spoliations
--by Joel Chace
snow
was there a time before the wind the whiteness the cold was there a summit was there a voice calling me home was there a time before the sled the runners the long hill was there a time when I wanted anything else
upstate
don't kid yourself purple white graywhite blue yellow black don't a basketball that grimes hands and bounces crazy off every goddamn gray little black knob of ice to walk over the bridge home through purple air smelling feeling white but below there's the steady the fast rumble roar of the river slow and black don't kid if any streetlight throws a pool of yellow white slants across white swirls flakes down into slow steady black on the gray lawns blue fretful patches cast out through quivering yellow glass then sucked back then thrown flickering again over gray different parts but steady gray don't kid yourself . how anyway grimy black crazy gray little knobs that bounce it every way but right but up how can you play it right but don't kid yourself rushing black roars and sucks slants swirls of white into itself its steady self it's all happening out there don't in the purple air kid not to care that gloveless hands are stinging grimy ice the color of backstreet lawns blue flickering all over them much later in the purple hush streetlight yellow pool only one leaning shoulder against pole and not seeing white flaking slanting but waiting for its coming through the purple air the news to be dumped at his feet early delivery . has come and keeps on coming don't kid yourself steady coming goddamnit in with purple twilight wavering in it cold mountain knobs not goddamn majestic but darker purple but darker yet the bare black quills of trees all of it can sting that's no news especially on the back streets flickering steady kid blue all of it can yellow don't kid yellow no news isn't news gray on the backstreets is no don't news there yellow don't yellow comes gray comes black swirls white flakes white delivers itself early and late . don't delivers us all kid yourself later sooner even main with yellow pools don't is backstreet don't hands ice crazy taste smell the white all the crazy don't way home bridge over steady kid over slow rumble fast below don't kid maybe the quills quiver the flickering all over maybe with gray crazy with grime maybe with don't yellow gray purple graywhite with steady yourself black swallowing white all over the place all the time no news don't maybe maybe kid yourself
s old
now to cover the old ter rain again stomping grounds to dust rumple stilt skin foot through the floorboard to death too late for incan descence nice work if you can get it but screw it over rated dust in the moats rain in the memory rage in the drainspouts death flurrying in the air this bum sits in the parlor he ruined no shoes rode no rails to find a place in the sun too-late-words wet April snow treacherous macadam sky meta sta sized bodi less voices drifting in upper layers of walled in air all night they could have given our names away dream door that's an other that will no long er o pen terra in firm a no dou bt u sed u p p ain stays ma inly in the p lain t the fat lap dog finding no lap uses sun on the parlor rug to nap baby grand ed dying chipped-ivory melo dies across his chee ks stepping through a ny door way the qu al ity of a ir o dor sh a dow li ght c hang es sh if ts a mi nor th ird or on ly a ha lf s te p but that was the o ld dre am this bum grew up in but not a way dea th' s in th e du st mo t e s the parlor window bleeds sunlight through lace death's all the rage never any people in the old dreams but they were always in the shimmerings and textures of the rooms in the reign of dust mote kaleidoscopes those ra ining columns of light the wages of death is n't he's the son who grew up in but not away from the sun wage wage a gain st the and that sunlight bled through lace imitates its elf acro ss the d og' s back the rages of kn ock knock he's the son sun st un ned but st ill the one who 's cou nt ed on come again some aren 't you s up posed to s ay no other place where idleness is he's already had the new dream great fields of cow-corn advance right to the doors sway ag ainst the o ut er walls i t's a ll th e w age place where id le ne ss is ca st s o gently a nd so dee p to say wh o 's there leaves caress the attic wind ows and out there too his gr and father leans and calls and the rain it of death i sn 't is my na me s o cl ose bu t leans and calls for ever are you there are you the re ar e you d y ing o f the w ight late-saying so d raining e very d ay so gently and so deep
the subject
is I (understood) on the cutting edge of grammar so much more personal than the you (obsolete) version it's the hip way to tell it all definitely global most assuredly new millenium and the story is this...came home late from work again...sat on the patio with grill and gin...found no help there...laid the gun's barrel along the tongue...pulled the trigger...felt once more the blast but no change...figured out (finally) what had happened to...
