Myths of Sunday in Morgantown
shadows and moonbeams, lace and black mushrooms and a beautiful witch who beckons me with one finger from a pine forest and lets her robe fall open just as I waken to the sound of the hard day falling onto the trash the rains have left behind ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ things happen; the sun turning to sand or blood in the sink; I'll leave it alone; whatever, I have better things to think about the copper beech nymph, giant sunflower spirits, or just chasing my self deeper and deeper into life where the crescent moon whispers along the gutters the yellow leaves like sighs falling to the brick ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ tree shadows flow across the years, swallowing the cold grasses wine comes in at the windows, orange and crimson the long awaited autumn that settles everywhere along sills and porches unearthing old bottles from the frosted leaves and burning the breath of deer into the moon ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ poems and coffee improve the mood however briefly women remind me of that which I have lost walking the streets arm in arm early morning sex no there is no language to write this in I'll make it up every time brew another cup, burn up the pages wait for new chimeras to appear a far comet, a wren. a leaf of silk ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ deep shiver in the pine silver across the early skies I sleep in marble, and dream a face of grass there is a letter yet to be written in a blast of light, something about burlap, quartz, or persimmons ...piles of sticks settling in the dusk asters in fragments of wind ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ something moves a drift of white, a leftover image shadows of skeletons in the orange glow a soul bites me on the neck with a mouth made of ice from around the drainpipes crows fly over in the smokey dusk a drop of ghost falls in my eye ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ grey waters dreaming rain almost sleet walking on brick under ghostly trees birds darting into them black clouds moving fast leaves supernaturally red this world in words almost dark at 11 am alot of fiery whiskey seems called for ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ my lamp behind wet windows in the last watches of the night a dark cup to drink from greyness old like stone every line a scraping of marrow rain on the town a black wash leaving piles of nothingness on the streetcorners by noon scraps of paper stuck everywhere ink clots all the exits unbearable pen thrusting at holes of rust the word looks for itself poems crash and burn under the doves' singing wing-bones ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ eating dead poems with the black salt of hermits hair turned ice echoes in the dying dark of empty rooms rain on chimes day falling into leaves and sleep long-haired sticks singing all day all night to the brown teasel between pages I start losing control streets turn yellow with a thousand leaves before and after rain and sex the fall comes a red dress at the cracked edges of these syllables ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ something cuts through the night, a face, a plaid skirt a bird's throat the morning again trying to catch its breath out in the cold a continuous falling sound the eyes' wasted zeroes in the impossible dawn's smear of grey where the words are always alone ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ hair falls from the books the hair of women bending over to pick up their combs I'll seal my poems in the walls for them to find and I'll just keep stabbing myself in the heart with this black quill made of long solitary walks and endless brooding on the failure of words ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I burrow my way through dark rooms to a lamp groping for a notebook and more coffee some light is on the rotten sills I scratch last night into clots of paper littering the floor with pages that may as well be blank ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ no job no love no wine I was here before so was the paulownia, so was the green heron I brood for hours read some Ikkyu then walk along the river lost in a dream of red blossoms and oriole song ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the streets are wet again you seem everywhere like mist I think of leaves in movement of unrolled stockings I mix up ashes and spit ink and sex blood and coffee every poem is the fist written ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ black flowers fall from the sky into this nameless world I smell honey in curtains and forgotten corners words skin themselves alive line by line a dove coos outside my bedroom window in a ghostly mist is it Sunday or Mars * the edge of reality a step away images run riot then clot at the black wound inside like a moon poems and pink roses sleep in a marble room in this drunken world I could fall off the curb and disappear so easily ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ elsewhere there are jewels, luminous shadows, haloes of breath, sun on a marble mind, leaves of silver, tendrils of her elsewhere there are cool grasses, crystal rooms, lace against flesh, tongues against a snowy sky how beautiful the light falling across the spines of books I dream and dream and turn to dust ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I lift the skirt of suicide. I see what I like. It smells of roses, tastes of pears and honey. She takes off her silk blouse in cool marble grace. This milk of oblivion and paradise, this euphoric place of glory and goodbye. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ sipping coffee on a summer morning I have seen too many visions, I think or not enough mist and gossamer and chiffon veils of hair and stardust the half-hearted plod through days of slow light in eternal streets until only the spleen remains in a vial of gold and crystal salvaged from under the carpet in a room that smelled of apples long ago ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ mornings fall apart so quickly and utterly from dreams of green lace and a dress of light to the golden trash of words here where phrases glow with the sheen of myth and hover in a beautiful mouth forever closed and the greenhaired nymphs dissolve into wine and meteors ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ a page a rose a sea I want to breathe a sky of snow I want to lie in a face a night of rain a bowl of wine a gold poem growing like fungus it's all true except the possible cliches remain the same under ten billion stars as I watch a crow peck away at the world ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ lamp posts, trees, buildings what are these things books and cities and the bodies of women in all kinds of light childhood dreams return and falter in a cough shadows fall from Jupiter violets turn black under the summer moons I scrawl each day deeper into streets, clocks, incoherency in the still dark mornings I lie in bed until my mind shouts the world back onto the page ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I remain but dim beneath the pigments of the crimson suns adrift in summer's ether wordless, placeless, mindless a stanza of breath rising into the misty grey air there is the smell of berries and roses and cyanide the wild hair of dryads is everywhere what world is that? not this one I'm certain more coffee, then a poem a violet thought this elixir of dark morning, crushed glass the sugar of time an infinite galaxy of silence and leaves brings everything back the spaceships, the dreamy light of libraries the cyborg muse one faint cricket singing in my head forever, if only for an hour, to live an artifial memory of the gold velvet centuries that I caressed from the greyness of night ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ alcohol, art, suicide, hallucination, sex haunt my ancient walks the time of the mystics is long past it is all cusp and rift a sliver of cinnabar a particle of jade a titanium face at the window telling me of luminous moths and moonscapes of flesh and the cold suck of pure space where emptiness laps at emptiness at the heart of the poem ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ sitting lampless deep in the dusk brown leaves on a grey porch moss of wet footprints a crow that sounds insane in the freezing rains now what ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ as I become colder, and emptier I wrap myself in shadows of steel and walk out into the hyperimagined streets under leaves turning to glass, then mist I pick up the town in my hands and mutter something to the distant days my voice gets caught between double windows I leave it there, to gibber on mindlessly about the pure cinema of concrete and wander on lost under lamps of ice a shadow in the sleet ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ snow-white lamps, carried by apparitions of powdered ink in the rubble of sidewalks and notebooks chalk-white scrawls along the burnt edges of the town the fog-white morning invisible, on days like this