Thursday, April 6, 2017


Bellini’s courageous horns will tell me
about that vaguely arabesque window
on North Market street
–who owns this pattern?
Memory’s dust on it
brood of the heart, it sings
in its nest, its dust

coeur’s hearty sound, the skin from
projects my finest glaze
mapping onto the grid, the vision
of thinly disguised pure color.

This window with its rosy cross,
Jerusalemate as the heart insists
finding in its beloved forms memory’s 

just follow what the words want to describe
they all go back to who

the heart sounds
from the other side
like Wagner’s knights

but its Li Puritani instead.
Never for itself, these horns
that woke me, yelling to you
something about seeing a robber
frightened to finally find myself at home.

Tuesday, April 4, 2017


I heard
cosi, thing
I want to
in the soft ground
Roses of Sharon
is how I say yes.

Cuarto creciente
but all month long
is violet. How could you
accuse me of style
while I’m still asleep.

Little flowers perk up
Siberian squill
at your presence
ink just barely dry
in the dusty tome
our mothers write.

There is effect
and nothing else;
the woods weigh less
without me in them
my science, my measure
substance intellectual
the organic contribution
us immortals make.

Your nothing and my nothing
only the skin of things
keeps us
from each other
those whirling wheels
behind the sky.

here, this thin meeting
word to be devoured
whose skin too
in the eating 
gets spoken.

This skin
my only argument
the closer
to bone
to none
the less truth

the more yielded
this lie
I am disorder
false door
of dream’s
random adventures.

“No such thing
as random”
another hexagon
has entered
the house

its schematic
a trestle-board
into this 
six-sided room

a metamorphosis
of the distances
the presider’s
in us

officiate this 
of the plant, 
where they call 
my thinking 

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

A Dante Étude

His “Greatness and Sweetness”
are the completion:
context & deliverance
of syntax within the unending sentence.
“The word aiding us from Heaven,
to be of service
to the vernacular speech.”
Symphony scintillating
from a single note

but really the “nothing” before it–
she is my demanding wife.

Between her and myself
caught in another weird threesome
poor Dante, death brings no rest
we are there still climbing up
with language for our only ladder
the very thing that keeps heaven away
with its yearning

that learns me the shifts 
of this body
to play this song.


Reflect with blessings upon the day that I took you
Love spoke, it seemed to me joyously, within my heart.
Whose heart?
Love claims to be Dante’s Master.
Who is free from the heart’s grasp? Not Love.
No thing unblessed by the shadow of this doorway,.
My mouth gives its words away. And they all mean you.

I’m anyone it’s true
and then these yous turn into me
so I keep my void accessible
with only others there
to wear my clunky moods
forgive me for all cause is pain

that never-happened thing I can’t stop remembering.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

The Procession of Hours

An elephant thinking about particle physics
of course that’s what it does what not
splashing itself with mud to ward off flies
and heat– it all says the same, no cognitive
limit besides the mistake of mind this lazy
watering hole she rolls down the street
and calls her husband. Say anything

the little bit of land we have will keep us
close to the ocean. Start talking and you’ll
find your way.

Language still compels these memories
what we really need it never forgets
my syllabic friends, my thought of you
lights your way, away, wherever we go
conscious players in a nonexistent game
so the sparrows dance around their nest
with only the light inside, the exit sign
to show their way down from the sun.

There’s no turning around to get home
that’s what’s meant by the procession
of hours, it’s for you on the path
to find dream hidden in sleep. Fall forward.

There is no way without a me
this tiny sin that stands between the light.
This too is hidden, me
a dream waiting in your sleep.
Or so it’s translated literally
from what I imagine to be Chinese
this faint light that becomes you
just strong enough to see noon. No one.
A sort of moonlight on our human books
that all speak of the river.

I guess I've noticed the theme 
is water, antidote we tell ourselves
translucent, pure flesh sliding along
thinking thinking’s syntagmatic floes
sky’s earthly body washing away the clouds.

A Bad Car Dealer sells Bad Cars
subject predicate all we ever need to know
A for Anagogy Bud Charles did tell me
it all comes back to this famous Aleph
article from which I long ago set out
walking in the wrong direction, my Hebrew
calling the names of demons.
Doing it all wrong, as usual. But still we return
li angeli che tornavan suso in ceilo
the angels twister their way back to heaven, 
a susurrus up the downward road of their backs.

Friday, March 24, 2017


For I not for an hour did love,
Or for a day desire,
But with my soul had from above,
This endless holy fire.

–Henry Vaughan

A bed or a boat
carries us home to the sun
that pleasant Glagolitic summer

where the scripture flaunts its handles.
but I could never read these letters:
flowers on the sun-beaten hill.
Do they know they’re in Jerusalem?

As Billie said at dinner
only a fraction of conversation is spoken:
we never cease to communicate.

But the poet can stop,
lead on by ceaseless touch, light
of the communicator. Sun that tests,
speaks our silence out loud.

I heard myself say, as I plunged
my broken hands
into the fire
just as your planet was coming
to wake us up.

In Magyar the object
is given an ultimate ’t’
resounding somewhere in the dark
my secret name.

Yet behind the I is an empty throne
hetoimasia, so more of me come
and we fill it with out emptiness

that calls the name we don’t know.

Século was it
or second, some freedom
my mouth was telling you
stuffed with orchids
you tried to grow as a child.

Words the shadow
that hurries to the underworld
to tell its secrets.

Beneath the face of the Sephiroth the ouroboros bites its tail; its movement engenders consciousness with a second-pass beneath Geburah: in that place of the mirror: the place of Judgement.

Chaos pulls away from Judgement; Tiphareth, art: the circle bends away from itself unfettered and is the possibility, is the power of revision upon being: the Catholic death-rite of confession, that undoes the grounds of judgement, and walks forth anew. 

Forget your name.

Only the voices remain then
as you sweep the floors.
No more instruments;
the music free to play.


We’re too wise we thought to worship poor Oedipus
gnawing away at the muddy earth
with nothing left to distract him.

There’s always snow on the ground
to help me guess who I am.
Cold colnannon at dusk
the voice never fails to listen
to the voices within, this faraway
place with memories of Ireland
but there’s no enemy to answer
only cannonballs lifted to smash cabbages
in cottages where I have lived
now home again in the waiting sea
brought closer than they have every been.

Dusk. Blue. Where the poor king works
to somehow find our tender use
broken body boarding night’s sleek vessel
life locked in death, heaven in a shell H.V.
the sonorous patterns of his ear ray
forth in listening: the king must die
to hollow this cave for what she will say.

The sentence wears emblems
sheep that feed on these rocky hills 
buried effigies of our faces.
Every coffin does come with a telephone.
Such flowers skip around the valley
to whom people are flowers
reporting on our silence.

How is there so little of me
and so much there enjoying itself,
he said and she knew they’d left the gate open
of whatever we wanted geometry to mean
the sacred animal shitting on the clean sheets.

The earth is thinking
quietly language equates all

through the snowbound
dog’s-bane and bullrushes
we were destined to learn.

Siegfried learning
the language of birds.
Or Siegfried who learns death
as Steiner claims Judas
was the closest initiate
who could work beyond
his master’s death;

grave maneuvers
love executes
against these fallen bodies
leaves, in which it lifts its wings.

Of course Siegfried dies
from a wound on his back
where a leaf had prevented
the dragon-blood from washing him.

The same particulars
entrance and exit.

It is a Christian story,
not for the dragon so much.
Augustine remembers her
in his stolen pear, 

we guess backwards from
this stuff. To misremember
is the guidance of the dead.

Things give off their actual light
that are not themselves the truth
but I can hear it listening.