smile
That outshone his indigo eyes.
I held my palm up, outward, warding
Nothing, welcoming nothing,
A new-painted moon-palm with five drippy runs.
The knife
Entered me simply and neatly,
Dividing my five into a three and a two.
Sudden blood, hot and narcotic,
Glistened the fingered rifts of identity— and I, I
Bowed to thank him, kiss his head
The solemn mahogany
Made of my desire for death.
Cardiology
You hand me a cup, bland porcelain
Brimming with little liquids, little swirls
That mix without melding.
Edges meet my lips.
“Swallow.”
A helpful hand wipes the excess with a damp cloth.
This medicine is steeped in piss-poison!
Injectable lies
That slide beneath the skin, scatter and assume
The airy shape of my veins,
My life-lines, and then coalesce in a tangle,
Intrude and lump in my heart, silk knot, waxy casket
That breaks in the calcified air
Displaying a dead baby,
A red statuette
Drowned by lies and poison, swimming in it!
O what shall it do, what shall it do
That once was innocent blue,
Clean and pure and crimeless as you?
Shall it lie in state, attended and indifferent,
Surrounded by suits and long faces,
The lamentable murmuring of men, the shriek
Of a mistress tearing her hair?
Or shall it rise, rouge moon, rise
Blind and on fire, and show us the night?
Show hidden things: faces twisted as paper,
Abominations, truces with witches,
Suburban ploys and plots, the adorable whores
Who live on the block?
If we look at it burning, the heart on fire
Will it show us just what we desire?
Will it show me? Will it show you?
Will it?
Will it?
Will it?
“One mated and angelic eve”
One mated and angelic eve
With the book flared across your knees,
Eyes guided eyes and elbows posed
For four brown nipples to squeak and see.
I knew the bell’s praise from your lifted lips
Would sound my soul awake;
I knew each bit of bitch with a searing nail
Would seal my damaged fate.
Stiff ministers of a cultish creed
We repeated the stolen words,
Puked up tongue and black and naked need
Until our needing heard.
Together with stars and eyes half-open
We scratched the wrinkled skull’s emporium
And traded hands and nimbly led
Each other back to bed.
“The voice that puts my world to worse”
The voice that puts my world to worse
Sits alien in the ear.
The juggling hand that hoists my heart
I exile to a hammered bier.
The eye that sees my face as sodden
I pluck and damn its tears.
The ear that hears my each word a curse
Whispers its own fear.
When that eye, that hand, that crooked ear
Misperceive my frame,
I crack each red rib and fish within
To kiss her soul again.
“Sewn together in a pouch of purrs”
Sewn together in a pouch of purrs
Hand on breast and mouth on thigh
We cannot make our moaning words
Or hiss a thesaurus into our kisses’ sighs.
Each sight of sex that turns us double
Or kinks or Xed zones to a core
Of double yolks where trapped tongues bubble
About the regions our mouths rub sore,
Undoes our encyclopedias of saying,
Erases summations to addition’s first tick
And cancels accounts we could be laying
In the hollow of a kiss’ lick.
Lyonesse by the Sea
O I have been to Lyonnesse
One hundred miles away;
I have been gone to Lyonesse
For many and many a day.
When I returned from Lyonnesse
Upon a rainy day,
I found my town and found my home
Had changed while I was away.
In what way all things had changed
I’d be hard-pressed to say,
But things that were things
were no longer things
Since I had been away.
My regret is long
Where I once belonged
And hardly can I see
When the hours gong
What is left of what I’ve left
In Lyonnesse by the Sea
And what at home from where I’d gone
Is left of what has been.
Answering Machine Messages:
1]
Robbed of sleep I can only feel
The iron bed of your steel will
And sleepless lie upon my cot
Meditating over what I have not
2]
Although we don’t know Reality’s basis
Time is not a stasis
For (God knows) in Life’s whirlpool
Each one goes from sage to fool
3]
“Thank you for breaking my heart, you sonofabitch”
You’re Welcome, then
Is where we must begin
For the breaking of the heart
Is the very worst part
4]
her eyes a monster's beauty
her laugh contagious fire
her heart too finely lonely
her breath a wilderness of desire
During and After
The Yoni in her rictus sucks
Lingam with her million licks;
Like and unlike they dance and drain
The sense of sophistry and the heart of pain.
