The Morgantown Book of the Dead
"dazzled on the buttocks' page"
--Alfredo de Palchi
By the end of every day
I'm feverish with poems I won't write
and flesh I won't eat.
Between the moon and the street lamp
there is the sound of traffic,
a cooing dove.
What will I do to this day.
A million years ago it was 4am.
I burn up the pages,
I grow old in laundermats,
in the half-light of everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My voice drains away quickly now
into the dogshit wastes of the mornings.
Mondays run into fridays,
weekends are lost to hallucinations
of cold poetries and velveteen women.
Never knowing
where I am or what I'm doing,
I end up every day
in that strangest of all places,
the middle of the afternoon,
and still get up
well before light
to worship the sky
and howl at the streets.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gutters trees dust weeds
the streets fall away to endless parking lots
I pass through worlds
of burlap dead beetles metal garbage cans
in the light of old kitchens
and flickering televisions
my mind shouts
This can't be late november
this can't be morgantown wv
but it is and it's Saturday
and I hope it will be cold and darkhaired
and raving with sleet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coffee, poppyseeds, yogurt, coughing,
and curses fill the morning.
I read Sappho and Schuyler and
ancient Japanese sexpoems
to soothe my soul.
There is a cold music under bridges
and skirts, and I can hear it always.
Flesh ticks away
in the wind, on the concrete,
in the glass and metal nights.
So what about
the ecstasy of stars,
the glitter of women.
The streets are filled with snow
and fog,
another Monday begins in Morgantown,
WV.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I waken to words beating
at my head. I rant stupidly
to the sink about the new snow.
The yards are filled
with sick hermits
walking in circles
on their way
to the end of time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coffee in bed.
I drool and rave to the walls.
I can't breathe,
I itch all over,
I cough to exhaustion,
my eyes burn like wet fires.
The words keep banging
like all the town's
broken storm doors.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am demented with porcelain legs
rising to the february skies.
I drown in the light of kitchens.
Not much remains
in my mind:
bones, sl^et, panties.
I spit and gibber
into the face of Beauty.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Poems are nothing more than
chronic lists:
leaves birds pears letters
river
rooms sheets worlds
moons ghosts sinks
snow rosepetals cleavage
the words the words the words
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bleakness festers. Clouds curdle.
Everything wants to break.
I jump screaming from bridges
over and over
becoming cinders on the ground
so I can look up dresses
Oh, look up dresses.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I live in furnaces, alleys,
vents, stairwells.
I am the sound of rain, dogs
barking, and glass breaking
at the last edge of sleep.
The cold blows across the river,
I turn straight into its blast,
yelling back at the crows,
spitting black phlegm
into the asshole of morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What's the world?
a doll facedown in the mud
a few crushed petals
a poem
a mother
the unkindness of flesh
in the gravelhaunted streets
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I sit on my couch remembering
golden hours
years and pages
thighs and letters
it's Wednesday Sam 2 degrees
plumbing war taxes poetry
radio off
I sit on my couch
while the minutes all burn up in my skin
the stars grow old and die
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the old moon looks so sweet.
Pear thighs open in my mind perpetually.
I fall between days and stations
sometimes spend hours making soup
and staring out windows
while the wind blows harder and harder
there are yellow leaves
on the bathroom windowsill.
my brain chatters like teeth,
I can't stop it.
the day is ice and shadow colored
and smells of cyanide.
I drink my coffee and stare
at the moon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A face of old leaves
glances up at me from the gutter.
Later on, it will feel like winter again.
But for now,
I watch the light
dance on the river
and gleam off paperclips,
I ramble on incoherently to the clouds,
and taste the rain, here,
in Morgantown,
and no one can see or hear
me crumbling with the streets.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am so far
from the promises of morning,
the cold prose I need to comfort myself
against the lamps of humans.
I also used to be in kitchens, late at night,
drinking, laughing --
so long ago now
it hurts to think about it.
Now the white days fall
onto the page,
and I bend closer to my notebooks,
sniffing for gold and death.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The world is an icy wax.
The morning is here again.
A restless night turns into a cough.
Each day something else important
disappears for good. I walk to
the river but it's not there.
Neither am I.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The poems die
on the poemless page.
Everything happens long ago
as it happens.
A hand, a stanza.
A stuttering middle finger
caressing a hole.
I begin here again
every time,
I write against the sleet,
I write on you,
I
write
nothing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I keep feeling
I'm seeking the Imageless
the
I don't know what
that is shocking strangeness
death, maybe, or
a lifted skirt,
or a light withdrawn like a tongue
from a citrus-sweet orifice.
I can't touch anything,
the abyss is unseeable when you're in it,
though iron and snow remain,
a mouth between fingers,
a pitchblack throat,
the hour of suicides and forsythia buds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I dwell
in centuries of candlelight
a drooling medieval hermit
grabbing at passersby
who aren't there,
shouting to the lichen
about shouting to the lichen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Between clouds and windows
something beckons.
