Invisible Hands
the sudden lyric stripped to the cryptic oracles, fogs, orange leaves walking through marble I find my way to the murmuring lamp to these fragments of Eurydice ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a gold wasp mummified sills covered in dead suns strong tea burns up my tongue I contemplate interstellar time watch Earth's weather change second by second everything's a long time ago like falling asleep in the white marble of dying afternoons ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ last notes like stars black rainy days and light years in kitchens slicing potatoes comforted by crows and leafless trees yet who can see my lamp of poems burning, behind all these curtains ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ facing the river I bend in the wind an old weed in the grey trees words and dreams failing I turn again toward the town caught in the shadowland where the living haunt the dead ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the day perforates to show me a glimpse of pink in the void a lingering gold in the strange world only the words are real and they're not I turn a corner into an alley a hard wind blows my face of ash away ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ grey moon, grey streets, grey bones I choke on the morning as usual hobbling from room to room pain comes from nowhere, everywhere cinnamon and blood at the back of my throat I drink more coffee read Meng Chiao again cough jade stars into the old sink ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ rivershadows, beneath the sparrow's breath where light breaks up on old wishes, old skin I say goodbye but tomorrow will come a few drops of cold rain and more rivershadows, a million miles away in poems long written where gravestones gather a dark wing trembles ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ timeless cicada drone, reaching so far back into woodcuts of childhood pupa, teasel-head, dark thickets a strophe of moss at my fingertips then, grasshoppers flew up the light the year fell away crashing like a strand of hair into inkwells, photons the maybe of sleep or snow ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the crows, quiet now crickets; yellow leaves my shadow between the moon and the streetlamp almost nothing, almost gone empty pods, black cirrus, seeds, hair floating, falling kitchen deep in dusk like water cats eveywhere always just vanishing into their own stories ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the soul of Sunday falls on stilled hands worlds, windshields, yards burn up with frost at the blue margins, rains silent inside blown glass slanting into dreams and open windows the river leaps up bringing echoes of the gibbering birds ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ sky of jet, winter sunflowers a gloomy ghost wandering in rain and fog the month an endless hole of meaningless sounds, words, images where light meets the street and the poems cry for pure, stark sex ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ clouds, roses, more rain more coffee smell of henna who are you the look of suicide smeared in sun-black pollens soot of breath these streets, trees in rain, in darkness always floundering on the page, looking for the secrets of shapes clouds, roses, space between lines suddenly opens infinite gulph vertigo of thighs, salt, snow and the blue of plums, cyanide, ice ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a wall along the creek dark with water at night faces on newspapers floating by scrawls remain senseless stuttering poems like chalk drawings on the street trying to grasp anything, moving step by step into these shadows of absence ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ smell of wet autumn gutters filled with feathers, bottles, metal sidewalks split and crumble at the edge of days the unmown yard catches an ash of light the moon turns concrete over the rubble of wasted words, wasted breath ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ in rainy gloom the hundreds of eyes turned away smoke fills the hollows geese follow the ridgetop and disappear forever a grey cat wanders across the porch and dissolves I can hear weeds rattling at the river a creature halfdeer halfwoman calls to me from the world of the dead ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ coffee rings, spilled ink, blood so many endings, under these clouds memories within memories the world behind a piece of lace across the kitchen window every day, hours before dawn I sweep up poems and moondust from this porch of ghosts ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ September moon and green tea to be rid of everything black grapes, red apples the music of mist and streetlamps a neighborhood drowned in ink between crickets and the rain a sleep filled with moths and lace the soft mewing of a catbird, unseen the blank face of memory, or something beyond hope, the breathing of a robot next to me in a bed between the stars ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ whenever I come crashing down out of my science fiction dreams, I want to kill myself impossible technologies, impossible flesh, impossible distances haunt me to the marrow when I come back, I see that the streets are wet, the leaves are still but the scent of Martian roses lingers as I drink another cup of this human coffee ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ once again the world fills with gossamer but now with a harsher edge sobriety bites, like vinegar, like cold chrome dragonflies and willows return to their poems through the last green leaves I can see the legs of young nymphs disappearing into memory and mint I set a plate of pears in the sun to smell them ripen ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I long for the mystery of snow, or a tomb of thighs for the world's a secret that means nothing a short life of cicada dreams a fragment of blue twilights, rain, red lips, a green umbrella the myths of Sunday persist on pieces of paper nights are ink-shadows in moonlight days are drops pf gold in the sun ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ every moment is a hangover of the drunken one before it the endless flux of insanity and light every day is the aftertaste of salt and iron pacing the porch in the dark, muttering "still alive, still alive" to the asters beautiful as a suicide's vision of that perfect place to be ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the world staggers a moonwhite cat keeps appearing I don't know if I'm dead or drunk street lamps gutter like dying candles my mother's face is everywhere ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a thousand Sundays alt at once in a broken window, a concrete cellar a lamp behind a curtain, the heady must of old things rotting my soul is buried here among these streets and houses under the garbage cans and gas meters where the sleet falls fast in a quiet alley a hundred years from now ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ rain is at the windows, dead leaves chatter tall asters bend double in the wind the grey moth of sleep flutters at my eyes I turn over, on the couch the day is almost white a lone cricket calls from the wasted old grasses ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the spell of weekends lingers like the sound of tires fading down freeways in the rain I leave my life behind at laundermats and mailboxes and concentrate on learning the grammars of dying sometimes, an alchemy happens between words and days, grasshoppers and moons the glow of sleep, wine in winter - between one breath and none the fleeting sensation of a breeze while drinking coffee with the dead ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ in all this sudden wind and rain I send my double out walking into the weather of lost loves, Nick Drake, bottles of vodka I let it commit suicide, so I can sit here writing on this day dark as the memory of words that soon forget me for the yellow leaves the nostalgia for red hair and Opium perfume two espressos and a black chai the ghost of poetry ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the world out there concrete and mist phosphor of moon hour of cats and misanthropes a hand on the page lampdeep in the window streets under cloud how leaves look in the dark ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ dark pages fluttering I'll throw them away before someone else does read this poem as it opens figsweet between the lines and the taste of sun on arms and legs that makes poets drunk as poetry ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ red mouth jade sleep goldfinch on the river under layers of skin butterfly powder, echoes of soul remains of wishes everywhere ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ solitary figures in a landscape of dead hills along the river who knows what will appear in the water long orange hair, a hand offering the liqueur of suicide in a tiny crystal glass that black star unfolding like a flower in the mind as all the cats begin slinking around the streets ghost-meows everywhere ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ sweet darkness of October mornings black chocolate, croissants, double espressos pear, flesh, vodka glories lost or disappearing like crickets burning up the grasses to the ashes of these poems ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I quickly drink the red leaf wine of memory, spilling from the broken eaves and get drunk quickly on the beautiful and mysterious stanzas falling from the mouths of golden angels --- but who writes these words? a hand that fades into the paper, turning to dust in the nights where the dark pavements, covered in darker leaves echo the breaths of shadows under the porcelain faces of ghosts in the morning wind ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ alone in my apartment I work draft after draft of scribbles into traces of cinnamon, streaks of silver from a life like a paring caught in the four o'clock light the year is late among dogs that never stop barking geese fly over the parking lots and cattails the day flares up into gold one last time as the town sinks into weeds and blackness