xvi. a transfiguration (2004) — Complete Archive with Authorial Commentary

xvi. a transfiguration

# xvi. a transfiguration

a guide for the perplexed, 4/22/04

Dr. Aguirre,

A guide to the poem for you and for me. Where to start?

The spatial mapping, I have discovered, is vague because it seems that

the reader's first assumption is to think of the map as spatial. This

assumption is fundamentally wrongheaded. The deal is that the map is not

specifically spatial, but rather a spatial map of spiritual or affective

states. Each group of poems denoted by small roman numerals, to my mind,

is roughly equivalent to a point on the map. The actual events of the

poem don\'t correspond to any physical point, but to a state of being as

relative to stagnation, descent, etc..

Secondly (i feel like i\'m grabbing at straws, here) Scott Hollifield

brought up a good point about the invocation:

\"\...the invocation is stunning, but \... perhaps over-defined by its

> \"\...the invocation is stunning, but \... perhaps over-defined by its

predecessors. Follow me for a moment: We\'re summoning a 7th century

> predecessors. Follow me for a moment: We\'re summoning a 7th century

Christian bard, in a Homeric style, invoking Penelope, Virgil, modern

> Christian bard, in a Homeric style, invoking Penelope, Virgil, modern

industry and depersonalization, theoretical physics, Islam, fin de

> industry and depersonalization, theoretical physics, Islam, fin de

siècle pastoral, and spiritual desolation. While all of these ideas

> siècle pastoral, and spiritual desolation. While all of these ideas

are for the most part touched upon in the body of the piece, we never

> are for the most part touched upon in the body of the piece, we never

get a clear sense (even in the abstract) how all these things are

> get a clear sense (even in the abstract) how all these things are

collected into shrinking space, pressurized, and exploded into

> collected into shrinking space, pressurized, and exploded into

Revelation.\"

> Revelation.\"

The invocation was simply, at the time, a plea for the inner forces to

be funneled through the instruments of poetry: an earnest need to be

filtered through the substance of what all these touch on. The reference

to Mohamadden angels was not a reference to Islam, but rather to

Ginsberg\'s \"Howl\". I guess it was a plea for the poem to take its

place. I don\'t know if that helps or not, or makes the invocation any

more or less appropriate, or how\... I guess I feel like I have no

responsibility to deal with the specific names/concepts in the body

because I was not shooting at them, specifically, but rather at their

spirit, their redemptive value, their poetry.

Secondly second, something that I haven\'t entirely digested yet, nor

was I holding up as a frame of reference when pounding out the latest

structure (neglectful of me), is the struggle between order and chaos,

day and night. There are recurring motifs of day and night as specific

entities in the poem: night as a time of passion, emotion, longing,

undefined borders, gray space: a place lacking time or substance, held

up against the day, specifically first daybreak, the sun on the horizon

(which, by the way, comes from the Greek word for limits - terribly

fitting): a time of borders, restraints, definition\-\--

There is a constant struggle within the poem (and in my life, I imagine)

to bring the viscera of the night into the day - to capture it, to trap

it, to crystallize it - to pin it to the sky like a sick dead bug for

all to see and science to profit from \-- to hold it still inside the

horizon, to give it definition and borders and boundaries so that it can

be examined. So. Check it out when you\'re reading. I haven\'t checked

thoroughly, but i imagine this representation is fairly constant in the

poem, and in some ways the poem could be charted as this journey - the

struggle to bring the night into the day, and eventual success - the

energy of the night \--

A classmate suggested that it was the energy of the night that destroyed

the day. Or should be, and I tend to agree. So, how to clarify that \...

the energy of the night spilling out, breaking its confinement -

destroying, culminating in the shatter - the destruction that has to

come before a new thing - the clearing away of the old debris - the

forest fire which brings new life \-\-- hopefully, in part IV, the

integrated voice. Notions of time are all tied up with day and night,

maybe just another way of talking about definition or its lack - part

III ends with the moment crucified on a clock - \"eternity moored in the

thunder / electron splits on the cool radial / quartz, millions eyes

stretch in / finite, in chains. / / a breaking place.. / / rain.\"

The third and fourth parts feel particularly unfinished and in some

parts corny to me. I don\'t know exactly what is missing from this for

the finished product, the full fruition - Rebekah completely drops out

of the already sketchy plotline, in IV, but i think that\'s fitting to

it. In fact, I\'m not sure how i feel about IV mentioning Ichabod. Stay?