The black crust of these streets
thickens and hardens as I walk them:
they know my tread like they know
the trash, the vomit, and the dead pigeons;
I am up to my neck in them,
between buildings and faces;
frozen alleys cleft the words,
my mucus remains in the snowcovered grasses.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I scatter my dead words like diamonds,
like cold seed,
over the grasses.
I would pray to anybody's thighs.
What a dream flesh is,
the uncontrollable voice
of the poem
under the pond ice.
It snows and a robin sings in the snow.
Every moment counts
and I can't make any of them count.
What a dream flesh is,
the haunting spread of death's cheeks
beneath my worried and hurrying tongue.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the poem's edge
is a brutally unforgiving nakedness
that is the unuttered world
skies and women fly away from me
I think of Mars and tangerines
I fall asleep dreaming
of coffee and thighs for breakfast
Yet another dawn
I gasp for words, for worlds
wet streets, a pink dress, palm trees
deep in the day
there is almost something
as if the town really was
made only of doves and mist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
mornings
black cherries
light on white tables
a green sun
the difficulties of language, breath
and touch
what dream is this, what day
a world of grey streets
ghostly women floating in the mist
trees etched deep in a sky
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
crows in evening rain
hair of a ghost
caught in the pink light
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
summer mornings
angel dew
crusht velvet
sugared peaches, what is a
childhood
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
pine stars wind rose honeycomb
grass rain light unbelievable
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vertigo worsens
from bridges paragraphs cleavage
between poems there is nothing
I sleep more
books glow like wine
and long hair under water
A pen gleams, a world
an hour gone
a gold blur of dragonflies
velvet throats, bouquets
of light
I wait
for cicadas bed an open mouth
nights are haircloth and spiders
last words everywhere
lilac and concrete
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
minutes of snow and silver
mauve and plum
the laundermat smells of old sox
and middle age
there are no lost panties pinned
to the message board
I leave poems there, they disappear
I lick the street
where the muse has left her piss
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sweets and stars
bells ring far away
breath crumbles
Sunday's moon
a white skirt of prose
hair like music
amazing hips
always moving away
brick and clay
clouds and willows
the world's pink then white
light is porcelain
none of this happens
to think
death will be the end
of poems movies buttocks
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
rain and rain at night
it inhabits me like
dark kitchens, like women
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remember
rain movies poems
a beachcolored dress
another planet
a cat stretching
under the sunflowers
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shadows on a cloudy day
an empty street
a woman bends over
a cloud of pink doves rises
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Slowness of days
images going wrong
I dream on the porch
nights of snow and wine
in July
blue silence cool room
mimosa shadows
ankles windows concrete
a thread of light
a strand of hair
a line of poetry
all the same but not
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ghosts make love
clouds pass through one another
summer nights trains dogs
car doors slamming
past pleasures blank pages coffee
emptiness empties into emptiness
it's raining
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the days are black salt
from a black sun pouring into
my blood
between cicadas
the roaring of the nothingness
poetry is a woman
I smell
and have to follow
the flesh of the witch
is the text
of dark mornings
a
white shadow from the moon
a moth hidden in the gravel
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a tiny gold cricket
appears
from nowhere on my writing pad
it waves its antennae
finding nothing
it moves on
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
emerald and mauve
fires
burn up evening's sky
heat lightning, a cicada
dreams of vodka and snow
the lamps bend toward
fall
and the chicory eyes of unicorns
until then I am
inside
a cat's eye
the days long for
themselves
in mirrors of dead words
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I sit coughing
up
the remains of my life
trying to dream up
new
ways to write poems
sometimes
things sparkle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
once there was a
forever and ever
now gossamer faces
are
blown away
by a breath
Saturday and cool breezes
in
morning rooms
in the small hours
a
fleetingness pervades
birds are liquid
like
candlelight
the world recedes
into
a background movie
cryptic
and
bitter
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the moon cuts my
heart
up and feeds it
to the wolf-bitch
chained
to my soul
worlds fall apart
like berries
in my mouth
a creature made of fireflies
and moth dust
stands at my bedside
it knows what I want
and
mounts me backwards
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can hear the fog
moving
through the streets early
and the vegetation
sliding
up the side of the building
I dream of green
moss
on green nymphs under
a green moon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I look for you gleaming
among
shadows and pearls
no it is the moon
among
roses and velvets
no
it is the sound of water
among trees
a dream I had
among these strange houses
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
this life is a mote
at the window
leaves tremble
grasses quiet under a Sunday-grey sky
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
these cool red grapes are
stars
in my hands
the yards all sparkling with
dew
are the galaxies
I'll never go there
but
I have these lacewing nights
these moons at dawn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a black skirt haunts
holding
all the secrets
of lost afternoons
by the thousand
underneath, the pure white
flesh,
a fountain of stars
glories of the desk
I think alot about ginger-
vanilla
icecream and chocolate
embedded with goldleaf
and
the smell of the ocean
and ale and whiskey
mostly though
I think about crushed peaches
and
suicide
and beautiful asses
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
beyond all this
green
winter nights with gold lamps
and whiskey dreams
deer watch us
from the walls
icy ponds
beckon our souls
rooms are haunted
with rocking chairs
and years
turning to ashes and light
no more
beyond all this
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the mistress of crickets arrives wearing
a gown of gold lace
when she sings
the wrens fall silent
a poem
is that
no more no less
in the black dust of alien
summers
orange lilies sigh beneath
my hard gaze
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I foam at the eyes
and shout out
0 witch!