Glad carousels lunge where sex has lingered,
Whirling in memory what had been fingered;
The touch of Life that touches us
Commends us crawl above the dust.
Mandala Squalor
Put mandolins where monkeys are
To screech their souls up to a star
Bananas and citrons in a deep dish
Chocolate shadows and the sunlight’s kiss
The revolved aroma of a hole
Charms the sense that would scold
Morning Moment
good morning
dear blossom,
the dawning's
white bosom
is clearing a place
for your health
for your face
whose smile is wealth
Naked Eloquence
Shards of naked eloquence,
permanent acquaintance in a glance,
an isosceles triangle constructed by chance
as when the world falls together
on the disheveled bed.
Shapes of light and greatness
confound the eye to quietness
and all the rest as well, unless,
confessing naked eloquence
and stretched to a howl
I stand with my back
to the midnight clocks
and drop my cock
to the caustic waters,
my soul to spawn.
Hollywoody
I stare at my figure
too dull to doll
it up with knots, wry ribbons
that stitch the wild hair into a tail.
The hips flare out
from the belly sack, a hairy flood
of becomings, selves
I may invite back for a drink...
Incipient breasts
flow molded from mounded shoulders,
nipples stiff to be bitten.
It's womanish,
except for the blowfish.
Figgy balls
complacent as labia, shed placenta
from some god-afterbirth.
The dill a willie
soft as a loaf or foggy forethought,
clitoral when licked
by a mind or a lip
anything that drugs the blood
into the long cave,
the manger
hung with drums, a terrified beating
that surges and squeezes.
A swallowed heart
would be less insistent, more nutritive,
provide a maturer moaning
than this hollow stick
with its found sounding, a seashell
dragging its echo.
Hot, prophetic
folds saunter simmer-shimmeringly,
lacteal, erect.
The wet coast
solders its salts against the groin,
sand and fire and thighs.
A night, a womb
floats her sewn awning over us,
a marmalade
softness constricted to eloquence.
Stars hung out to dry,
zen observers,
mark our dartings
like twins in the linen.
Love, love
swells and sweats
between us, cloisonné oysters
stripped
from their bone shells,
the shellac of evolution
returned to nudity.
Somewhere, hidden
below the neckline of waters
that define us,
my semen rot
and wait, rot and wait,
acid prisoners
pale to escape.
Scold
The face is porcelain, sourceless
perfection
towed from the cemetery
whites of the sea
and spit upon by lime,
cremated to this coldness, this clarity.
Blank statuette,
unriven by sweetness or sorrow,
smooth as a blind moon
or dew on a cactus!
Follicleless, is this
the end of wrath and worry?
Does a wild rabbit shred cries
below your shine?
Anatomy entrapped by a sheen,
mechanism steeled to a polish,
there are such depths in your surfaces!
A star could not finish it.
No sun
can blanche you beyond what you are.
Limitless
glares anger at you larynx
that never once hurt open for air.
How does it feel to be in there
seamless and beaming? Tell me, tell me!
Open your mouth and bleed
a God-spout,
a riot.
Mister S
The scenery of the ribs is a stage-set:
medieval coils of veins,
cracked flames
and the abysmal bellows,
the gold heart going like a pocket-watch,
muffling a photoed face in its hands.
Heart! O Heart!
Look at the ruins you have maneuvered!
the hothouse monster who smashes the panes
and leaves the scene in spasms.
Mysteries
stiffen the pinions
of God's black bat,
dark Lucifer, soiling the filigree paneling
as he loiters, fingering a silk cigarette.
He's plausible,
a skirmish of smokes and dishwater, lonely
for a light or a toke....
A molten, mirrory backdrop
floats his eyes through the chest like train-lights;
A few, stray, unused thoughts
flashing and dangling
assemble the scarecrow
who puts goodness to flight.