Go? Also, the \"points along the map\" indicated by small roman numerals

are much less helpful, much less defined, much less meaningful as

distinctions in III and, especially, IV.

I don\'t know if any of this is helpful to you as a guide or as an

insight, but here it is. Your critical / theoretical / practical eyes, I

hope, I expect, will be extremely helpful to me in this.

Looking forward to working with you on this project,

Matt

. , ; i I

a transfiguration

a love poem must be

made, there is nothing

darker or

lighter, more casually

fatal or

filling.

\[insert map here\]

an invocation

Caedmon, sing me creation-

Caedmon, sing me a dream -

sing me Penelope-sky, pomegranate

October, sing me Calypso-free,

sing me the apple in the garden,

Caedmon, sing me Virgil, sing me

Grendel swamp-home, sing me the sky,

sing me air, perpetual earth twilight Caedmon, Caedmon,

sing me free.

Caedmon, sing me rhododendron,

industry, but if you must, an engine,

Caedmon, sing me coals when the steam

escapes - trains, Caedmon, sing me

rocketing gray monsters - sing me the deep,

sing me the sky -

sing me Mohammedan angels,

the shape of things, a fractal-

O Caedmon sing me mathematics if you must but

sing me, sing me,

winter daisies, summer, white cotton dresses,

Caedmon, Caedmon,

sing me a song;

my veins are well-emptied,

my faith is well-gone.

I. Purgatorio:

an Echo

hqbr

from an unused root probably meaning to clog by tying up the fetlock.

Rebekah \"ensnarer\"

i.

a charcoal sketch

against the background rabbit:

Ichabod in a top hat, a crane

in the distance

on the city skyline. He ducks

beneath doorframe and shakes

the rain from his tuxedo.

skeleton jack, he lets

slack jaws slip

around a grin and pull his lips

back from the chin where

ivory elephant claws expose. In white

tuxedo clothes, he whistles.

Face framed in the fog,

one red rose in hand, he

rings the bell for Rebekah

and quickly

up the staircase

ascends.

ii.

The sky spreads

for the plasticked

pink sun to rise

and rise and

penetrate

flat chastity's

horizon.

The red blood runs

and the morning

East

becomes.

i.

Ichabod,

you've caught me

off guarded in the alley,

pawing through the dumpsters,

begging for a name.

Ichabod, Ichabod,

lost in / lotus / petals / pulled / apart / by

rain-

in my eyes the look is ravaged by dull hammers;

veins

are emptied in same manner.

Ichabod,

some dim

honesty

beats

between

your ribs.

i.

the city

stretches over

her cradle, sheltering

pale bodies

from wind.

ii.

when the soft rain

laps

at lashes

and wipers

push

at the window,

the rhythmic

thump

of the motor

lulls everything

to sleep and the empty

streets

spread

like the heart\'s

veins

over all

dim alleys

inside me,

you wait.

iii.

he is everything

i can\'t say, all the

body language

which escapes.

iv.

he is the cool

palm on the cheek

and the line

of the jaw

in the fingers.

v.

he is all the leaves

when the

unnoticed

wind scatters

and the trees

weep

without structure..

i.

I shade your eyes from the silence,\

i can feel\

the cloud brushing over the sun,\

lashes brushing against my skin,\

know you\'re speaking underneath.\

\

you speak with your eyes, laugh\

but it\'s true, i remember\

every silent car trip, whole states passing,

nerves aching

for the sound of words you couldn\'t give.

ii.

under birch arms,

which grapple with the neighborhood ceiling,

she touched his shoulder,

in the stretching shadow,

winter leafless,

driving aimlessly; they'd lived midnight for

a minute,

a half;

were now

well past

conversation,

steeped in the shadows

where language won't reach -

o destiny, destiny,

dark in the derelict Hollows,

both of them,

blinded,

muted,

dumb.

i.

