-Over the Evening Dead (A Summer Poem)-
Long live the love of Susan
in the aftermath of Eternity.
(Wheels cajole time in immediate semblances.)
The thunderous black luster
the coffin in the living room
drew no attention.
Resonant values starred,
over the dead.
Music played lately
each song like a personal anthem,
a translucent dictate shared by the masses.
And, the innards outgrew their rythym
because they had never ceased.
The tepid air corrupted hands and leaves.
The apple lay sudden among the grass
and the little boys dabbled their toes
in the pond's local immensity.
Candlelight sparked heavily
over the dead.
I mentioned Susan because
she was someone I knew
like you know so many things
and forget them,
I did not know that I loved her.
Books are really boxes for words,
you burned those you like best.
And the smoke cast a spell
of innocuous humor,
that you have yet to learn
how to smile at, in the afternoon.
Later as is
the image perished like doves
over the dead...
Bird-dog runs ruthless
In the forest thrive,
The insects follow as another
As eloquent entities;
The sky’s palate
Resolves its own meticulous liberty.
Susan walks because-way home
Counting the flowers of her philosophy,
Enduring the pebbles that mock
Her feet in intimate pain.
Has history for her
Ended as a swimming dream?
Is a number her folly?
Many have died this way
Wondering away-
Like laughter in the afternoon parade.
Silent old
Meek young
Dutiful beings celebrating one
The birth date of Jesus as their own,
Walking the sidewalks
Of a tormented city
Awestruck, flung
Flung towards the drift of sea
As rain,
As an ocean of stares
And recognizes the last flower
At the foot of the broken tombstone.
(Swelters of trepidation at sundown…)
A young tie-dye girl signals an omen
As the propensity of our making.
A flag is a nation’s fingerprint
Waving mysteriously opposite the tides
Just as so we settle wane by rivers
To make believe sandcastles and abandoned shells
Sunlit by our wishes.
The titillating attention
Of barnacles in the fathomed soul of the sea
Is one portrait of our nature’s multiplicity.
A creamy willow holds sane lightly
Over the dead…
In case of fire
Children will tell you.
Carry on wayward son-
I have not mentioned your name,
I smile at the breathless pause
Before your answers,
I can not stare at world through a mirror,
I do not judge the truth of an opinion;
I lay still and I wait.
The road awakes
Skylight free the advance
Is a trilogy of hope
A metaphor of the past
(I refused the imago once again)
The illuvial horizon
Insane pervades like a morning song
In all the fables,
And the townships pass by
Unrecognized.
The young will wave their flags
At the parade, flirting hair
Dubious in the breeze,
Little dog in the loom of gaze.
(How did Sebastian die, when played by Montgomery Clift in the movie Suddenly One Summer?)
Once again Susan does not have an answer for me,
She pets my forehead as if
Easing the pain of entire world.
Who is the man holding the flashlight
In the alley?
What is the real order of words
As they ordain silence,
When Love is no longer enough?
A kiss is not a word,
The flashlight man is a quantum incognito
Susan is not mute.
And if you stare long enough
You will see that it was all
Always there, like that pretty word
You always looked in the letters.
“I do not compute…”, said the Machine.
So he broke it.
Are we to go on like this,
Desperado in the limelight of reason,
Fearing science as a spiritual atom
That coagulates within us?
That is why we have sunrises
And stars, to have something to say
To our neighbors in the morning…
And after all is said and done
Many recognize their image with another
As they meet in the boardwalk,
And others leer at them illustrating
Their own tattooed as a petal in the flower.
And, they go on like this, immense
And sometimes a mighty one emerges
From the imagines and thinks he’s got it.
He realizes he is cold once again in the breeze, /and…
Plunges into a cornucopia of ideas
And disappears in his own accord.
Susan picks up the petal
And destroys the flower,
Now the petals are two,
Faking innocence and desire together
They meddle the artifice of red.
Lately,
The wisterias mingle coiled and smiling
from soiled portico columns
Over the dead…
I have not mentioned the blues
Because they have been overused.
What is this love/hate relationship
You have with jazz?
Improvisation comes too near insanity
And we exits between the two.
But that’s okay, If you mess up
I will correct you.
For example, thank you, isn’t that wild?
Be careful, someone is watching us
From the crowd, those two eyes,
As we write on the walls… over the dead…
In the beginning there was peanut butter
Then jelly, then conformity.
“What’s wrong, don’t you like to rejoice
In peripatetic contemplation?”
“No! I want answers from this dictionary.”
THIS IS THE LIFE OF SOME,
TORN FROM DELICACY, AS
THE FIGURES IN THE MANGER
SEEM TO MOVE.
As the young play suicide chess
Upon the veranda beside the portico columns,
Sipping warm Coca-Cola
And smoking rolled cigarettes.
The smoke looms stoic - our love is our dead community.
Over the dead.
To immediately restores the star’s multiplication
Such is the closed End Game,
Where city gladiators obey stoplights
And car races on-line…
The last eclipse perils as a tear.
We are the last caste of primeval castaways
Surrendered and meek
The overcoming innovators of this Land.