the world is ending
lift your skirts now and
sit
on my face
she stares at me
from
her riverhaunts like a basilisk
and calls a name
not
mine
but mine
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
trees quiver in the green
heat
I kiss their hems
I am old and drooling over
my visions
of honeycomb flesh and pomegranate skies
0 truth of phantasy and pink
lace
planets fall into my
coffee
high in the dusk
I eat words
and send cryptic writings
to the gnats
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the smell of cinnamon
from kitchens
as galaxies
turn dark and disappear
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
bitter days pass without notice
love is gone
poems are few
moon after moon sinks into clouds
soon the nymphs with be naked and grey
and only the wind will be hard
as the nights grow colder
I think about getting out
the wine once again
walking along the creek in the dark
I startle the deer
they snort and jump
through the ironweed and asters, tails flashing
and disappear into the silence
of the past
cold air, crystal breath,
silken clouds: I dream
of Prnne Mountain, with its hut
full of books and wine: a place
to grow old, and die, amidst
stones and snow in the endless afternoons
first rain, then crickets
then the curve of her buttocks
October mornings, the streets are wet
I waken hard and enter her
immediately and finish quickly: for Death
is in the kitchen, making me coffee
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
jays cry autumn
I wait for the redhaired hills to
cover me
still carrying the memory of pheasants
in the cornfield
and the deer watching us fuck in the woods
that was so many dreams ago
the last time was in Youngstown
on a cold afternoon
what did I ever know
the crickets fade with each breath
gold windows float in the mist
I think of streets and rooms
sitting and waiting
in the dark for years
and I keep thinking
someone's coming
across the bridge in the rain at night
while I wait like an old spider
behind the kitchen counter
with one leg missing
I jump from Sunday to Sunday
looking for a poem like a fineboned face
while porches and bedrooms grow colder
in the sweet October rain
ghosts eat at the margins of pages and worlds
the rabbit's dead eyes burn holes in me
the moths in my lungs crumble
I cough them up in spasms
of uncontrollable memory
an icy light follows me
the blue of a witch's skin
ten thousand windows watch me
on my knees in the grass
praying to all the skirts of the world
hoping the moon will undress for me alone
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
metal shrieks along the river
something hisses in the ear
the late sky is broken gold
autumn roses burn up these pages
in the wineless years
bring me the light of another star
bring me hair smelling of earthly meadows
the sky is mauve lace, ripped from
the shoulders of high-heeled angels
I fall fast through a hard grey sky
trying to remember flesh and infinity
no sun streams here
land of black milkweed pods
and rotting gossamer
a blue stain remains of heaven
somewhere, not here
the hermit's seed is torn silk
staring into the eyelid of empty nights
an old man strains
to complete a stanza
pains come and go as he dreams
of the richness he once knew
he thinks how long it has been
during the night ;dogs have barked
people have bred uncontrollably
an old woman snores
in the basement apartment
the furnace heaves on
it's still so early
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
my hands reach out
are you mother are you an owl
for pages and years
tomatoes and dictionaries
coffee cups and Sundays
are you the face of summers past
a universe of hair a glass of wine
I reach for clouds and breath
galaxies and fantastic flesh
until evening's delirium covers everything
in a rain of strangeness and sleep
minutes are slow in a cricket's song
on chill October mornings
an old dog haunts the streets
just before light
the world's choked with dead leaves
and ghosts
sweet thighs are everywhere
I just keep scrawling
my desperate signs
in laundermats and decrepit rooms
clouds change from plum to pink
fair maidens sleep in glass crypts
forever
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a grey lace is everywhere
bird shadows fade from the windowsills
bells of light from a thousand evenings
grow quiet Under the galaxies
leaves are wet and silver in the dark
because lamps and stars darken
and I am stuck somewhere
between the ancient loneliness of humanity
and the cold gleam of digital souls
because flesh rots swiftly now
and memories are travelling faster
than dreams
toward a tomorrow I want
but will never have
this winter
I will pour vodka
into a glass of snow
and become a stone room without windows
raving to itself
in the middle of eternity
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
beauty cuts to the quick
certain faces and inflections of light
life's brevity startles
like the sudden appearance of the moon
in a cloudy sky
and the gulph between tongues, unbreachable
my scribbled cries are blown away
by the wind
like the music of trash down
deserted streets
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the rain of Mondays falls all week
the nights flash by like years
with their silver apples
morning mists rise from black coffee
that bites like metal
in poem after poem I follow you
hoping for a kiss
as birds of ash alight upon your image
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the sound of rain on dead leaves
in November, the fragile precariousness