In a Chinese snow,

in a toothpick forest,

your angel

is frozen beneath the glacier.

beneath the lizard\'s footprints I

am cupping the soot to my face,

am smearing the ash on cracked cheeks.

This ponderous shoe has

passed you over.

Godzilla has lost her children,

the earth\'s tears are a warm eruption.

volcanoes are flowering

in the nuclear sun.

the ice is melting there.

your angel

is a matted shadow in the grass.

ii.

her dress becomes the folded street

and her hair

is the birds

in the leafless trees.

she scatters with a thousand leaves

which burn

away from me.

through the city\'s

dark clouds

and its jagged canopy

of heaven.

the rain falls

while i gather it up.

i.

You write to me

out of a postcard, silent

and distant and suggestive,

like the rain.

You talk about all the

casual things, family

and school and Salvation,

(I can see you, waving

your hand like a banner, eyes

unfocused, dreaming

of a far-off shadow.)

I don't know why,

but I know

we might not

believe

in quite

the same way.

I am torn

between hanging my head

in shame

or shaking it.

When I fell in love, I

was the Underdressed.

You were the good boy and I

was just fine with that.

I want you to know that I

gave up that life,

and it wasn't for you.

But sometimes

I wish

it had been

for you.

I see

stark Revelations. Ruth

must have felt like this on

one day

or another.

I shred the letter and

smoke cigarettes

until the night burns away and

Dawn rises

like sullen

red

match tips on

gray

striker

sky.

i.

Rebekah sits

in the dresser with letters

and pens, pointedly

addressing the sky and the red

road dust.

Southern sky,

holy sky, sky

on the perch of the tongue.

There is something

unspoken in the silence.

She waits, pen poised,

rifling

through the heart\'s

protestations.

Shuttering her tears she

stamps the letter, shuts

the door, leaves the study

resounding, travels through

the rustling mud and

empties herself

on the seat, orders an echo

of coffee.

when she finally

leaves there is

no tip

on the table.

i.

somewhere along the journey, i turned and,

in turning, lost the way between my learnings.

when frames destroy the structure,

and camera lenses, among haunted images flutter -

there, in the artless void i stutter.

ii.

accept the fact that these

are static apparitions, disconnected

from pattern, self-propelling of

their own mutations. the structure is only

what chaos has built, and will have to

build upon / for order.

iii.

at the bottom of the cup, in the

coffee humdrums, globules

of termite paper in perched

towers of toppling

comprehension, stacked

haphazardly - -

i found a speck of the Void

and ate it.

iv.

burn

II\. Nightfall

dwbky)

a son of Phinehas, so named because of the capture of the Ark by the

Philistines

Ichabod \"inglorious\"

i.

The quarter falls

deeply in machines,

gears twist and the jukebox

lets its song go. Rebekah

slides out of her chair.

Her hair is gray with

cigarette smoke and the bar

is nearly empty, the last

drunks slither between

barstools, beats, congealed

clumps of laughter. She

marks time as it slips by

on the window;

a clock unravels and she

picks at her sleeve. The air

empties into the night and she

lights a cigarette,

inhaling

the fog of morning moths.

ii.

stepping down into the bowels,

she pays the city pennies

to enter its intestines.

iii.

The subway rattles

along its sheath,

gray windows sway

between aisles. Rebekah

lets her head sink

to her chest and presses

cool window to brow,

bleeds sweat and says, "It's really

quite blue / this December,"

to no one in particular,

fingers trapped

around the pressed

petals deep

in her pockets.

The man across

grows shiftless in the skull,

mutters the uncomfortable,

shakes the bag

for quarters.