Shrilled ballooning sails to the Left…
Leftist, come to me ample and free,
Right winged elves, afraid and the rest of the world.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Long live the love of Susan
in the aftermath of Eternity.
(Wheels cajole time in immediate semblances.)
The thunderous black luster
the coffin in the living room
drew no attention.
Resonant values starred,
over the dead.
Music played lately
each song like a personal anthem,
a translucent dictate shared by the masses.
And, the innards outgrew their rythym
because they had never ceased.
The tepid air corrupted hands and leaves.
The apple lay sudden among the grass
and the little boys dabbled their toes
in the pond's local immensity.
Candlelight sparked heavily
over the dead.
I mentioned Susan because
she was someone I knew
like you know so many things
and forget them,
I did not know that I loved her.
Books are really boxes for words,
you burned those you like best.
And the smoke cast a spell
of innocuous humor,
that you have yet to learn
how to smile at, in the afternoon.
Later as is
the image perished like doves
over the dead...
Birddog runs ruthless
In the forest thrive,
The insects follow as another
As eloquent entities;
The sky’s pallate
Resolves its own meticulous liberty.
Susan walks becauseway home
Counting the flowers of her philosophy,
Enduring the pebbles that mock
Her feet in intimate pain.
Has history for her
Ended as a swimming dream?
Is a number her folly?
Many have died this way
Wondering away-
Like laughters in the afternoon’s parade.
Silent old
Meek young
Dutiful beings celebrating one
The birth date of Jesus as their own,
Walking the sidewalks
Of a tormented city
Awestruck, flung
Flung towards the drift of sea
As rain,
As an ocean of stares
And recognizes the last flower
At the foot of the broken tombstone.
(Swelters of trepidation at sundown…)
A young tie-dye girl signals an omen
As the propensity of our making.
A flag is a nation’s fingerprint
Waving mysteriously opposite the tides
Just as so we settle wane by rivers
To make believe sandcastles and abandoned shells
Sunlit by our wishes.
The titillating attention
Of barnacles in the fathomed soul of the sea
Is one portrait of our nature’s multiplicity.
A creamy willow holds sane lightly
Over the dead…
In case of fire
Children will tell you.
Carry on-
I have not mentioned your name,
I smile at the breathless pause
Before your answers,
I can not stare at world through a mirror,
I do not judge the truth of an opinion;
I lay still and I wait.
The road awakes
Skylight free the advance
Is a trilogy of hope
A metaphor of the past
(I refused the imago once again)
The illuvial horizon
Insane pervades like a morning song
In all the fables,
And the townships pass by
Unrecognized.
The young will wave their flags
At the parade, flirting hair
Dubious in the breeze,
Little dog in the loom of gaze.
(How did Sebastian die, when played by Montgomery Clift?)
Once again Susan does not have an answer for me,
She pets my forehead as if
Easing the pain of entire world.
Who is the man holding the flashlight
In the alley?
What is the real order of words
As they ordain silence,
When Love is no longer enough?
A kiss is not a word,
The flashligh man is a quantum incognito
Susan is not mute.
And if you stare long enough
You will see that it was all
Always there, like that pretty word
You always looked in the letters.
“I do not compute…”, said the Machine.
So he broke it.
Are we to go on like this,
Desperados in the limelight of reason,
Fearing science as a spiritual atom
That coagulates within us?
That is why we have sunrises
And stars, to have something to say
To our neighbors in the morning…
And after all is said and done
Many recognize their image with another
As they meet in the boardwalk,
And others leer at them illustrating
Their own tattooed as a petal in the flower.
And, they go on like this, immense
And sometimes a mighty one emerges
From the imagines and thinks he’s got it.
He realizes he is cold once again in the breeze, /and…
Plunges into a cornucopia of ideas
And disappears in his own accord.
Susan picks up the petal
And destroys the flower,
Now the petals are two,
Faking innocence and desire together
They meddle the artifice of red.
Lately,
The wisterias mingle-
Over the dead…
I have not mentioned the blues
Because they have been overused.
What is this love/hate relationship
You have with jazz?
Improvisation comes too near insanity
And we exits between the two.
But that’s okay, If you mess up
I will correct you.
For example, thank you, isn’t that wild?
Be careful, someone is watching us
From the crowd, those two eyes,
As we write on the walls… over the dead…
In the beginning there was peanut butter
Then jelly, then conformity.
“What’s wrong, don’t you like to rejoice
In peripatetic contemplation?”
“No! I want answers from this dictionary.”
THIS IS THE LIFE OF SOME,
TORN FROM DELICACY, AS
THE FIGURES IN THE MANGER
SEEM TO MOVE.
As the young play suicide chess
Upon the veranda beside the portico columns,
Sipping warm Coca-Cola
And smoking rolled cigarettes.
The smoke looms stoic - our love is our dead community.
Over the dead.
To immediately restores the star’s multiplication
Such is the closed End Game,
Where city gladiators obey stoplights
And car races on-line…
The last eclipse perils as a tear.
We are the last caste of primeval castaways
Surrendered and meek
The overcoming innovators of this Land.
Shrilled ballooning sails to the Left…
Leftist, come to me ample and free,
Right winged elves, afraid and the rest of the world.