Hole for Soul
I keep falling into holes
and trying to stay there. —Theognis
Holes split open like smiles,
wet and black as a line of paint,
full of spectacular textures, like current berries
that cling to my fingers, to my
hounding mouths, to my wicked dick.
My pubes are adorned with the hard small seeds,
spit out and germed with turmeric jelly.
The hairs stand forth bright as a bearing holly bush,
gemmed like a juniper with seeds and needs.
And there, nearby,
like the sand at the end of the slide,
hunkers the hole, the sop, the punch-out,
bitch ditch and oblivion
as final as an out-push of breath.
I have fallen a thousand thousand times
tripped by a mirrory eye, a laugh,
the sudsy tug of an insult,
a breath as coal and nitrous as a cigarette,
smokes that exit a sigh as silk exits a spider’s belly.
I have heard and I have fallen.
I have seen and I have slipped.
Again and again, in and in,
Down and down I go, shucking my parachute
into crowded clouds, removing my wiry limbs
to increase my speed
into the fishy abyss, the feathery cleft
that opens like the vowels of a moan
in the middle of a woman.
There’s an arm, a foot, a useless
knee as backwards as a bird’s,
an ass as smooth as a cameo
unrolling and unreeling.
Clothes shudder off like smoke.
I am leaving it all behind
like a will or a fire sale,
getting rid, getting rid,
to fit into this hole that opens below,
black and silk
as a magician’s hankie.
Faster and faster I fall
my hat pulled off in a flap and flutter,
my head yanked back like a yo-yo.
Springy fingers twine my greasy curls.
The angels go on about light and space and eternity
like a clean room that never dirities,
linen and palm trees and Ikea settings that never end
fresh as dry cleaning,
airy and forever and empty.
But I want the hole.
I want that plummet of gums,
the chummy manure of descent,
that spasming black, that tongue of hunger,
the window in my stomach screaming wide,
the tears, the million million tears
like bent nails, bent and abandoned
from nailing the window open, again and again
to feel the black rising though you
as you fall.
Surgery
What are we made of who made ourselves?
Our hands pull at the stitches like petals
“love me, love me not”
until our lovable monster lies
undone and red and ruined
as a pile of raw scarves.
Quick, quick, take these flicked cracks,
the ones under the brows and by the eyes,
or the one jaggedy one as long as a sigh
long and nipple-purple by the targeted heart
and pinch it and knit it and tie a tight knot,
knowing that the guts have already gone out of it,
the heaving mongrel mess
the contusions and bruises
and god knows what
that make us human and helpless and work.
Where our kisses have stung
a rosary of burns remains;
What had happened back when the lightning struck
and love arose? What surged and gurgled
on the steel table? What awoke with a shock to see
the operating room’s sugary whites,
the corners as sharp as a smirk?
What shuddered and blinked
at the rubber and tubular helper hands
so anxious to gag it and glue it,
to take it to us and keep us together
like a heap of busted toys in a box?
The surgical light as intense as a sty
blinked on above us like a faulty halo.
Notice the choosing of the bones,
the supple back, the wavery feet,
the bland big bone of the face, blank as a lollipop.
Notice the choosing of the bones,
very important and very proper,
stark popsickle sticks stuck in two frozen lives,
rounds and mounds to hang ourselves on,
display our guts like sausages
and our smiles like carved lard.
Bellwether
This is the husband, a stone Ramses head
indifferent and flecked with flies, with lies, austere
as the sunset
that gilds his despair.
He’s different, this husband, he’s changing
songless and bald, moulting his plumage
undoing his hues.
Long ago he finished with sending me poems,
his pen as dry and stark as a husk.
Done are the days of ripping the earth
to snare me a fist of flared flowers
that peeped, in our noontime,
so "naive et charmant” from my ratsnest of hair.
Eons back he shut himself off like a faucet
from my teasing yeast,
my rise as regular as the calendar.
He no longer cries in straight silver lines,
stopped are the drops once poignant as blood.