23rd avenue approaches and

Rebekah departs, leaving

a print of oil and skin

on the window. The man

draws into himself and reads

the Times, not seeing the letters

at all / and dreaming.

i.

if your pale body drifts through the rafters and your

tattered wrists drip / on the seems of my bedclothes,

until bed is red and clothes are red and

\` I am red -- Rebekah, then,

what will I do?

Rebekah,

I hear you

thumping

on the window,

the poorest

imitation

of cattails.

ii. finger springs

brush strokes on hair crush

petals into carpet.

my feet are red with blood and roses,

my hands are black with ink.

my fingers are tight coils

of pressure

waiting for rain.

soon now, i need it to come,

my life is quietly crumbling.

iii.

i sweat

over desk

writing letters,

and the book

with its rustle,

with whispering pages,

at the binding

is broken

from thumbs

and yellowed

by the stamp

of the smoker.

i smear

blue ink

on the last chapter, where,

dog-eared,

tense,

on the brink

of conclusion -

my existence

beads

on the pen\'s tip

and i tremble

in the face

of the empty,

i bend

taut fingers

and strain

at the weight

before turning.

a distracting

wind

slips by

unhinging

dull leaves

from their color-

if these words

stay unwritten,

safe - -

i hover,

cough.

shut out

the yellow bulb and

anonymously

surrender

to sleep.

i dream

unceasing soliloquies

in shadow.

i. a dream:

the River Styx

trench coat. the beagle, black beadies and a strand

of smile in its saliva, curled lip arched

from surreptitious sniffing of hand and foot, trapped

in paralysis in chains on wall where a tickle

of water in Dungeon and the drip of some rat some /

where comes trickling along in its gutter.

it's too dark now. the noise of the Underground

River obliterates thoughts, if the beagle

were to lunge now at some / unpredictable,

scent in the fathom sharp / canine in the tenderflesh

of the stomach, the rocket / of clambering jaws

and the spine of the spider -

I step away from the wall. feel the tension

of gaping back, the tremor / of suspicion, unseen

eyes the hangover of deep depression thirst burning

in the black of the throat. No voice issues forth.

I repress the boat and the Underground

River flows. Glaciers were made in less time, the

shriek of sentience in souls / tethered

to the water. Some mad god has made

this Echo, this murmurs. Will anyone read this?

I am in / Carpel's Tunnel, the burn in the

back of the hand signals / just another American

casualty of the keyboard. when that smug

fuck asks for my quarter, I'll realize I've spent it

on sandwiches.

ii.

there was a dream once that stuttered in a pale tongue. I clasped your

hands inside my ribcage, tight there and beating. I pressed your lips to

the moment. there was a dream once; it touched the lips of God. A pale

saucer in Jupiter, your hair is a breath of winter. in silence, an Echo,

a chamber of ice. Pale melting there. once was a dream in solitude, now

trembling ice storm in your branches. stuttering sun drum, a bird on the

window.\

once there was a light there, a bar of light in brackets. there,

stuttering burst of wings on the veil of horizon. my hand, trembling for

your distance.

iii.

a dream stuck between my pale tongue,\

I clasped your hands inside the\

ribcage, tight there and beating.\

I pressed your lips in the moment.\

\

a flurry of hair in my breath,\

I darkened the ice of your\

silence, slept there and melting.\

I stormed in your sighing branches.\

\

a drum of birdsong in your feet,\

I wept at the stuttering\

window, trapped there and gasping.\

I burst through the faded wings.\

\

I press my hands to the glass and\

tremble for your sunken murmur.

i.

morning comes and he\'s written\

the same thing twice. he draws\

from the Well where\

wishes clatter and the pendulum\

rocket of prayers guns\

through the tunnel.\

\

There is\

no light at the end, but the blue\

hope of water\

is enough for the journey - to\

paw through the Russian\

Roulette scribbles aching\

for the bullet and the final\

empty rattle\

of paper on pen.\

\

sleep\

is the last thing\

to bleed\

from the ballpoint.

i.

