Gnats
these unknowable things etched into the yellow of my writings the fleeting pages of another dawn each phrase a waning gasp of empty glories and the poems a cloud of gnats in the cold a mania for scribbling burning up the bones then Sunday streetcleaners pass by again then crows rain churchbells leaves reaching from the dark to tap at your eyes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ alone; writing: under hooded lamps marking off minutes, breaths my shadow becomes another's a hermit foaming at the mouth sinking into dementias of childhood's buried suns following the always receding dream of red lips and rain on skylights I dig deeper into chrome and copper and drunken clouds for the half moon of opium at dawn the icy gleam of thighs a mind glittering in the foam of nights the silence of supernovas in a universe of blue ash and the words: bitter as written immediately dead: ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ sparrows, green water, cafe windows 3 in the afternoon or the morning in the babble of tar, weeds, gravel evanescent bricks through steam in the cascade of downtown glass at night's core the rasp of it all in mad pursuit of apricot and rasberry fig and walnut old and lost in the abyss of streetlamps and stars this echo of last pages shivering at the end of all wishes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ empty rainsoaked pavements alley after alley of insanity and seizure under witchy moons and smokeblack chimneys in the intimacy of a cold solitude I become a mummy of light filling with the black stars of memory in the slow eternal dusk of morgantown ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ grey hair of trees ghost-echoes of birdsong catkins of light floating dreamlike on gossamers of breath settling on tremors of cleavage and trilliums fever of everthing on days of cold lilac, a deep silver where thighs become knees ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the poem is a better place it is a sound on paper a lingering mist of limbs a reflected picture of itself in a library window a monochrome painting of white cabs and old people drifting silently through the dead of morning ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ old loves disturb the long dim hallways in paranormal ripples of perfect lips and dark hair I'm fucked up on this on myself in these places where no one can be forgotten I hoist my bones from one bed to the next on half-words muttered between midnight and California ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ that was another world entirely of foghorns winters of rain and dark ale park benches in the mists the silver lingerie of pure fantasy wrapped around my young brain a city that never existed but in time and poetry the eternity of a beautiful mouth ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I am the king of sleet and pigeons the gaunt face of sunday on my concrete throne under the gothic moon of flesh's apocalypse my tongue flickers like the last flame of a dying star hovering between remorse and legs in the bleak depths of an ancient hangover in black and grey I immortalize this ashen light on long deserted pages ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ in the dark rift between commas my hands on the ankles of drunken sentences I lower my face into the brushed ink of moss: I sift through particles of lost stanzas in the glitter of bone and salt like a biblical prophet I shake and rage at concrete and buttocks and sputter couplets of silence as I mount the images of a perfect text again and again ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ thick ink of coffee to jack up the morning the frayed hours cemented by an ankle, an overbite - but so far away, on distant planets while I'm here in rooms steeped in the unnatural light of old age confronted by the glaring faces of unfinished poems at the cusp of ice and sky the barely stifled cries of erotic despair the ever sought after imperial image always just caught throwing itself off the edge of the possible ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ perfect marble moment a gleam of sun on teasel faceless, lonely town in the porcelain dusk of thoughts the day a drop of silver swallowed by the night ten thousand poems spread like ashes on the dark glamour of silence a red sealing wax over miles of lips the luminous dresses and botticelli arms gone like a dream yet somehow beauty survives reduced to this mania of monosyllables: moon, ink, hips, death ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ to have gotten beyond poetry to the poem's needle point an impossible enterprise since the horizon is unreachable and silence bruised by noise and roses remains on its hands and knees hair falling moving slowly back and forth time can do nothing to diminish the stark carnality of the sublimely immaterial ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I waken sharply at midnight surrounded by clouds of moons by which I read death's notebooks over and over: life, the always unrealized potential, more than half cancelled now to the sound of velvet whispering my name I sink again into the ghost waters falling asleep in the poem's seamless hollows ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the chimaera leads me everywhere under the cloak of skies I follow my footsteps into icy depths toward hidden libraries of moss and oblivion existing in the shadow of legends at the edge of magic between spell and spell I am reduced to the purest arcana of existence awaiting the arrival of that final white parcel of stars ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I rise at night's end, like a corpse covered in skirts of neon dust webs of moonlight astringent images that are now and forever seductive and ridiculous thus I have lived long enough to understand the poem's meaninglessness at once more crucially intimate and brutally indifferent: in some left over dream the trees are all witches and priests standing around me waiting ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ water filtered through stone and light scaffolds of shadow and glass always this other world encroaching mercury, snow, damselflies, and the shivering hole of everything's nothingness star of sunday, engulphed in lunar dusk, an angel's mouth wrappt in gauze and silence and a shroud of pages, a face of dark aether hovering myself erased like a rabbit frozen in time hidden in blades of morning's grass ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ lilies open mushrooms tremble under pines, light plays harpsichords of dust with hands of lilac and snow I pause deep in the wet lane muttering darkly to the doves of all I have thrown away folding my hands into the passing furrows of silence ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ this sedative of rain on rain and the kettle water starting to boil quiet, like days in ohio, velvetgrey surrounded by fields of corn leaves breathing dazed by age wandering like a moronic hermit in a medieval painting I hold on to the scent of tea and hair images of bamboo and rice paper this parasol of clouds under the old brick soul of the town