1979

 

 

 

The Judgement

 

Man only begins to understand
and mouth as if he were listening
trying to decipher the script
with his hands
or his wounds.
There is always more work
until he has no strength left
and his tongue can just lap.
During this process memory goes
he tries to recover phenomena
but they roll around his mind
he grasps at falling codes
condemned chains of silence
pitching across perception.
Then the Judgement.
We bury him.

Man only begins to understand
such justice
yet he mumbles in harness
you read on his face a complex
of active vibration
while mouthing the script
then one of our officers moves in.
Now the subject recalls former days packed with people
that old machinery still working slightly
as he lies
eyes closed
on the sand
done.
He sees dark shapes
they move over his face.
We bury him.

 

 


 

Sleeping Tantalus

 

 

Numbers arrive misplaced
homespun
through every fathomless hair pore
of time
in a wink
of empty selves
as bubbles that flash
while this visitor vanishes
shrunk to a speck
across reeling totality
weaving
repelled
among deeper veils
those reluctant shades
listening
in their graves
which even appeared
to exist
via some dubious enigma
of units stopped
in place.

Thus were found
only broken images
purified by dream.

 

 


 

 

The vain heart foams

 

 

Why not build on ruins
or some awareness that warps our life
with unrestrained effort
of the forsaken

Maybe build on a lie
which clogs our mouth
with deception’s ambrosia
or the sourness of smoke

Perhaps build on a look
wild varnish in our eyes
an architecture of stare
unbearable even to us

Then dictate a delirium
history written in our groans
coating this world with language
until it cannot take root.

 

 


 

 

Isolation

 

 

Suffering often goes unwitnessed
nothing moves among mountains but air
while dark rocks echo with our cries
that dissolve across
their sharpened lines

And my words
so soon swallowed
absorbed
gone from view
like a tune burning itself out in the head.

 

 


 

 

So

 

 

This woven blood
its falling tremor
a veiled melody
that breaks
across impalpable shores
pressed
through deep soil
chafed by an irate plough
while heckling crows
settle on the pointed wood.

Then a message may come
scorning our rules
and we will pretend
to have understood.

So legends are made breath
in careless certainty
in wrinkled stone.

 

 


 

 

As

 

 

At each shudder
and hollow day
near as a touch
to this contraction
between the ribs
of life

As since first
was felt or heard
discord ring confused
on waters of mingled dream

As after helpless recoil
for fear
following sleep
again
we come to that
we cannot say.

 

 


 

 

When day returns

 

 

When day returns
like something never reached
aflame on the air
patterned in darkness
behind scorched eyes
or a fist against some tree
nails scratching digits
through lichen dust
such place sufficient
much as anywhere
for losing the attempt
grappling with focus
that cannot resolve an object
due to material
in its form
and this quiet
another kind of voice
always unfinished
when day returns.

 

 


 

 

Attempting dawn

 

 

Dawn like her eyes
I so wanted to see me
which never came
from behind their clouds

Dawn like air
I wanted to breathe
inspiring
into my lungs

Dawn like a wish
for years less worthless
as my words attempt light
through this network of lines.