Anacreon’s Place

Reinvention
because you started it
Of the heart
like we’re ever apart
Parts of me
that you made me like this
Electrons spin
and we are together
Madly
Boson orbits
the armpit of
strange worlds

tired anxieties fleshed forth the
broken table, chained the rotten
flame grid; Eucharistic sun for everyone
I disbelieved but was drawn by the gravity

shearing excuse from the linen folds
tabulating the requirements
of atom load to leech
bloated frogs on the
pond -
us one whether we realize it
or not -
golden scintillant dream shrouds 
lurch to life cast from the waves
by an unseen hand, or is it the sky?

Reinvention
Of the heart
Parts of me
Electrons spin
Madly
Boson orbits
Collocate

My eyes are
Useless in a
Realm of
Chronic night, must
Use feel and
Touch and smell;

I taste the ink and
Oil and dab the brush
Onto canvas I can’t
See, neither can
You, we must feel
Our way to paint, to
Burn, to breathe.

Hurting in time to the threnody
of silver rain, a prayer to asteroid
entities that could have been written
by a cloistered mage musing
on the burning of his fair city
in the month of Hept, entranced by
the Machine Dream, before
it had a name.

Faith is not
a light in the darkness;
it is darkness, and learning
to love it.

Farther and farther
into the catacombs
pursued by devilish
legions whose feathered pinions
always find us.
In time we realize
that they are us, and
we are they, in a dance
of mutual oblivion,
between lives.

2.
The farmer on a spindle-limbed walker tractor crosses the fields
with hundred meter steps. We marvel before remembering to flee
from the towering spike-encrusted giants
bearing down on us with malevolent sentience
and glowing eyes, whose bones are girders teased then
tortured from galvanized souls.

3.
When we step from our ships
onto the surface of the new
world, we see that its cities hyper-extend
across the planet’s pitted surface and pollution
sears the silver sky in ebon billows.

This reality tastes good, like
soul, a sugar that gladdens
tongue but rips stomach
with acid talons.

- From a Reflection on the Month of Hept, attributed to Harmon Maasel

This pain I can’t place

For Joe Strummer

Gentle giant, the thought
like a mother ship freedom bird
from the ocean, the word, the
sword, inflects the candor with
which he attempts to say
“I can’t do this any more.”

She longs for him to tell her
just how insane she is
so she’ll have an excuse to
self-destruct

This song is about
the luck of the colonel’s
frilly underthings he wore
under fatigues and flackjacket
at An Khe, where his brother took
a vc bullet for the end of the world,
and he balled up his
underwear and buried it
to police up his NDP.

The pain you left
on a foreign field,
the desire to rectify
catastrophes not of
your own devise,
what marks you -a diamond glyph,
gold burning through your forehead in the spirit
realm - is the intensity of your desire for truth
and to know God.

 The edge split down the middle
of a falconsight’s hefting ether you insist
doesn’t exist but casts spells to bewitch me
with every damn day.

Wo wir uns als gleichwertig sprechen;
(der sand am strand die blutwellen eine
gelegentliche Symphonie, ich lese
doch ueber der Anzacangriff gegen
Gallipoli und mich vor jedem Blutverguss
ekele); warum singe ich
toerichte Friedenslieder in einer
zertruemmelten Welt die jedes
Wort der Bergpredigt vergessen zu haben
scheint, wenn ja sie die Worte davon erstens
je hoerte,ich bin Lebensnarr, lebendiger
Friedensnarr, der sich ueber
mich und dich fehlerhafte Psalmen
verfasst, der sich zu viel um dich
bekuemmert, denn deine Schoenheit mich
an eine erinnert, die vor Jahrtausenden
gestorben ist, und Kleopatra hiess,
daimonios ti die vielleicht in ihrer
ehemaligen Gestalt Sokrates trieb
zum Tode und Aufklaerung, vor sie zurueck
in den Seelenkorb abflog, um wieder
geboren zu werden, als Du.

Zur Fuelle und Leere
des allzubald Hinabfallenden Athen.

Wo walten die Wellen
sterben die Veralteten;
der Rost braeust durch jeden Trost;
Ich in deinen Augen
Ersticke
Erquicke
Werde von boesen schoenen verfuehrerischen
Begeisternden Engeln geliebt und beseitigt

voellig krepiere wenn Du mich so ansiehst

2.
Hersteller der neuen Schoepfung
Hergestellt von einem Lechzenbringenden
Miasmus der erroeteten Torheit

Der neuen musik
ekelhafte Schwere,
Der Kraft des bekaempften wesens,
Des steinernen Seins, als ob ich mich
In einer Fremdsprache
Auszudruecken versuchte.

dawn creeps
across the inside of
my eyelids

mascara she
smudged on the
pillow

explosion of distant
dream, somehow the sound
of her pushing over a vase
in the hall is incorporated
into my dream as the dulcet
fire-fringed maelstrom of
hate love rock and roll
over Bach, mock him
once and regret him, mock
his symphony and you
won’t live to.

This is the culture that drags
chains between my ears and
shoulderblades, and eats quorn,
at all hours of the night, to cauterize
the slipshod with essential fire
of madness.

themes entwine; harpsichord strings snap me out of midnight’s highway trance, and I am a new lens for fear- fire- focus; the forces blanket rafts of new-wrought earth with snow, right onto the auburn grasses of steel, to snap off their stems with cold, to plant new cords on the dust of rusted nebulae. (Stutter grace notes, botox lips on stammering tongues)

things in common; this is the power; brutalities of silver monkeys dancing in the trees, we laid it at the feet of authority, but it is exegesis that holds us together, at least according to Pravda, and W. This is what we need, the bang, the whimper, the shuttlecock, the gold-flavored hen of tomorrow’s fad consumed conveyed relayed years before she was even thought of, because it’s the archetype, stupid, of an information ecology.

A poem about the lives
of the saints

Drama fused
the linkage of a
flower with the
breaking of stones
a steel toed shoe crushes
pebbles into the hot asphalt
That is you and me down there,
flattened to gossamer perfection,
over a lifetime and into the next,
pancakelike

bridget on the
bridge with
patrick, their
lives entwined like
a tomb of grace,
a resurrection of
possibilities
throw arms around
the fruit of our loving
amid the lowing of
cattle
death is nothing to fear
life is a thing to rejoice in
god is everywhere
most of all in our lungs.

Thus I will bless you throughout my life,
and raise my hands in prayer to your name;
my soul will be filled as if by rich food,
and my mouth will sing your praises and rejoice

Stone
Bone
Work weary
Soiled chasuble
Tired of these
Stone words,
Rejoin the bone dance
With mutters of
Inattention
Talking to oneself
One talks to the thousand others
One is over a thousand
Seconds
Namedrop
Words
Tears
  Willow fronds burn

This is my offering
lacking palms, lacking
Peace