Cold Radiations
A purse is robbed
and bothered.
All of them turn up empty,
every one you see.
At night in any dream
the perfect death is planned
and mourned. The djinn cries
generated automatically:
when a purse
is rubbed into the lamp,
the warmth of hands
inside all the last pockets,
faith in all the answers,
and mail order novenas.
Mother's purse was never like that,
equipped
with a fold out cup,
her Salem menthols
and a pack of tissues.
No genies. She opened it
close to the cold air cooler
in the dispensary
where Billie shelled
out pills for diamonds.
All of the patients trying to get out
the pill shop doors and windows
like cattle in the chute.
The cold air drifted up,
under long ago
into the Arizona radiations.
When her purse turned up empty,
as they all do,
the origin of novenas was unknown.
8.11.05
http://books.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,12084,1627744,00.html
A fine article about Sufi poetry, Rumi and the age old practice of oppression.
Byzantium
One night late in April a person realizes
they've been allowed into the throne room
to dissect all the crowns, find their hiding places.
It isn't known really when admission was granted
but there it is in the locked box, the keys
in several paintings done well by the obvious European
Masters who were all already there, knew it was coming
and knew who would be there.
The toys on their heads are reminders
of all the rulers of all the universes
studded in emerald and (I've got it right here)
not the Kasiki which was found in the refuse
and sold for three spoons. The actual remedy
spells moonlight in light when no one is noticing.
But look at the toys on their heads, who knew?
Who knows now? Quite obviously, the creators
of the Lion and Sun Medals, one in particular
of stunning quality, the sun leaning on the lion's back.
By sheer luck a person runs into another person
outside the armory and well outside the outer
courtyard of two inner places. (The second
for ceremonial purposes and the finest in the back
contains the lillypad pool under the Oriental gazebo.)
That person happens to be no other than a specific guest
at the ancient table of numbers. He counts beads
as fast as one counts anything at all but remembers
which university in Byzantium is doing all the work.
He hasn't any news of the elimination of the signal work
at the top of a good portion of 'it'. He must have
seen the sun dial, the mini complex which was transported
on a horse with human qualities to the Baghdad campaigns.
The most fantastic mirrored parabola on record and to date.
Inconspicuously placed outdoors in the rain and the person is
from the labyrinths where the Minotaur was last seen in frescoe.
Two large candlesticks of solid gold were removed to Byzantium
prior to the onset of trench and mustard, to protect
the vast empire from the final conquest after Smyrna.
Saved. For a while. After final consultations,
one person bids the other adieu, they exchange
calling cards and know for some reason all is not well
and the trains only run on time if those that do, will it so.
The two of them completely undisturbed because of pious behaviors
although one of them followed to the brink that day
when met at the final stop by three burly youths.
All the uncertainty in the world led the youths
to believe the person was a spy.
And the second? Believes the reformer was never born.
The first tells him the story of Rasputin. They part.
Closing important meetings never easy
and time only follows more time.
A fine article about Sufi poetry, Rumi and the age old practice of oppression.
Byzantium
One night late in April a person realizes
they've been allowed into the throne room
to dissect all the crowns, find their hiding places.
It isn't known really when admission was granted
but there it is in the locked box, the keys
in several paintings done well by the obvious European
Masters who were all already there, knew it was coming
and knew who would be there.
The toys on their heads are reminders
of all the rulers of all the universes
studded in emerald and (I've got it right here)
not the Kasiki which was found in the refuse
and sold for three spoons. The actual remedy
spells moonlight in light when no one is noticing.
But look at the toys on their heads, who knew?
Who knows now? Quite obviously, the creators
of the Lion and Sun Medals, one in particular
of stunning quality, the sun leaning on the lion's back.
By sheer luck a person runs into another person
outside the armory and well outside the outer
courtyard of two inner places. (The second
for ceremonial purposes and the finest in the back
contains the lillypad pool under the Oriental gazebo.)
That person happens to be no other than a specific guest
at the ancient table of numbers. He counts beads
as fast as one counts anything at all but remembers
which university in Byzantium is doing all the work.
He hasn't any news of the elimination of the signal work
at the top of a good portion of 'it'. He must have
seen the sun dial, the mini complex which was transported
on a horse with human qualities to the Baghdad campaigns.
The most fantastic mirrored parabola on record and to date.
Inconspicuously placed outdoors in the rain and the person is
from the labyrinths where the Minotaur was last seen in frescoe.
Two large candlesticks of solid gold were removed to Byzantium
prior to the onset of trench and mustard, to protect
the vast empire from the final conquest after Smyrna.
Saved. For a while. After final consultations,
one person bids the other adieu, they exchange
calling cards and know for some reason all is not well
and the trains only run on time if those that do, will it so.
The two of them completely undisturbed because of pious behaviors
although one of them followed to the brink that day
when met at the final stop by three burly youths.
All the uncertainty in the world led the youths
to believe the person was a spy.
And the second? Believes the reformer was never born.
The first tells him the story of Rasputin. They part.
Closing important meetings never easy
and time only follows more time.
2.11.05
Ode to the Dog Tick
Never was a parable so small
yet so blood filled as the song
of the dog tick. Out in the garden
near the shadows of butterfly.
Remember when the box started scratching?
Twenty seven cacoons started
wanting to fly? Oh yes
the book shelf and we were eating
our breakfasts. Woke up and just
started eating. All the noises
but not like the sound of a tick
burning in the ashtray because
that is more silent still.
Burn tick burn, bother not the dog.
He only waits for your mysterious arrival,
the one on the wind, the one he never chose.
The tick fasts and gorges, dies.
The parable lives on.
Never was a parable so small
yet so blood filled as the song
of the dog tick. Out in the garden
near the shadows of butterfly.
Remember when the box started scratching?
Twenty seven cacoons started
wanting to fly? Oh yes
the book shelf and we were eating
our breakfasts. Woke up and just
started eating. All the noises
but not like the sound of a tick
burning in the ashtray because
that is more silent still.
Burn tick burn, bother not the dog.
He only waits for your mysterious arrival,
the one on the wind, the one he never chose.
The tick fasts and gorges, dies.
The parable lives on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)