Soliloquy for Macbeth

Soliloquy for Macbeth

Blue pig basking in

the sun it brought to mind.

See lapis is at work

thought mixed with mud,

horses not yet through the gate.

Any moment might be a different 

gate. Game. Origami on its way

out of our hands. The swan

that dares to actually fly away

from the secretly missing blueprints

for body’s careful analogy.

Heccats false measures ride

the palace in which the Image lives

disguised as a palace. Clavis.

Dagger. The Handle toward my Hand.

“Mazurka”

“Mazurka”

Wooden cattle

in the gutter,

vivid swing of song

as image up the high hill

its obvious branches

animals flinch as they carry past

swing with into sight

sound flinches

to be seen

where sound goes

wend through this clunky sleep, to silence

vivid indistinction in distinctions, follow

I’m going to stay awake until it snows.

Snows that hold the Lady’s lake

the sword she holds the really real

held aloft a sword upon the ear’s eyes

a stone before the eye’s ears

her arm around me

to lead me to you.

poem from yesterday

Birds like pieces

search us for more.

These things we have to say.

Polonaise (1,2)

Polonaise

A branch raised

in both hands.

Hawthorn. Flowers

fill your lover’s room.

Skin mixed with its musk.

So the gods enter. Laughter.

Skin’s deceptive porous comfort 

through which they rush

to their 7th, Helios

laughter itself.

You and the book share

mud and mud hot mysteries whose confused roots

seven jeweled reins rule deep into pre-existence.

Chaos reined in by planetary whips. Any order makes use of

impoverished purities of form that decay, decay by law

but love preserves each as the bark splits and the trees

are ripped away.

Adore me adore me adore me

images of you dear reader

left in me by the devil’s passage.

Hawthorne. Laughter. Solar

branches track through mind’s breath

comes back to itself

by the help of elves

fixed to its musk.

Attention breaks

the voice fades

into a native silence.

These are the two suns mud and mud where the hawthorn

in potentia live and where their images dazzle

her admired whips pre-organize the tracks

fleshed musk thrills the doom of my room

Polonaise 2

Heart’s masonic

pillar burial

the life after death walks

along the triangle’s edge

three abysses

three hands. Close.

Actual stars hold

the ceremonial sword.

Ghosts

sword thinly out

from the choked closeness.

Ceremonial honey

green whispers through

within the ear

and robes flow out

past the hand past wind past street past heart

robes flow from the immersion, free.

Breath catches on the heart’s white veins

of whip-scars and tough bleary webs

so the reins of the planets come to mind

borrowed from their hollow cards

through hieratic gloom

learn to love night’s letters

emerge alive again

this one truth

there is to offer, hold

an actual hand

into horizon’s

bind, the heart’s

invisible pages concealed in the aether turn bats in the darkness 

turn the sound of wings bat me down into sleep

to deliver little by little the brave witchy metal of noon.

11.22.--

A voice says

tie your shoes,

forget the sea

return and turn

what poem does,

remember its feet wet.

The earthly river

round above:

friends know,

memory refuses

itself, swims

still wise through 

the city, the other.

In the other,

a thought of you

Gnostics called

Predestination,

the heavenly form

radical as birthdays

the waves return to its feet

the glad wet thought of you.

***

Washed ashore,

rose cross

sisterhood of nymph’s blood

generations complicate

until the black crow,

clear water again

so the Image wonders

at our rash intrusion

elaborated in the middle of things

lift stones

lift words, shy ogres:

work for her

bring her

her again,

wisdom’s shuffle.

Korybants dance around

the Great Chorus of the sun

she shields herself with

Cybele, under words

birds dress themselves

reassembling her here

as if a thing generable!

Adam’s foolish need for cause

she tells all in her gospel

you have only to find it

go in as she shuts her eyes

past the fin-de-ciel police

Humbaba and the scorpion androgyne

kill them for practice

to feel your hand behind the mind

grasp the holy herb by its roots

the book light in my

fourth hand crosses

easily over the crown

of its organs, the waters

I wring it over. The Star

pours souls,

from her Pythagorean vase.

The oral law’s

song rises

for the architect

of the self

through written law;

this thought you brought to me

just by waiting for the tide.

The moon and his friends

energic trees walk through

the trees of our forest,

lark in limitation:

light is a name and

another light replies.

***

Your mother and I weary slivers

strive to be wet again

and what wet thinks of

curve of absolute margin.

Where lines peck

at the slow dirt of dawn

dawn that red sea

a black and white bull

walk straight through.

Keep a copy of this image

when you circumambulate the isle.

Now confuse this with a city

voices in the tent of the skin

busy with exhalation

of our science our art rigged

to star’s exhalations of feeling

hand on the red hip of dawn

her rivers pin me to

tell me what four thinks of.

Forms swarm down the hill.

Stagefort Park

Stagefort Park

i.1

Some greeny mint julep shoals

where the rose is hidden, bidden

like I said to excuse its pun.

roof your boat like the sea does.

In the snug alphabetic house

not even wind left between you and the wind.

A duck somehow still against the tide.

2.

Is is the other side, where the other

has become itself– the door shuts

out of existence. Nephesh plays among

the gods and comes back to us when it

wishes; presence is always plural, to ravel out

the back of things, joyful irrational

Minoans come vault over the bull’s horns.

Take responsibility. Speak forth eels.

ii.

Quiescent Aleph.

Hands fragile enough

to hold a syllable

by the wings.

The demand of beauty: all teeth

holding together the body and its goals

gods for silence.

A word in the mouth

is a step into the mirror. 

This I call a tree.

These animals in its branches

if there are animals-

Susan, the horse that belongs to the girl. 

Perched quiet as breath on the branches of speech.

poem from 11.6

You are not real, said a voice.

The phantoms flee

gibbering like ghosts.

Tinkerbell Naassene priestess,

ghosts flock across her manifest hand

that holds my hand

to her sloping Ganges

that boils them from me.

Forms from my sister’s spell.

That washes form

through to else.

Hand, yes, 

in the heavenly river

clutching a rung

clutching itself

and then the next.

poem

Watch the muons with me

crash through the pyramid

of the heart

with the same amount of spin as matter

these same shadows

with their powerful girls' voices.

What drifts through

the forms of matter’s mind

drifts through the heart as names

or whatever comes after that

wrapped in luminous mists

low across the water

in order to meet the sun.