Ichabod\'s heart beats in the bed

where he breaks with the red

red tatters of sheets held tightly

clenched to his head.

tearbeams

leak

from horizon.

ii.

he wakes;

he never slept

iii.

Ichabod,

animated by ashes,

ink,

Ichabod beats / in gray glass walls,

in neural pulse of inner halls,

a single footstep echoes, falls

in rust corridors,

dilapidated stalls.

iv.

*a crow outside my window upon first waking and remembering the night

prior. a croak of a throat and me in him, in bedclothes to the window to

see the / destruction of*

*Israel. i speaking speeches, him myself and lenore. after several

moments of silence, "*

Morning caw,

your song is a slightly whisper

above and buzz-

ing lo-

cust hum.

Undersun a-swing

in winter branch. Undersun a-

swing, a-swing,

hung

from your voice\'s noose.

i silently sing many mantras

and unwind petaled pale bed-cloths

from bone.

i snake slightly hands through the window

and peek through the blinds. underdressed in

bedpetals, barren, and sheets.

a vision of the ever-after aftermath.

i.

Rebekah\

settles down in the garden,

watches the sun stretch\

through the shadows.

a thick buzz covers petals

she picks\

in the pricks\

of the finger, the drop\

of blood on the white\

stem snapping\

like a bone, dry\

figments\

of the spring.

She saves\

one storm\

for the rose\

to outlive and\

hopefully\

watches\

for thunder.

i.

redwood

is the tall tower

which crumbles

in the forest

while leather leaves

snare the canopy

of pistons

and fingers

snake

through its branches,

lifting the sun

on thin shoulders as

a sacrifice to god

and the morning.

ii.

i climb to the horizon's summit

and am littered with trees as

stomach flies

buzz and the keen

drop's edge presses

against neck,

all

creation's mystery

trapped between eyes and the prison

bars bending,

feet

dangling inches

over the lips of gravity.

and pressure.

III\. pressure,

fragmentation

i.

Oh Bekah, Bekah,

can you redeem?

all the parallel people

have met at infinity;

up the impossible staircase

they\'ve all ascended.

i watch from the ground

and throw bottles at heaven.

Oh Bekah, Bekah,

can you redeem?

I am patch worked and ragged

and thin at the seems.

Oh Bekah, Bekah,,,

i.

Rebekah,

in fervor

waiting

the chain-link

trailing

the finger

serrated

vision a single

gull flaps

like ash in

terrestrial wind

of incinerator fire

in awe

the stacked pantheons,

tire pyramids

stretching

industry's

thin hand

to the shadow.

the dress trails

in the mud she

flecks steel

plating in the deepest

crack

of the nail.

She waits;

morning

at the harbor, the barges silent,

sad,

and impassive.

ii.

empty cross. on the lawn. gate swings

creaky in wind tongues. inked like the

black that frames it, the night a pen

holds at bay through December.

when the time comes it will come darkly,

standing knee-deep

in your knowledge of suffering.

benignly transformed.

i.

the mad professor, disarrayed in

muscle tremors, scattered

between the static of dream\--

indefinite chains of gray -

the sad-wise demoniac

stretches

his fingers / over pale / empty eyes,

whispers

the thrill

of the black

and the white -

chessmen

fall

with an untimed

rattle / of matchsticks,

beating their chests

in the winter fossil,

quoting the gods

in the omens

and their spears

in the battle -

all speak the same,

\'dreamless gray

is king,

dreamless\...\'

(Meanwhile,

the morning bird

at all bedroom windows

cries -

\'the colors I sing,

the\...\'

ii\.

