Tuesday, July 10, 2012



Even in spring, the night is old, and the rising moon, fool’s gold.
Maybe I’ll go on believing this darkness is the harbinger of light,
and even if life be proven random and absurd
there is still beauty and significance in the word that says so. These days, aging,
love is elusive
as the abandoned heart grows crude and abusive
and mistakes that were made and never mastered
return like the last word of a parting sleight that chilled the stars.

Within me the wines of being still dream of becoming blood,
and there are still angels in the mud trying to fashion a man
whose life is more than a passion of decay. Forsaken as folly
the dark clarity of the holy, I am yet a candle and a planet
that runs before the sun. More time behind me than ahead,
and the silence sadder for all the things that were said,
tonight I remember friends and lovers who once burned
with all the insatiable fury of life to be wonderful, wild, and free,
extraordinary in the turmoil of eternity,
and I bless the light by which they lived
through blossom, leaf, and fruit back to the deep root
that makes apples of the rain. Human, they were worth their fate in pain
now that none of us can live those days again. And though
it’s hard to dispute that life is a house on fire where you can’t stay long,
there are harps of night and voices and soft winds
that even the stars have not fingered to commemorate
the faces and places where we lingered awhile
to explore the immensity of a vagrant smile
that opened like a gate and a garden
or fell through the bars of our mortality like a file. From those
who were wounded by the furious rose of my youth, who were lashed
by the sudden squalls of an afflicted heart, I ask pardon
for the nights their eyelids closed like scars and offer
this silver herb of the moon they watered with their tears
until something grew in the salted soil of those punishing years.
Though late, I lay it gently on the stairs I’ve descended ever since
like a star reflected on water or a face in the black mirror
that never lost its innocence. It was the light that fell,
not the darkness that everyone is convinced is hell, the dove, not the crow
that plummeted below. But that’s a sail for another horizon
to keep its eyes on. The moon takes refuge in the window,
a stone swan rippling the dirty winter glass, the eyes of an old man,
the ruses of time, thawing to let it pass. More mercy
in the righteous fire of the forgiving liar
that tells himself that he is still young
than in all the grime of proven facts
vented from the chimney-mouth into the night
like refugees or fingers of smoke reaching for something they’ll never grasp.

And are my enemies satisfied, and the women who came and went,
ingots of hot honey poured into the mould of my bones
that formed them into roses and knives and keys to mysterious doors,
thresholds of pain and joy, dark and light, mountains and valleys
that led me like a stream down from my idealistic heights
to the great seas of being that encompass
the enchanted dream of this island seeing? I was a poor student
of the solitude they tried to teach me, but at this remove,
knowing what I know of love and agony,
I offer them my gratitude, and making a sword of the hour-hand
that once slashed at my heart
lay it gently in the wound that never healed, believing at last,
slow but thorough, I understand. They were the dark masters
of a lost art that bronzed the plaster cast of my spine
and long since all the blood and tears that were spilled have turned into wine
and all that was killed has risen again like a forest, like a green phoenix
out of this igneous delirium of time.
I was the first draft of a shadow I read to the blind.

Too early to make my peace, too late not to desire ease
and freedom from the long calling of my intensities,
the hollow of this blue guitar, this abundant emptiness
is crossed by power lines
attuned to the hidden harmony of heretical black stars
that have formed a constellation of their own on the back of my eyes,
and there is a name for it, not said by anyone,
not even the wise. And only the dead and children can see it rise.




Everywhere I go
I am buckled by sorrows
weeping like executioners
in hooded doorways
for the harvest of doves
they’ve bloodied
with their smiles,
for the ruined roses
that stain the hospital gowns
of soft-spoken guillotines.

And when I ask
for the address
of a rumour of joy
that might risk
a cameo appearance in my heart,
I am caught in the traffic jam
of an outdoor movie
that is just another rerun
of misunderstood butterflies
draped in spider-webs.

