Whoso list to haunt could do worse than to
Obtain the license, get the picture.
Spook finders must find spooks to put the face,
Name and space coordinates together.
What is kept in the mind perimeter
Retains a wild autonomy through fate.
I will retreat to the precorporate.
Let fate have what is fate’ s and allow
This spirit to slip through time’ s difficult
Nets with the devious fingers of
A wild wind, while I run along behind.
Purveyor of rot and whatnot,
entrepreneur of I forgot,
with wrists hard as hammers —
that birthmark a slot —
grip it, strip it, flip it hard —
ramp my shard.
If fear be sexy, a synch
& a match —
Gone the way of wax & worms —
gone like November 2011 —
sweet by nature, mean by culture —
“Goodbye, luck, you idiot,”
said the Fox to the Grapes.
“I love you,” replied the Grapes.
When the moon’ s worn scutcheon
touches the flint-gray flood,
I will lave him in foxglove
and vetch until the blood
of his wretched heart heals.
Without a scar, he stood —
as the men make their way
into the quaking wood.
scent of myrrh on the handles
when oil is in the lock
silken is his mouth
when he is hard upon me
young heart, green bed,
his fingers are in the stream
he eats of the bitter honey
the sweetness of cherry
sacrament of the blood
and of its winding
sacrament of arrival
and of its binding
Tennessee: We are here, between trees,
with the tempo of a rosary being strung
in a queue of escalating beads —
Carolina: It’ s not quite the count in
the countinghouse of my chest
but the heart does make an awful attempt
t: and a circle wherever it may be
there was music coming on
c: which though machinery-like
moves not in cogs, and never
springs, but waves through
t: like wired applause for antic backstage
buds on the pre-comeuppance buzz; but it
fades
c: but only after the chorus has pulsed
I am the Angel with the Broken Wing,
The one large statue in this quiet room.
The staff finds me too fierce, and so they shut
Faith’ s ardor in this air-conditioned tomb.
The docents praise my elegant design
Above the chatter of the gallery.
Perhaps I am a masterpiece of sorts —
The perfect emblem of futility.
Mendoza carved me for a country church.
(His name’ s forgotten now except by me.)
I stood beside a gilded altar where
The hopeless offered God their misery.
On the news tonight, a presidential
colonoscopy — a tale ofhow
for three whole hours the chief exec of trouble
handed trouble to his vice (although
no double trouble came), but then no more
details revealed: no bacterial armies
multiplying in a flare of war
among kingly polyps & no kinky creases.
You have lived six decades and you have lived none
You have loved many and you have loved no one
You wedded three wives but you lie in your cold bed alone
You sired four children but they cannot forgive you
My shadow followed me to San Diego
silently, she never complained.
No green card, no identity pass,
she is wedded to my fate.
The moon is a drunk and anorectic,
constantly reeling, changing weight.
My shadow dances grotesquely,
resentful she can't leave me.
The moon mourns his unwritten novels,
cries naked into the trees and fades.
Tomorrow, he'll return to beat me
blue — again, again and again.
for my love, Charles (1938-2000)
Say: 言
