HIEROPHANT
Automatic is a sentence
from a past conversation
without a future
language is atmospheric
and a stone
thrown from the irrelevant
to the real
There is only this season
and the missing pomegranate seeds
the myth of childhood happiness
and water dreams
for the body is an instrument
Lost children are really not lost
in the woods
you come upon an enthusiast
her name is a labyrinth
she will affix petals to your lips
saying "bad magic is a false tooth
bearing bad blood to your heart."
no bramble of myrtle .....
The lost child in the grimm forest
The body is a compass made of cork
and a pin floating in a glass bowl
THE LOCKET
Here is the ashtray and here
the plastic cup of cool water.
And here is the known world.
As fingers duplicate the event
of hunger. Get up. Go
to the division of various
stories and look for the naked
man beneath the stream be-
hind the house. The same
house that I does not inhabit.
The car is there. The letters
are there. And this street
leads to no particular day.
The way home remains
a mystery to those who are
looking. How else recover
what otherwise is. Lost
to the open. Space between
leaves and stones. Here
also is the neighborhood.
LIFE CONTINUES
Life continues while the telephone intersects continuity
with another party. The day will occur with or without
your approval, though to get you on the wire and arrange
a meeting is sunny. A forecast of hope has provided
excitement this afternoon. No, a forecast of excitement
has provided hope this afternoon.
The world happens
at your doorstep. There is no method to decipher this
day. The birds and the bees are both moving geometric
patterns. To connect one plain with another horizon.
There are doors everywhere we walk and occasionally
stumble upon a carcass, which now is only a frame-the
door is ajar. This place once marked an exit. Today it is
a wall. Where is the magician of openings?
To question
the infinite is an inarticulate gnarl, better to blur at the
humidity of touching. Love, I stopped by to pitch some
woo, we walked to town in Chinese shoes. There are
doors into which we can enter, to move through this
room, indecision and terror. That the fight is blinding
over there or the darkness here is without hospitality is
beyond my calling, though limbs answer and bear solace
for a space called imaginary time. There is no measure of
year or day let alone now held in these arms. Time kept
on a clock whose hands are beautiful, to say you, here, or
there you are, is irrelevant to this field of stars. The night
yields repose of the unknown, for the physical has no
identity, is why we close our eyes when we touch one
another, and this one is felt upon the flanks of my body's
shivering and released at the nape. Only how to resolve
this face before me? Facing the horizon of my shoulders.
Bless you. The you
now here in italics, the you of the ways, you of the aqua-
marine, you with the oasis touch, you of the pandering
smile, you with a greasy heart, you lacking denouement,
you of heroic conceits, you who forgot, you who did not
awake, you who awoke and cannot forget, you of the
suicides, you with murdering hands, you of the car-
buncle gaze, you who will die, you who will not die, you
blush, you blur, you in the figure of a question mark, you
are, this you, you too and you and you and you.
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Poetry from Web Del Sol