Sunday, June 23, 2013



O come on now, you can bend space and time
more imaginatively than that when you’re
intense enough to sway the light with a glance
of your gravitational eyes. No iris in the eye
of the fire that burns invisibly all around you,
why blindfold yourself with rainbows
or paint the snail tracks of the stars on your eyelids,
as if glowing in the dark like the last window at night
to go out, were the same as lighting it up
like the Pleiades on a cold, winter evening when
you feel the stillness in the heart of time
even as it passes like crows across your lunar eyes
and everything seems like the echo of an abysmal silence
tuning the mind where the roads divide
to the tines of a snake’s tongue witching for fire?

You can put contact lenses on your retina
or replace your corneas with razor-sharp lasers,
and flavour the light like a lifesaver you’ve been
sucking on until it’s thinner than the thin ice
of the cataracts you’ve been walking on
like stained-glass windows. Hard rock, or good soil,
if a visual image sprouts roots it blooms
into a symbolic visionary with low-hanging fruits
like buckets from the boughs of a woman returning
from a well to water your mirages with a taste
of the real thing that can’t be divined by defining it.

The immensities of the universe aren’t measured
by the golden yardsticks of the telescopes
you point at it like artillery aiming through
a spider mount trained on superclusters of fireflies
crazed in a cult of light like gnats in the air at dusk.
Show me your starmaps. Show me the sundials
of your clockdrives, the six on the floor red shift
of your spectral speedometers laying rubber on the road
like the wavelengths of blacksnakes swimming like rain on asphalt.

I don’t want to read about the cliches that bond you
to your inlaws at Christmas like a high school home chemistry set
you’ve been fiddling with like a spare-time terrorist
who looks at the sky like fireworks at Halloween
masked like God by the screening myths of your culpable origins.
A genie can tell whether you love it or not
by the way you caress the lamp, and the camera
you summon like a photogenic muse to capture
reality like a firefly in a digital Mason jar
as if there were no other interpretation available
to the comparative passports you hand out
like Ellis Island to homeless refugees on the thresholds
of your borderlands, because you’re afraid
of crossing your own event horizons into the black holes
in the rhetorical arguments you propose
for blood-testing everybody’s homogeneity
to make sure their aesthetic sensibilities are consonant
with yours. Ensure they release the same dopamines as you do
when you see a drop of blood like the tear of a rose,
and what pierces your heart as the water turns into wine,
isn’t the simple beauty of it, but the enigma of its thorns.

And right away, I can tell, by the way your eyes
emerge from the darkness like stars and lamp posts
you suppose there’s some hidden secret
in the occult poetic arcana of the crazy and wise
you can seize upon like a shepherdess of wolves
while the sheep are howling at the moon in their sleep.
Some nightsea of a dark jewel that’s never
been touched by the light before like an unused eye
you’re swimming through for your life,
squalls of stars in your wake like the dust of the roads
behind you. No rudder. No sail. No anchor on your lifeboat.

All that iridescent, thin-skinned buoyancy of spirit
that leads you around like a seeing-eye dog
a blind lighthouse that caught a glimpse of two wavelengths
copulating to heal themselves like a winged caduceus
on the axis of a prayer wheel. You’re an angel
with a flaming sword outside the gates of Eden
and you’re trying to master the skills of dragons
older than fire, you’re trying to steal the moon
from the window and get away with it like an eclipse.

More power to you. That’s what I say. Let it rip
like a ticket to ride you got for parking it somewhere
for too long with the windows closed,
and an Egyptian dog-god inside dying to get out
and lap like a waterwheel at the reflection of its own mirage
among the stars, Alnilam, Alnitak, and Mintaka
in the belt of Orion, Osiris at heel like a hunting dog
chained to the chase beyond the stargates
of time shining down upon the earth for once
as if, brighter than light, it revealed more
in one sacred syllable of a nightbird urgently alone
in the woods on the broken masthead of a battered pine,
calling out to others like echoes of the same silence
the hills answer as if they were talking in their sleep
about all the stars that have drowned like flashbacks
in the housewells of the waters of life piped like bad music
through the tear ducts of your underwhelming eyes.

I’m trying to be as kind a scalpel about this as
I possibly can. Forgive the nick of the incision
that’s trying to free you from you. I just don’t see the point
of constructing poems like dams to hold back a sunami of dew.


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