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William Crowe II Aug 2014
It is
12:47 P.M.
and I am drunk
as a dog.

The gin tastes
like the forest,
the beer like
the alley.

But I can feel
your pretty gray eyes
right down the street
staring at me,

wondering why I've
done this to myself.
In high school I
seemed so clean,

so pure. I guess I
fooled you, though.
William Crowe II May 2014
After I make my way back
To old 1947 New York skyscraper city
In a time machine jalopy
The same color as a baby blue sky
With leather seats and chrome wheels
I would like to stop
In an old burger restaurant
Stinking of grilled meat and
Marlboro smoke and the stench
Of permed hair
To order a burger and salted fries
And I would like to stop just once
And stare out the wide window
Into a busy New York street
At the beautiful women
And the beautiful men
While I sip my coca cola
Out of a chilled glass bottle
And you **** on a gorgeous red
Cherry straight from the top of your
Cold vanilla milkshake
William Crowe II May 2014
In the warmth
of a hot Georgia day
the sun hangs
on his invisible crucifix.

The clouds are
a fine pillow-fort
beneath the
blanket of the dripping sky.

The trees are
poking out from the earth
and praying
for the spring to come sooner.
Yet another elegy to the springtime
William Crowe II Sep 2014
You're a flower-child,
spread on the bed with
flowers stuck to your little

with Ginsberg & Whitman on
the shelf & feminine mystique
dripping from the

tides rising & crushing
the shore,

while I snuggle
my flannel for warmth,
not to be a bore.

Framed pictures as you
reminisce on when we
were younger &

"We can still be untamed,
we've been framed
for uninsanity!"

But you call me a fool
& put your
porcelain head in my neck
& I feel foolish.

In the damp light of a cloudy day,
muscles aching, waves
uncontrollable urges.

Stranded in the pregnant
belly of a ***** secret city
the red rose of secret union

& we are sheltered
in the ****** warmth of the
cocooned like little monsters.

The calming ocean
& the calming whispers
& the tiny kisses
surround me, blot out my thoughts.

You sing me to
sleep &  run little
through my knotted hair.

Your tiny dollar store
Buddhas belch incense
the backdrop of your perfume.

The wind chimes
twinkle & whimper on the
porch where the swingset
rocks in the rain.

"I wish you weren't
engaged but I don't mind
breaking a few taboos."

You laugh like a soft mad fairy
& look down
at your phone & I turn over
on my naked side.

You laugh a funeral
giggle & I know I should have
worshipped you sooner
at the pillow-altar.

Show me Heaven without
death &
the Garden of Earthly Delights
devoid of sin,

show me your sharpened fox
grin &
the way sunset ripples
at your breath,

I will show you sacrifice
& the hidden light
of our lives
in the damp of the night.
William Crowe II May 2014
My Angel comes to me
in the light of the morning.

She wears white linens
that cling to her skin
and illuminate her lovely

Her Scorpio eyes
pierce my mind like a
fish hook and drag out
hidden desires.

She pulls me into her frame
and touches my flesh with
soft beautiful hands.

Her face presses my face
she pulls me by the root
and waters the vine and smells
like vanilla waterfalls.

She brushes my tongue with
hers, her lips with mine
and wraps slender arms
about my neck.

Her hips sway when she
glides down the twilight

She moves her golden hair
from her neck and pulls my head
there--I lick and kiss and bite
like a wild animal
and she groans.

My Angel touched my ****
and the jeweled seraphim
William Crowe II Sep 2014
when i die
i want to be
not burned
certainly not
sunk i want to
be in the nice
cool ground
with the worms
at least six feet
beneath our
own six feet
William Crowe II Sep 2014
When I see you,
I see a choir of doves
As white as the cliffs of Dover;
Your cheeks are the upturned
Bellies of fallen sparrows.

Every part of you sings in time
With the music that gravity makes
Between the spheres.

I am speechless;
It is amazing that you have
Fallen gently beside me,
Graceful, pretty, pretty as
A Basho haiku.

Your eyelashes are the spines
Of tiny fallen hummingbirds;
They cannot flutter anymore—
        Your gravity has stolen
        All of their vitality.

When you move,
All I hear is the sound of
Wings closing and opening

When you call me near to you
To say that your body is not
Beautiful, I want to
Call near to me the ancient mouths
Of every man and every beast
And every waterfall
To tell you differently.

I want to testify against you;
I want to change your mind;
But I surrender before you
So I can hear your voice
Even if it is wrong.
William Crowe II Aug 2014
There are those little
odd moments when I
would catch your eyes
staring at me
from across the room,

like you knew me.
You didn't know, dear;
not then. But you would
& we both knew
it, even then, locking
eyes like circling
William Crowe II Aug 2014
flayed unto deaf ignorance,
leave me here
in my opensky sepulchre,
skyclad & open,
arms spread upon an iron
cross, feet drenched in
blood (it pools on the ground
like rust) to die in the
pregnant sun, to turn to ash,
to be reborn in dust,
to leap across the earth
carried by a stranger's wind,
into unknown territories--
beyond here lies nothing.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
You who know how to dance
& do so very bravely
(smashingly even)
come out of your hovels
& little Zen cabins,
drink wine with the bums
& learn how to live
like a dharma lunatic
in the here & in the now
with clothes & perceptions
cast off into the
darkness of the stillness
of the brain
William Crowe II May 2014
I dissected a cow's eye

I cut the muscle from the pale ball
And cut that alabaster sphere
In half.