He is tired -

he\'s been

for weeks

underslept

and forsaken.

he wanders the fields -

by his dreams

at the last

overtaken.

sun breaks

and he is / clay angel,

stretched out

at the feet

of the desert,

skewered, exuberant, tangled --

ii. a Trailer Park Altar

the opaque sphere swallows like teeth of a bird.

the tense scribbling of stairs in the canister

of heaven, raking tense / bristles the sky.

the cigarette shifts hands. it's uncomfortable,

muttering, using / the same words.

three raps in quick succession.

the nest twigs burn in blue

sulfur flashes and the misspellings of Egg

hatch thin things in the uneasy

light of the trailer park. Dark shifting

of stars uncovers blankets and haphazard

housewives (hair of snakes, hair of

delirium) tremens into the pale concrete

of the moon and sink / in its tranquility,

the Mad Jealous Husband sleeps heavy the

trench of the bottle's bottom restless on

the feet of the couch, TV static grimly

announces the nothing of the hour. I watch

from the tree and spit / the flak

of the cannon, atom bombs on the dilated

Time of horizon. these housewives / are the

undead heels of the night; I wait as they clamber

the ziggurat, voices / joined together

the chant / on the stack of the altar

i.

Adonai,

come softly, quickly,

burning through the branches.

midnight looms like

monolith.

your sad

sulfuric face groans

in the clock tower,

pinned to the square

by its feet.

the horsemen

wake

in the alley.

you stretch,

where you proceed by the second

into dark shadow death,

gears

ticking

the incalculable.

i.

Ichabod\'s ghost, like a spider

in the pale web of sky scrapers,

his voice in the scuttle

beneath midnight ashes.

in alley trash heaps, the burning

bar of wrist which bleeds

while he reads the signs

in the stars

and neon masses.

the horsemen approach

and he watches,

tuxedo

tails rest

in trailer park dirt

accumulating dust

and red static.

i.

Rebekah waits at the bridge

for morning to break

on the wet tracks.

she picks her way

over shards of glass

to the water

where she watches her face

with the dying Star.

\"You are a flower in the night, perched

on a thousand lips,

a thousand ledges: everywhere

the light lands, I see your folded face.

If I could gather you,

to burn in the mouth of the hand\'s cup,

reach you with a hint of the hand\'s speech..\"

and, unwilled, an arm snakes

into the water where it shatters,

where it shatters glass reflections, Rebekah gasping -

\"what is the-\"

the train replies in tin distance,

penetrating skyline; Grim monster

rattling momentum on gathered

splotches of gray hills spilled in distance,

whistle trilled in distance,

whale song whisper filling distance.

Single eyed cyclops of neon stumbles

through the wine-dark tracks, growing

blind in the night and

painful in watering eardrums.

\"Oh morning come, oh -\"

ii.

Ichabod ferments in the shed for days\

without vodka, drinking cold lifeless light of\

Ketel Drum, of five-o-clock, counting pitch-black\

minutes in a bitter ambition to suicide, hiding\

the desperate left-hand from the right, encompassed\

by inspiration at midnight unhanging\

shotgun from rack: a last-ditch\

madness across parliament steps puking\

bullets at heaven, rattling redemption\

on neighbors' lawns fear\

finally gone, knowing somehow\

intuitively that God\

is unprepared\

for a showdown.

\*

tossed about on the concrete,

rent by the city\'s aqueducts in

two,

in two,

underneath sky groping

at braille dots in blackness,

i swallow

several stars

while waiting.

iii.

beyond redemption arcing / the circle's inner edge\

the circuit's lip limbs / tangled, the thrust of anxiety\

\

a hesitation. all is lost for looking and an eye\

tears to the earth in / heaven's vacuum, a spacesuit\

\

crumbles seals / hiss to be broken, for shame the vision\

curls itself in cracks / the pressure presses, pressurizes a\

\

flurry of lips thousands / of the scurrying leg: judgment\

falls / on the fallen wings / of Babel.

language is lost.

i.

The world stops.

A breath in the window

settles itself on the branch,

she reaches

for the handle

and the world

rips itself

into shreds.

She holds her breath.

i.

one day, i'm sure,

your face will return to me,

unknown for a decade in dream.

a thousand years,

no further.

your slightest whisper walks back to me.

ii.

