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



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