The cornea was as hard as a marble
And perfectly round
When I lifted it from

The ****** pale moon
That stared up at my scalpel.

It was a returning.
Written in my anatomy class
William Crowe II Jun 2014
O Reaper,
dark jewel in the shimmering sea of night
sickly flower blooming in the garden
pale wanderer of the doom-bound desert,
weave for me a tapestry
and drape it over the blinking stars.

O Death,
sweet fragrance of the morning
rapping on the windowsill,
compose for me a symphony
to haunt my ears as I sleep.

O Ghost,
gentle and geriatric in the dim moonlight,
sweep off the collecting dust
and blow it into the four winds
to carry us off on the backs
of the eagles.

O Ghoul,
your silhouette as the sunlight dims,
carve for me a juniper tree
so that I may dance around it
and welcome thee.

O Plague,
humming in the breath of the insects
crawling on the furs of the beasts,
pour for me a strong drink
to quench the flames of my disease.

O Maiden,
creeping into cronehood as the clocks stop
drifting down the clear stream into the damp
floating with the smoke to be imprisoned
multi-faced and schizophrenic,
sing for me a rhapsody
a hymn for my church of undoing.

O Glacier,
still and monumental,
melt into the sea of shining
and polish for me a mirror
to see clearly a glimpse
of mortality.

O Thanatos,
born at the beginning of time
flowering into youthful beauty
falling corpse-like in the rocks,
kiss the clouds and the trees
and write for me some poetry
to ease me into the long sleep.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
It blossoms like tumors
On our lips; the face
Of the moon looks into the
Window and sniffs you;
His lips crawl up and down
Your flesh, a maddened desirous

Country music—
It plays on the radio, a testament
To human boredom; it is a lullaby
And we sift through the static to find
It with our ears;
It fades, we keep the beat,
Then the voice croons back,
Almost asleep.

They chant in a choir high
Above us; the noise is golden
And it pours down like honey
Dripping into our eyes;
It tastes good, we scrape it like
Sleep from tired eyelids, or
Leaves from the gutter.

They are blooming outside like
Tumors on our lips; they are different colors,
We follow the rainbow and then
Return to the quiet room;
We can only lie simply beneath a canopy
Of Chinese drywall that stares
Down like a lost lover.

It blossoms as I hold
Up the mirror we have built;
It is made of sand
And crumbles in my fingers;
The tumors on our lips leap out
And crash through the red rag
Of an alcoholic day.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
She is the lady of the harvest--
                 I travel blindly to her garden
                 to smell the flowers and bask
                 in the remnants of what is left
                 of dead October;
                 she shows me how to look
                 into the garbage, into the flowers
                 to see the heroes in the weeds,
                 the ladies in the morning;
                 they lean out towards love,
                 they will lean that way forever
                 and ever.
William Crowe II May 2014

The living creatures--
the living creatures rush forth &    
They are in heat again &
they pant in their hot damp

the windows are covered,
the wisdom of the morning is
cool against the white flesh;
brush aside sun-colored hair,
feel to touch the smooth neck,
lean in to the pale lips;
become a master of the tongue,
for the sun sets slowly unceremoniously
on youthful dreams.

The vigor of the Dog Dance--
press your souls together, contort
in the rich silken comfort, get inside
& touch the velvet throne;
the diamond mine is restless &
moves forever: there are clouds
in that golden hair, marble columns
in the rose garden.


We have rested & recuperated
in our soft asylum; we have
violated & vomited in rhythms
with the serpent's palpitations;
we carry our naked babies to
the pond, peer into the rippling
sacrifice, see the shell of a bold &
beautiful reflection:
it is the moon & she dances about
our brains & she dares
us to sing.

Peek backward into golden cold
a thousand haunted worlds,
a thousand frightened dreams
circling in the trial of the mind;
the trial has lived forever,
it beckons you to return
to it's moist cotton womb:
you must dance, you must sing,
you must howl & screech
into diamond encrusted
Long poem in 2 parts chiefly inspired by Rimbaud and Morrison
William Crowe II Jun 2014
Sweet Star
silver & shuddering
spinning in the
inky black

Sweet hawk-headed
lord robed & ready
chanting in the
endless night
William Crowe II May 2014
I made love
a few days ago
to an unattractive girl
in a Doors t shirt

at 7:30 AM
as the sun came up
over the apartment

The morning birds
were singing a song
that was both beautiful
ad melancholic,

to herald the occasion.
My synapses fired off
and my adrenaline said
"yes" and my heart

shrunk away shyly.
When it was over I had
a cigarette that smelled
better than she did.

