Sunday, October 10, 2010

Splendor In The Grass Glory In The Flower

"The Tree"

it is a mark of
our poverty
that we flee the act of
placing words on this here this earthly emanating goldly skyward
fearing too many tropes have stuck on it
how many layers
since that earliest sin-filled garden tale
by now it is the world’s thickest palimpsest

so what should we do this autumn morning
chill licking our fingers ears
and camera shutter barely clicking
as we see
its sharp intensity
bending our sense
of what today
is new

Friday, October 8, 2010

"In The Land Without Adjectives"

in the fall the King
forbade all adjectives from
to any stone or growing flowing thing

the grove had to own the shade or hue
could not be it
or seem
and you
also could not slide
thoughtlessly into that nuance so much fancied then
but had
to swallow quick
and say

Thursday, October 7, 2010

"Which Of These Scrambled Words"

which of these scrambled words is least like the others
burbles the airplane magazine game page
do you mean
which of the words is least like anything at all
which of them is variously floating
in mind space

black chemical ink on cellulose fiber with a light slick coating
so that the printed airline logo gleams
at 32,000 feet
while that particular word over there
and this one over here
actually those physical objects
of black and cellulose
are hurtling along with us and our steel tube
trying to attain our spot of desire

what would be these words’ desires I wonder
do they even have them
basically squiggles impressed on the page
no meaning at all
if you come from Cefalu
and are being accustomed
to different squiggles entirely
the meaning
whatever it is
seems to be a link
kind of like an electric arc
from our mind
to the squiggle

these two things are glued together spiritwise
and that spirit-glue
is also
along with us
at one hundred kilometers per minute
to Miami International Airport

"You Just Can't Get Some Things"

you just can’t get some things sometimes
or sometimes any time
eluding us
they lie in their homes
in their home lands
when we write their latitudes and longitudes
the digits slide off the page
nests of sapphires rubies emeralds opalines
shaded far away
by acanthus leaves
washed by what seem to us inchoate speaking airs
tongues lavishing unintelligible complexities
on their ellipsoid shapes

you go into a store shopping bag in hand
looking over the rutabagas and such
loaves of bread made of grains and sand
blended with a bit of water and thirst
you feel
vaguely absent
not quite forlorn
is this what we were made for?