Darkness descends on the anthill of twisted limbs and wind\

from the mountain howls (titanium mountain, nuclear\

\

mountain, mountain made of the sun) -- the splintered\

ground groans with the birth of new fissures, capillary\

\

cracks spread and the thin hand of mutters\

asserts itself in the strangle, a groan of unnamed\

\

earth gears strain to stretch through the heaving\

iron, ore of steel, silver, quartz unsettles itself\

\

from the ashen mantle of Earth -- somewhere\

on the shifting continents soot / bleeds into the meteor,\

\

smoldering springs from soil and smears / in hollows of eyes,\

the unnamed / stir a restless / gathering of motion, the sun\

\

screams free, snaps / the pink tendons of sky,\

a new night / is born and the firmament / howls with suffering.\

\

a green cicada / waits in the window, we brace\

ourselves for the coming flood of plastic / sheets huddle\

in the sweat of the bedroom anthrax / will crown the Messiah.

i tread softly\

on the soft carpet, nervously\

asserting the windows, making sure

that the plants\

have been watered.

i.

Rebekah

in the boiler red

with sweat streaks,

chained to the tracks back

bent with blood, hands

gasping the sky retaliating

the cold gears which crush

and the symbols

that turn

in the stars.

a flash

of gunpowder and the igneous

shadows

dissipate; a horizon

dimpled

with thunder.

i.

camera shutters

waver and drop

into dream where:

Many white bodies, iridescent robes, shaved heads,

a piano key escalator shrinking to a pinprick in the eye\'s

dilation.

I click:

tuxedo leg crossed

pad white, pen cocked just so like a weapon.

radio waves over each head in angel wreaths,

binary thoughts heave between thin silica wires

which stretch / / and // / // /

it\'s the time between dawn in the gray mist I

click. with eyes open dream:

the Empty into which all vision filters.

ii.

in the living room meanwhile I:

stand up. sitstand. stand up sit

down. stand. touch the chair leg check watch digital

nerves on tight,

restless patter of hands, call friends family refrigerator door slam

click open crunch slam

check for the dog, dark bugs on the window night light is buzzing while

no

one is home.

There is a blank spot gnawing.

Stand silhouetted and hope out open window.

gasping for antelopes, i leave the house

touching the letter / pad stamps on the soft feet wait

for the mailman midnight cars rush vacantly one or

two

per

hour.

watch the rain fall on the leaves,

meander wind fingers,

watch for the mailman.

grab chalk.

stencil equations on concrete lawn grass

as green as her eyes.

lost in nails,

chew pencil, realize the vacant.

Raw emotions more

than the ink of December.

Check for casual winter thorns and look both ways before crossing.

Trees rush by.

iii.

the string in the labyrinth leads to this moment;

a breaking place,

let all recorders record it.

the horizon is dimmer in

verted, placed in the hand\'s cup.

drink blood drink type / writer

fluid, feel

the inkjet\'s smooth return and the carriage\'s

satisfied crash.

This clock

is a breaking place, crucified

in its center -

check watch, the arms

spread wide eternity moored in the thunder

electron

splits on the cool radial quartz,

millions eyes stretch in

finite,

in chains.

A breaking place.

Rain.

IV\. a)poka/luyiv

1\. laying bear, making naked

2\. a disclosure of truth, instruction

a\. concerning things before unknown

b\. used of events by which things or states or persons hitherto

withdrawn from view are made visible to all

2\. manifestation, appearance

i.

you knew all along the way

was cold and broken,

the stage is dusty all the actors

shiver, pale.

you knew and knew and feet

are broken, bloody,

knew and ran and won and

broke the shadows of the morning.

you knew and won, now go,

now run.

ii.

i drive all night

for dandelions.

iii.

Tomorrow the lie.

Today waits

in license plates.

I believe we will rise at the end,

victorious

and broken.

iv. at least, blinded by the light\...

destroy goddamned fairytale love it\

cannibal, it

rapist,

stealing fingers from

the hand-in-hand, the human

error -

despicable poem i

claim you.

to wrench the sad

statistics from you;

a living

sacrifice to every

burnt flower / bed,

grow the rose,

find thorns,

string bitter necklace flesh -

feel blood

feel beating,

dig with the shovel,

resurrect bones,\

build

triumphant arches with bodies

meshed.

forever.

build.

i.