of everything, the nights are made
of sticks. I want to write
poems of velvet to someone's body
to see a skirt of liquid silver
rippling in the apparition of the world
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the dark circle of the days
draws tighter around the eyes
all the livingrooms of the past intersect
dream tonnage accumulates like glaciers,
mote by mote. my hours are haunted
by witches and dead trees and giant beetles
the long fingers of the night pull back
the tendrils of the rain
and there is the moon, there are the traincries
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in distant rooms painted deep orange
by human lamps, maybe you are
I walk between lines and constellations
for a glimpse of your hair your lips
a month ago snow fell on green leaves
so maybe its possible
after all
a red verb
a gold vowel
a fragment of you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am confused in the abyss of these streets
I gulp down visions of cats running
between houses, of wind and light
in falling hair. Time is dust and rotting
lace and forgotten paragraphs
between a ghost and a robot's memory
the finches fall silent
the air is grey porcelain
and ivy is a myth from old books
my pages turn heavy with cold stars
pouring from the core of the poem
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
crickets sing under the snow
dark earth opens like a woman
death's red hair lights up the hills
and music comes from the forgotten worlds
under bridges, the moon is glorious
*
icy shadows swallow me and close
their porcelain eyelids. I sit
and wait, moths come, flesh becomes burlap
sometimes, the town seems ancient,
like a troubadour's song
but it is not ancient, it is right now
I turn to the chickadees for comfort
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
black leaves drip silver
streetlamps are smeared all over
the windows
a cat cries and carries my breath
away into the alleys
there is a pink rose floating
in the November morning
the sky darkens
the yellow leaves grow brighter
the wind blows back and forth
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
l drinK corree ana listen to tne rain
on metal awnings. I think of a world
made of phosphor, marble and cold blue fires
roses are gold there and birds are glass
morning becomes scarlet, then sepia
doves of dust rise into a fan of pink
an ivy of light and silence climbs
the walls. I can hear the rust and lichen
growing. I taste grapes and stomachs
as ice clouds move in, anthracite
and cinnabar, the crickets are
a million miles away
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
rowanberries, gold words, beautiful knees
where are you now
ice petals, closed lids, ink of your eyes
and the ink of the wind across
your streets and deep porches
your kitchen like a thousand goldfinches
beaming, like a single dandelion exploding
into the chill November dusk
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a fig a pomegranate a jet of gold
autumn snow ice pears a red tree
paragraphs fade moths fly out of the rice
sleet cities roses syllables part like lips
memories burn like cinnamon like thighs
your nakedness was like lilacs
an alphabet of curves
a branch of snow in the desert
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
sometimes, it is so cold, the
lamps turn blue, and the deer seem to
freeze in their tracks
I howl in silence, the pond ice cracks
the skin of winter nymphs
burns up my dreams
how the flesh yearns like a star
torn from the heart
of this world
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
under the heavy weight of light
the snow dreams of your thighs
even more than I do
I am moonmad, winemad, fleshmad
as my shadow hand writes
you glitter, like January, like cyanide
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
white orchids fall
through the frozen smoke of suns
down along the river
where words float far apart
to be a child again
or an astronaut in the year 7000
I think, staring at the crumbling old walls
a dog barks once
a light flashes and is gone
after a feast of sleep I have coffee
with dead angels on the moon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
fled and folded into shadows
of silence
her back in the afternoon light
little birds fragile with life
cold holes everywhere
if only it was dark, if only I was drunk
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a wind of ghosts through
bamboo leaves, across centuries
clocks tick in the dark, winter rains
from the tin skies
the universe opens like a fan
a suddenly remembered face
the suns collapse around me, I grind
my bones into ink to smear across
these sickly pages
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
flesh cries out like flowers
like silver shot through stone
deeper and deeper into hermit hours
all these gestures I give you
are for nothing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
face after face
moon after moon
the crying of trains fills the streets
pink and black twilights hover
bridges sing in the cold, a white cat
crosses my path, the air
is filled with the dust of poems and myths
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the mind that remains is all cracks
the light of the years seeps in
a moss of slow minutes across parking lots
sometimes sleep and snow hold me
like an angel's thighs
between one letter and the next
the world unfolds into bridges and crows
a cold white page throbs
between coffee and suicide
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~