His tongue is no longer a spongeable pumice
to leaven or sharpen my sex upon.
Turned off are the nights of spasms and gladness,
torn away like kites by unbearable thunder.
Stoked stiff in his study with his load of self-pity
he chugs through his Churchill in his stagnant recliner,
a thrumb drubbed on Nietzche, and a pinky in Zeno,
dividing and slicing our lives into zeroes.
Shine
This is the scrape and scar of disarming sin,
The God scrub.—
Filtered pallors hurricane the holy void
Empty and innocent
And quite as frank as an open mirror or storm-eye.
Oz-God with his cattle prod
And tanned hands replete with treats
Tells us in Schonenberg tones
We must wash or wear out.
Old hopes, old hands, old wings
Weaken and retard my rinsing and rising;
What held me up now halts me.
My father’s feathers that lightened my marrow
Now endow my face with suffocation
As thick as Icarus’ kisses.
All these withered glimmers and subtle shines
Impinge and peel off in the mud;
All Earth is crowded with ‘down.’
And I, I rise in rain
My high lungs two cauldrons of flammible gold,
My hope as strong as a bird’s hollow bones.
The Soft Assault
A scream arrives
as eloquent as a silent film,
Chaplin eating his shoe from hunger,
us eating our screams from love.
Has it been so long since
our mouths had found the strength
to swim at each other like fish and kiss?
Water whooses from our guts into water,
urine and fishshit deflating from us,
the sound a no-sound of silence.
So long and so hungrily we moved toward each other,
paired plants heliotroped on our sunny dope
and ache for greatness, a spine of thorns
elevating the ticklish emptiness of a rose.
I cared for no God taller than your caress,
your hot neck caught on my calluses.
The crevices where we creased together
like folded skin melted in a blue matchstick
are full of crossed eyes and crossed hairs,
backwards assassins
that cannot see what they are killing
but fumble for the tricky trigger by habit
blindly as worms.
Together we mouth the sound of “Pow”
like children
pulling their fingers on air.
Reincarnate Incarnate
I have come and gone many times
And turned my soul upon a rhyme
As if the finest joke on earth's
To be always beginning where I was.
Troubled troubadour and truculent whore,
Soldier, sailor and tailor and more;
Each rotating mood or face
Another fated deck shot by an ace.
The several major arcana and their signs
Cast their shadows on my soul;
Sour and sweet they they cross and meet
And their friction boils my bones.
Bird or man or querlous bee,
Or gladdened tangle of these three I am stuck on
Winter's blankest branch
Or come to Summer's triumphant tree:
Hung, flung, or even undone
Our lives' alliance shifts upon a breeze
Straying or staying like some mourner's melody
Upon the upright mystery.
With ignorance and assurance I strut;
With innocence and wickedness I walk;
With whatever measure I may I go;
Indisputable and bouyant I stalk.
Mother shadow and darkest seed
Direct from the nothing above
And sink to the nothing below
All the lightness that I may need.
Cajoling aueroles of flowers
From these honey-bloods I bleed
Dripped to ground beyond my powers
Until light and time a resurrection freed.
Calliopes' sighs and a lover's tropes
Rope my myriad thoughts to things;
Tied together what need I fear
Save a lesser tension in the strings?
I have come and gone many times
And turned my soul upon a rhyme
As if the finest joke on earth's
To be always beginning where I was.
Oblivion Vignette
So circular evening arrives again
Sending down her silver lies at midnight
Into the sleeping mind of woman,—
A goddess knotted on her own fecundity,
A fullness and dirtiness in which all fantasies root.
My blunt foot has numbed in its soleless boot.
And yet, there is no anchor for us in this evening,
No hold, no place to contain us,
To comfort us; no chink in which we may
Fail and be forgotten. No hole for our seeding.
We are here in the evening alone together,
Here in the bleak nothing that opens us.
I look up, up, to where the black stops.
The stars are wise of their taut untruths
And wink when we do stare at them,
Staring like a mother at her liar child
Who winks and grimaces and starts away
To play and pleasure in the darkest wood.
Finis .