ㅁ The slug proceeded down the forest path. It was a leisurely, one-footed stroll. The sky attempted rain. But nature's math miscalculated, missed that hoped-for goal. Instead the damp air licked at leaves, and clouds just hovered low and ominous, like ghouls. In trees the birds made plots in secret crowds, and droplets hung, undried, from leaves like jewels. I took a walk, then, clearing out my mind. The patterns shifted. "That's quite strange," I mused. The randomness of things seemed all designed. These apophenic turns kept me confused. And meditating thus, a hole I'd dug appeared. And so I fell. "Well! Hi there, slug."
ㅁ Un-Rhymed Sonnet. A rotated rose is nothing more than Some reconsidered kiss, intractable; Love creeps like cats, like lawn-mowers across The green summery suburbs of my heartbeat, Who tug mercifully passive, all alone To evoke the blood of reptiles beneath The scattered rocks of over-civilized spirit To drain into the corners of my room. Lovelost. Your face as if beyond recall, Memoriam: As if black / cupric seas Did separate two serpent-blue-green isles. Lovelost. Lost love which clings to my conscience While I wait like zoo-monkeys in a cage A hop and step distant from my desire. And Rhymed Sonnet. What's lost? I may die tomorrow-matins While metamorphic metaphors fly blind Through the lonesome corridors of my mind To leap 'gainst these fearsome, scaley satins Which clothe a cowering lust. Somehow your smile Can drag old bears from under winter oaks To shed carelessly their black hair cloaks On the floor: rests a love note all the while Discarded by love-green-romantic fool; With the ruby guts of a lizard-king Spattered on my innards by silver knife, Parabolic precursor to blood-pool, Inward-facing stone, little pebble-thing. The fool must be fool; I must try at life. And prose-poem. Dream: A rose is your cliché – an expression of horizontal love that's no love at all but just like some simple multicolored leaf – pretty but irrelevant to the soul which is more like some dead leaf. A rotated rose is the essence of cut summer grass – moribund like the subjunctive, lovelost. Trees throw leaves down in angry disgust, "you're too beautiful, and look: winter comes!" I want you more than any silly rose because, somewhat as the cupric seas of mythic green, you trace magic on the retina; a residue fluttering downward from your eyes like rusting spring leaves – caught in a late winter drizzling. I guess it's more your face, traceries of sea-foam on the somber, pensive rocks, which danse irreverent of the genius of mother earth. Which, of course, evokes further souls, more, more, than silly, shy, mine. Suppose it's best you ignore this, as an angel properly should, but remember to dream at night about the saintless ocean, glycerine panic, and that muddy path along leaf-strewn, yellow-pink, cavernous cliffs – your name has become my most sacred prayer, and I don't even know you. Calm the injunction now, the heartfelt fool, under post-priori cobalt skies, romancing a ghost within his own imagined kingdom. But you're real, aren't you? Paragraph. Nevermind. Néanmoins. Maybe it's just that you're Parisian in spirit: kind-of-inconclusive. But even dark satan brightens when you blink. Your smile brings only bleeding, ecstatic lesions of joy; romantics turn away and laugh, but only at myself. So what's funnier, this poem or this man-boy? A nasty wasp of something cupid hath stung me. Unsting me or not; ice cream at the beach in July and now the leaves fly, now thinking thoughts about you – because now I've seen more in the wine-blue waves than just cold Aphrodite. And. If in some further time removed, fate could act as sea waves to wash, for one brief mote of singular time, your lips nigh mine, I would fall within that mote as someone from a bridge towards…
– a pair of sonnets and an accompanying prose-poem, written originally in November, 1984, and posted on that date but now also added to these daily poems.
ㅁ Most potholes could not be compared to you: the greatest obstacle I had yet seen. So stealthily did you lie there, it's true, awaiting my car's tires - you were quite mean. The way to deal with creatures of your sort involves a dodging kind of driving skill. In fact it can resemble healthy sport, but doubts and worries lurk beyond each hill. Perhaps I sped along a bit too fast. It seems I could have slowed down just a bit. The luck I'd had in swerving could not last. My god, that thing looked like a giant pit! But in the end I simply hit the brake. Behold, a pothole like unto a lake.
ㅁ The rain had washed the world all clean: from the trees' branches hung blinded eyes, but mud-scrubbed stones held the road. A bird sang suggestions, remained unseen: a purple fog had captured the skies, but a sun peered through a mist that flowed. I walked up the gravel road a ways: feeling as if reduced in size by the looming trees with their secret code. That rain had fallen for many days: time's old load.
A parrot made a noise, there, leaping - I tilted head and looked across - it flashed some green and red, in keeping with brightish rainbow moods; the moss, affixed to stones below and gazing up greenly at the raucous praising that spilled out happy birdish squawks, undisciplined, unlike the rocks, whose gentle, calm enunciations could only offer echoes, cold. The bird was hopping upward, bold, and tracing out complex relations that flowers sketched against the sky, that raindrops tapped as clouds went by.
I set aside my thoughts, just walking. The alien along the road appeared and gave me pause, his talking - his soulless pleadings - like a code made up of tangled verbs and meanings from which I got the barest gleanings. I followed through an open gate, his gestures seemed to show we're late, how could I know, could he be trusted? In dark and looming halls we roamed, his pointless words spilled out and foamed. We stopped beside machines, all rusted. And he explained what he had planned, but still I didn't understand.
So I attempt to move ahead, to set aside the brooding things, but moods assert and dwell like dead - like ghosts adrift on empty wings. The spider webbing fills my head with self recriminations, rings of cloudy doubts and dreams, all led across landscapes controlled by kings who rule the shifting realms unsaid and quite unsayable, till springs snap shut and render into dread. Perhaps in moving forward, then I'll figure out solutions. When?
(Poem #417 on new numbering scheme)
An unrequited love is best of all because there are no compromises urged because no complications will befall because right from the start all hopes are purged. Imagined generosities prevent the flowering of jealousies unreal, and finally the heart's desires are spent in crafting verse the voice must not reveal. Yet all along, new meanings can be made: from castles, pure and abstract, words are flung and later when those ramparts start to fade, an apophenic anthem can be sung. It's easy, then, to pine for that that's not; and simple, too, to leave it: just a thought.
– a sonnet in iambic pentameter.
(Poem #369 on new numbering scheme)
ㅁ I fall alone. I have blacked out. A darkness now envelopes me, reification both of doubt and also of uncertainty. A dream begins to coalesce amid the bursting stars of aught: A bone, a wing, dark paths, endless images uncontrolled, unsought. A meaning seeps out from between the tiny cracks that draw or trace their jagged, concrete lines, unseen upon knowledge's edifice. I spin in space. I harbor fears. The moon is white. I taste my tears.
– a sonnet in iambic tetrameter.
(Poem #347 on new numbering scheme)
There's going down. There's going up. Which way you choose to go depends on your desire. Desire can lead, but those descents can stray: long corridors with many doors require decisions once again. It's better, then, to walk the upward path. The clouds can serve as steppingstones, and rainbows tell you when to turn, and when to jump, and even swerve. Well, all of this might seem fantastic news, but there's a problem still. You don't yet know where you might need to stop, and catch the views - that mountain for example, with glaring snow: it needs attention from the angels who you hope might tell you plainly what is true.
– structurally, it’s a sonnet (of some kind – Elizabethan?), but I don’t think it’s very sonnet-like, thematically, and there’s too much enjambment.