I push

through the machinery,

like a miner with my silly

hard hat

in the gargantuan

elevator

shafts

of the mind.

drilling,

while the whole world

is dying

for lack

of this oil,

for the breath

of this fuel and the calm

dark flower

in pressure.

I reach

and redeem,

by any necessary

means,

by the violent drill

or the desperate,

on the slick flesh

of the beast,

many stratums

reach

miles up,

deep,

there can be

no surrender

to silence - many

miles tower, many

wide but not

so impossibly

thick.

the only way

is through.

others

have found

their way

to the center, but

it must be

always

renewed.

by any means -

the violent drill,

the desperate,

i drive

to the center

because the calm flower\'s

absence

would gray

all the colors

of morning.

i.

this is our transformation: in the midst of the fire

burning eyes unblemished,

angels of the fall, angels of ashes, angels unnamed,,

this is the value: that we, continuing, redeem

beyond redemption: salvaging the even

ashes of the fall. Diving through the wreckage:

our glory: firm in the knowledge: all lost,

and the point of salvageability, well-past -

screaming defiance at the architects, the ashes -

in the sad face of the night,

lighting our damn candles' all.

i am simply saying

the important thing / is how we walk / through the fire.

take this: a single atom, split, can cause

a dearth, destruction, or spin

a million blenders.

there may be nothing

particularly / magnanimous

about it. but.

tomorrow,

when the sun, bubbling,

thrusts itself, grunting, thick

through the shell

of the sky -

then, by God, we'll see the aftermath.

you underestimate

the will to survive

under pressure.

this, this, the redeeming value (breathless):

a bag of bones, animated atoms,

i.

your heights\

have their distance,\

voice has its silence.\

(your leaves have their season)\

\

there is no noise in your thunder;\

your softest\

rustle brings me to tears.\

seven years\

in the wind,\

there has been no time between.\

\

in your shadows i am blinded\

by the brightest light;\

your night\

has never known darkness.\

\

i owe you everything you won\'t take.\

your single penny\

has its prisons.\

\

in your breath i am born,\

(and die there) your whisper\

is all of things that shatter me.\

\

when i knew nothing,\

you were the one

who swallowed everything after.

you were the last one

to know the first inch of me.

i.

carve out a good life for children / grit your teeth and

bear it, find something / decent for god's sake in this

forsaken, find a smile even / with gray teeth, make

a worthwhile, shake your fist, stand against /

tell stories about / dog heaven, remember how

grandma laughed, get a good job find a good

neighborhood or build / a garden in the bad one,

hold onto pictures, and picture books, find an

album if you don't have one write / poems

when you don't have any money put / poems

in the gifts when you do, tell / stories

(the same ones) again and again, laugh

every time, go fishing let the / big one go don't

take self so seriously.

i.

we sing

the same simple song

of self,

the same revelation

of character.

the same story,

your story,

mine.

simply put - starting at morning,

(yesterday morning) with birdsong

burning

in the window,

i forged -\\

look, - a nothing-story, a never-there -/

for a day, a long night,

always (I'm laughing)

beginning again

with birdsong.

will you please

please

listen:

it's no sin

to forget again,

begin again,

with birdsong.

write.

ii.

all the birds chirped songs

no longer caught in headlights.

he woke from his dream,

a pleasant dream,

a fiction.

it was, of course,

a spring, and not the

winter he'd imagined.

he took

long breaths

to recollect the night and

willfully

forget.

Ichabod,

with birdsong

in red eyes and

nightmares in the pillow,

forget your sleep and

breathe..

i.

drink blood from the cup

until your lips are full,

and red,

and stained with roses.

and the rain releases in face-tracing torrent.

until the wires snap, and behind your eyes

is livid, lashing,

until the current hums electrical,

and thrashing.

until the symbols crash symphonic,

the full lips tremble;

drink wine from the veins until life expires,

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