stand up comedy
wanting to know if there are any real nails taking its silly webbed feet in there wanting to know where the grapes are stored second language second sight is the bartender tender everything that rolls off its back second day third day so dimly lit and dangerous everything that collects in its silly webbed feet GOT ANY GRAPES can't blame wanting to know if the nails are real picturing dark back rooms of the establishment GOT ANY GRAPES picturing webbed feet nailed to the floor knowing full well where the grapes are stored the bartender is certainly not GOT ANY GRAPES large and pesky heart of charity discovering the city's other ponds darkness insults threats and glares GOT ANY NAILS NO waiting a day but only one GOT ANY GRAPES sweet juice spraying against the palate picturing dazzlement of the dark back rooms directing again its silly webbed feet sweet juice for itself compassionate tender pest sweet juice for others of its kind waiting a day but only one knowing where the grapes are stored knowing the nails might any day be real
a decorative hermit
they said not too deep not too chill after all it's our will stick burrs in your hair bare your flanks enlighten us with darkness prick us with fright-quills remember whose till it is after all that's the stuff old weedy say your lines and dream on your own time for starters pretend you're a couple of hundred years old keep in mind it's our flair for theater you're banking on trawl old troll for pro- fundities chilled like fruit of the vine we want runes not moons not ru- ins you're not paid to dream . . . so on my own time I've dreamed though hired to hide myself loudly with wings on my earlobes warts on my nose I'm their poor whacked weed out of mind and barely out of sight oh their after-cognac ramblings for- nication in the arbors yet the leaves need raking from the ivy banks oh the rows of green the broken garden gate they want their grapes and to suck them too oh the patch of weeds grown specially for me the oracular tuft where I park my bought buttocks and give them runes draped with ivy blanket- ed with leaves . . . they say beware beware he's somewhere there he'll swear then swear we live within the lair of darkness and of cold oh do we dare venture close to that snare of prophecies . . . POCKETS FULL OF BLOOD I call them POCKETS FULL OF BONES RED IN TEETH AND FINGERNAILS RED FLECKS OF GRAPES RED TONGUES TIME TO PAY I say THE VIPER I'M THE WAY I say YOUR WORLD BENDS UNDER A VEIN AND A DIMPLE NOT WITH A FANG BUT A PIMPLE OH YOUR SUNSET LEISURE-RAMBLES MY RAVES OF ICE WITH WINGS ON MY EARLOBES AND WARTS ON MY NOSE I HIDE MYSELF LOUDLY WHERE YOUR NURTURED WEED GROWS . . . they said I'm paid not to dream so on my own time I've dreamed of the day of the monster only they can recognize the night-beast I've kept at bay . . . but I've also dreamed that they will waken the coldest winter morning and will be no more afraid they will walk through the broken gate glide along the garden paths find blank as the moon my frozen carcass they will strew it with their smiles then live forever
out
so far it's in so far so very far it's very in ********** of the shadows of a dream stepped so far ********** -ward very far bound for glory ward so very far in -side the state -bound ********** -doors of the mouths -cast doors will cast the shadows that swallow mouths ********** for the territory light light in the cold of the blue ********** -law of sight of mind -shine the sun ********** of sorts the window -post so very far of danger ********** -rageous -source the source rage's wellspring of whack of luck of tune ********** of the frying pan -shine -cast the fire of those shunned -shines the sun -bound for glory for beulah land those -landish bound through rage's fiery wellspring ********** farther than the others who have stepped so far too far stepped to the state farther than the others so very in force -last the others for the territory under the stars light light of reach ********** of uniform -moded -foxed of money of the limelight of stock -worn of style of position of sync of line of sequence -voted -manned -gunned of the loop -house of history ********** -patients of history farther than all the others who have stepped too to the state the -patients of history -come the -come of patience the -come is -right rage ********** -post in the cold of joint of the shell of the past of the blue ********** -post the window -doors of the -house of history -flows of the mouths of those who are -casts shadows those blessed wellsprings under the stars ********** -laws in the cold -casts coming of nowhere of the blue of nowhere of the past of the -house of history of time just in time just just in time of a long dream just in time to ward off to state of the blue of their own mouths -bound just for the sun for the air for glory for beulah land so far now it's in so very far it's very in
letter --from & for Ted Enslin
from a locus which may or may not perhaps it's just an old man's something of value whatever that may be if some of our contemporaries from a mine maybe Keats understood it best in 'the poetry of earth' the locus is of value I sometimes wonder if from a mine which may or may not turn up something perhaps it's just astigmatism have forgotten this or may not turn up something of value the locus is and maybe Keats from a mine if some of our contemporaries have 'is never dead' I think I try I sometimes wonder just an old man's astigmatism try to write from a and maybe Keats understood whatever that may be the 'poetry of earth is never dead'
Credits
"snow"--originally published in PyroWords. "upstate"--originally published in Lynx. "s old"--originally published in Potepoetzineseven. "the subject"--originally published in Three Candles. "stand up comedy"--originally published in Pith. "a decorative hermit"--originally published in Mind Fire Poetry Journal. "out" & "letter"--originally published in Veer.