via Virus 2020 A.D.
via Studio Window
via Said by Jack
Goodbye , goodbye , to one place or another ,
to every mouth , to every sorrow ,
to the insolent moon , to weeks
which wound in the days and disappeared ,
goodbye to this voice and that one stained
with amaranth , and goodbye
to the usual bed and plate ,
to the twilit setting of all goodbyes ,
to the chair that is part of the same twilight
to the way made by my shoes .
I spread myself , no question ;
i turned over whole lives ,
changed skin , lamps , and hates ,
it was something I had to do ,
not by law or whim ,
more of a chain reaction ;
each new journey enchained me ;
I took pleasure in places , in all places .
And , newly arrived , I promptly said goodbye
with still newborn tenderness
as if the bread were to open and suddenly
flee from the world of the table .
So I left behind all languages ,
repeated goodbyes like an old door ,
changed cinemas , reasons and tombs ,
left everywhere for somewhere else ;
I went on being , and being always
half undone with joy ,
a bridegroom among sadnesses ,
never knowing how or when ,
ready to return , never returning .
It’s well known that he who returns never left ,
so I traced and retraced my life ,
changing clothes and planets ,
growing use to the company ,
to the great whirl of exile ,
to the great solitude of bells tolling .
The Owl and the Seraphim
the ermine shiver
a page ripped out
a passage cries to quiver
anointing poems , a frozen room
this grey land storms a labor pain
the puddle , the bellies lake
does blackness wane
upon an empty beds membrane.
the night frock flees
this in between
the spider crawls into the snow
the crow suspends , the fish lay low
blood stalks the stars
and Venus reigns
a dream that drips does not touch down
a dream where wings salute the air
to spill the scent of sweet champagne
she walks the wire a forsaken domain.
Photo credit : Janet L. Doane
her hair hangs ore the river
her hair hangs ore bare skin
her hair an adoration
her hair tormenting worlds
the great whale dead and bloated
ice screams from broken bone
Hail Mary full of grace
the river smells of outer space .
rare things are growing
the moon is moving , shalom
fly the burning flag of freedom
do you know what it’s like
to be almost swallowed home ?
he pours the tea
gold sugar , emotional weight
unfurls her hair
upon dew shoulders , a soul
scratching in the still and quiet
she is scared
and not scared
an amateur actress standing bare
first on center stage fore square.
” Mary did you know ”
you have a regal stance ?
all mutate in your presence
the camera clicks
she turns her head
and when she sees she does transfix
her human vanishes
the bleak cold winter
a bountiful banquet
shattering dry in the rain debris.
Mary don’t dye your hair
wanting to change your wild esprit
I too am thirsty seeing you there
the moon is moving the tall pine tree
over passing Traverse Bay
glory joins utopian pupils
the lake of her eyes my northern stay .
a spaceship jolts
Issa is here and
he is calling for you
Mary , do you know what it’s like
to be swallowed home ?
I am scared
and not scared for you alone .
I loved holding your hand
what piece of that is you ?
there , a white horse loose
and hit by a car on Paradise Road
its a curious land
God allows .
do you recognize me
the red spruce , the snow goose laying in lake sand
the turntable now
an alleluia instrument
sounding swallows to reproduce
and me to the dance band sway .
Who is that boy
who is he that proclaims
I need to feed my girl ,
not you .
the sky is pushed so far away
is there anything saved for me ?
great fog in our upper peninsula settles down
the snow land to arouse
the symphony of crying voices vows
a cracking chord
ice lies over the Crystal River
love insane a disarray in unison on my brows .
I loved holding your hand
until it held me down
and I emerged a white peacock
no more tomb in the middle of my bedroom .
Feeling such thankfulness for your dear and beautiful friendships ….💜
Day One :
There a bloom has fallen , laying off the path , red fading almost grey . She picked it up and buried it . She was a reader of fairytales . The birds left broken shells under their nests and all the fields outside the city were soft and green . Voices , insects digging , wheat grass , musk , rusted gates , warm winds , always the wind , all of it , all of it in that green . She walks here often , the odor of pink painting the tender joy of her life .
Day Two :
There the white sheets are flapping on the clothesline when he appears . She was sitting on the front steps of her house on the corner of Parmalee Street . She is thin , small breasted and fine in stripped bell bottoms , poet blouse , Moroccan sandals , the leather pale and worn wrapping around her ankles , such beautiful bones . His heart was going like mad . The out of style clothes and the arch of her foot , unusual . He knew he would panic if she moved . She held a baby . The neighborhood lights dimmed . The summer of the year 1983 was ordained . The humming of the lawn sprinklers sang it .
There , under the sky , she looked at him and looked at him longer and in that pause they both heard the birds screaming on the road above , so resplendent in escape . He would never forget the sound of her voice and she would never forget the sad drooping of his quite lovely left eye or the music he would later play for her . He stalked her with a plea that turned into a gift . His name is Paulo .
Day Three :
Well , he was young , just out of university . She was older with no education . He slept with ” Abba ” on the wall above his bed , she slept under the long neck of a Modigliani print under glass . Truth has an oblique face , an extraordinary stone the gods hide deep within . The hunt began the day they met , maybe paradise , maybe a nightmare , maybe both . Her name is Mary .
That same week :
And there , two hundred miles to the north , along the coast of the Great Lake Michigan where apples hang heavy on the trees , a young man overturns a silver rowboat , pushing it into the waves of an inland lake . His name yet unknown .