And the restaurants are full
of lunar refugees
confessing the names of God
on a rosary of skulls
spooled from the mass graves
of irreversible exterminations;
and on the highways,
drug-soaked children,
famous among milk-cartons,
running from rescue
all the way to Calgary
with Eldorado serial killers
in cowboy hats.

I do not think I was born
to be happier
than any other man,
nor dance with rivers all my life
under the chandeliers
of waltzing willows,
I am content
to let the autumn stars
sugar the apples
and the wines of life
that have dreamed so long
of mystic bloodstreams
wake up from their coma
of midnight suns
to flirt with the morning curtains,
but everywhere I ask for water,
the odour of dogs
rotting in stairwells,
virulent mothers
blistering coke in baby spoons
and lonely adolescents
picking at the scabs
of their showcase labels
like empty whiskey bottles
cruising for flowers
on emergency fire-escapes.

And how could I ignore
the inconsolable clowns
in convulsions of grief,
and the reptilian angel-slayers
that rise from the depths
like snapping turtles
to unfeather the stupefied swans
as if they tore
the pages out of a book,
dragging the clouds down
into the hot mud
of ambiguous bottom feeders?
Everywhere the air
grows tumescent
on the yeasts of grief
and the planet groans
like a death-cart
full of starfish, full
of fractured wish-bones,
full of the severed hands
of TV amputees.

And I want to pay the late fees
on the lightning that struck
the horns of the snail
like a war-crime, I want
to green the emeralds again
that were bleached in a flash
by the physics of food, my heart
burns to proclaim to the tribunals
that reek of thick colognes
and pounds of atrocious innocence,
that humans were born
to see and be amazed,
that there are still plants
in the scalded jungles
that will come forward
like shy cures, and golden salamanders
that will give us back our legs and arms,
that we’re not just a necropolis
of flesh-eating bacteria,
that there are truths and beauties
and ethics of water
that aren’t just triumphal marches
under the arches of our vertebrae,
that there are gods at work
like tender waterlilies
transforming the swamp,
turning the shit back
into intimate constellations
that won’t dwarf the night
with staggering distances
or runt the wonder
of our brevity
with the unattainable radiance
of reversible wedding gowns.

I want to make it all better,
breeze the pain
with blue-eyed summers
from a cedar hope chest,
appease the hungry
with mountains of bread
ored from miraculous grains,
talk the bridges down
from their keystone suicides
by showing them what’s needed
to get to the other side;
do everything I can
to grant immunity
to the bloodbank
that cries constantly
under my window at night
for braver transfusions,
give up an eye if I must
to defray the cost
of blind justice,
do whatever it takes
to prune the hazardous stars
from the razorwire crowns
of our unexempted suffering.

But everywhere I go,
roadkill redirecting traffic,
arsonists in volunteer fire brigades
pissing on a field that’s burning,
closet terrorists in uniformed bomb squads,
defusing suspect shopping-malls,
computer-generated humans
mechanizing the rights of man,
soldiers safer in the army
than children in their beds,
leaders following the followers
in climacterics of lemmings,
the rich bitching the poor
are the reason they suffer,
deviants preaching deliverance
to delinquents on their knees,
free markets enslaving nations
to brand-names on demand,
banks robbing the wretched
to give to those with more,
genocide on probation
while murder goes to jail,
excellence cowed by fools
when ignorance runs in schools,
doctors despising health
as an obstacle to wealth:

anyway, you get the picture.
When the fleas
train the tigers
to jump through fire
and the crows
coach the hawks
to look for silver,
or the avalanche
tells the mountain
where to stand
for a photo-op,
even if you feel,
even if the heart
bleeds like a blackberry
punctured by thorns,
and you’re up
to your neck
in a starless tar pit
darker than night,
and the bombs fall
like meteors like
the foundation stones
of crystal palaces,
is there a point
a pebble
an afterlife under
these quicksand pyramids,
these deserts in an hourglass,
this crack in the dawn
to build another world upon?