From my War—
Lock hand that
Soon we two
From my War—
Lock hand that
Soon we two
Well, no, we are not Jews, but we
Do know the same God—four letters,
Mr. Quattro, Quad Fourier, Four.
Yeah—way, way out there—
We are the Thirteenth Tribe and where
We belong is anywhere but Israel.
The sun never sets on Thirteenth soil;
The house of the rising sun rests upon our midnight dawn.
Bullet of absolute heat and prayer cold and blue and
Absolute zero—Kelvin, Kevin, Calvin, Calvary
Cross, Compact Rainbow, Double Blue
Racked Red like pool table cues
And green verdant velvet—if you please—
Rolling, roiling, bowling battle:
Love is a—
Love is, was and forever shall be…
Cherry cheek in snow red:
My lithe and delicate man, my
Ulysses—Daniel—I still stand here,
I still await our
(From, “Duino Elegies”)
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we can just barely endure, and we stand in awe of it as it coolly disdains to destroy us.
Every angel is terrifying.
Ripping out pages plucking them one by one—leaves or days—of my life, and the leaves on the tree outside are a dying generation this Winter—every Winter…
And life is a prayer formed with the lips of a lifetime of slow time, of waiting to die, and the act of dying is just like saying “amen,” and I took the hymnal and I’ve been ripping out pages…
Last night the Beatles and the Beach Boys battled for my eternal soul.
I was sped away in a little duce coupe, but then a giant walrus in the road took me back to the USSR until, finally, David Lee Roth appeared with his California girls, and that was that.
The chords of music were strewn about my little bitty room like corpses, beats and rhythms looked up at bedside nurses with pleading eyes.
And, in the midst of it all, a gentleman in coattails with slick black hair walked up, shook my hand, and said, “pleased to meet you, hope you’ve guessed my name…”
At the heart of a cold, bright hope dwells a sorrow from the past and the now: you stretch past a vision of a past that cannot be assuaged.
And the sorrow and hope survive a cemetery of all our past selves: each persona we concocted to be in the world, each that perished from luck, naivete, or merely a cruel god…
For there can be no tomorrow without yesterday’s need; there can be no desire without the sense of loss that fills the soul with a falling apprehension.
In our souls, Winter sunlight glints across a running stream of time; amidst the gorgeous snow, we see all of nature’s ruin, her naked skeleton math of branches.
Then, like a sudden taste of blood on the lip—Spring wells up, cold, bright, hopeful…
Multi-faceted or two-faced, love hums in between,exists in the suspension, the act of not resolving:
A thought—or a prayer—that grows with time, swells until it is perfect and round and purple…
Then love rolls gently back and forth between two worlds:
Your love is a pleasant fool and a rapier wit.
Your love is bulldog cute yet so very dashing.
Your love is yesterday, last night, and the rising morning.
Until one day love bursts or deflates or (if you’re lucky) floats softly up into the sky…
Some native American tribes believed that death is nothing more than a hunter who stalks us all impersonally, by duty.
Our tender realms of fever and sleep float along the edge of life’s forest; they dance with death, they tantalize death like paw prints and a fresh scent.
But evade an accident or maybe fall in love—for like light itself love flickers into being instantly and is insubstantial and so can never die—and you can feel your hind legs thrust you across the field and through the stream and you can hear the swoosh!—as the arrow slices air only to slip into water only inches from your head…
Or maybe you don’t feel like a fox (I don’t), maybe this life is a crisp Winter’s morning—the snow blooms bright in the sunlight—and as you smell death downwind you realize you’re a rabbit on the run…