She tasted like
cigarettes and red wine
and I had no choice
but to let myself in

to the colossal void
of human intimacy.
The door opened and
beckoned me

with loving fingers
and opened palms.
Her lips caressed
the flesh of my neck

and gave me chills.
She held me in her hand.
She held me in her mouth.

overwhelmed my
ugly spirit, my ugly
face. But these are doors
that must be breached

if one is to be a man;
more importantly,
a poet.
William Crowe II Aug 2014
These are colors unseen
& fires unhidden
but you have to look
to discern.

In the darkness
of these corridors
we crouched
amidst low-hanging
ferns and sterile white

Wild animals crept
outside the windows,
birds perched on the
there were fish in the
streaming brown

Beyond the wide wooden
doors, in the auditorium,
there are fires burning
that no one has seen.

There are plays
going on constantly,
embittered actors on
the stage, tightrope walkers
bedecked in merriment,
never looking at the sun,
pale like a polar bear's

They usher us in one
by one, taking our tickets,
and send us in
over & over
to burn in their
eternal furnaces.
William Crowe II May 2014
O! sweet Angel;
cherub; seraph; beautiful nymph,
cradle the night in
delicate French hands,
bend it to match your invisible
words, your intangible sentences.

You have the most beautiful face
in Europe, did you know that?

The eyes, vacant and holy;
the mouth, tender and rose-shaped;
the nose, delicate like veneer;

the twilight black and white
plays off the intelligence
in your face
and howls out mad words,
brilliant words, works
of art.

We are a breed
trapped in your silken
and desolate stare,

forever to study you and
scrutinize you, your fiendish ways,
your rambunctious poetries--

your poetries are published
in Heaven, did you know that?

They are made of glass and I am
afraid that my hands may
crush them when
I bring my fingers across
newly-printed pages.

My own poetries are so *******,
demonic; Enoch smiles
in the land of the dead and
prepares them for printing.

My own nature is so bland,
so ritualistic, so uninteresting;
I am not a ***,
I am not a rebel,
I am not a drug fiend;
I am a student
playing at being an anarchist.

But your lice-infested sheets
are gone and burned.

Your lover's hand,
now decayed beneath the French earth.

The ***** dens of Paris,
the absinthe dens of Paris,
seem to be gone.

You would not enjoy it here

I hope I find you in Heaven,
for you have the most angelic
face in Heaven--
the clouds pale next to you,
the cherubs with their trumpets
turn away and weep.

I hope I find you in Heaven,
for we have a lot to teach
one another.
William Crowe II May 2014
I will never be enough of a man
To dowse my saffron robes
In cold gasoline and set it aflame
In buddhistic conviction--
My dreams would scamper
From my burning head to find another,
My flesh would crack and burn
Like old parchment
In rough palms.

I will never be enough of man
To eat buckshot out of
A hollow cold steely gun
My mouth wrapped around the
Reaffirming thickness--
My eyes would dart and then close
My ears would ring and then collapse
Like an old building
Consumed in flames.

I will never be enough of a man
To wrap a rope round my neck
And stare blankly ahead
To seize the day
From God's hands--
My face would bulge
My limbs would twitch
Like a dying rodent
In the throes of cancer.

I will always be enough of a man
To kiss your lips
With my own and feel
Your curves in my hands
And look at the sun--
My trembling hands falter
My eyes can't see to feel for you
Like a blind pianist
Playing the blues.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
He needs no introductions
the man behind the mask
in the indifference of the
glass. Enraptured &
alone, he does indeed
wait for the miracle
of the night. Impetuous,
glaring, still.
William Crowe II Aug 2014
"You're always so right about everything," she says.

Yes, dear, but it comes at a price.
I am hardly ever surprised.
William Crowe II May 2014
I tried to write
a novel

It was about a town
called Foxtrot,
in the hot Georgia summer
and three people
that lived there.

There was a symbolic
dogwood tree (it stood
for innocence)
and it rotted away
when the femme fatale
was *****.

Her lover ***** her; he was
apparently a violent man.

Her other lover mourned
but was not sad anymore
once he had shot
the ******.

Then in recompense
the lady opened herself to him.

"1+0=3" she said.

And that was when he realized
that the universe is
***, a battle
of creative impulses.

Someday I'll go back
and try to write about Foxtrot,
Kentucky again.

This time, the man will be *****
and we will see what
the universe is like for him
William Crowe II May 2014
God's gray thumb
Was as heavy as a fistful
Of black steel
On the day he pressed it
Into the earth
And created a crater
And filled it with water.

He looked down at His creation
Then looked back up
At the Firmament and saw
A resemblance in the way
They both reflected that kind
Matronly face, bearded, wrinkled
Full of hope.

Then His hands were gray
On the day He blurred
The lines; the trees in
The garden stood solemn
And man and his wife
Looked on them
And got curious.
William Crowe II May 2014
I have become accustomed
to the way the barks of dogs
envelope me when I am walking
in my decrepit neighborhood
smoking a cigarette.

The sounds, all different, engulf
my senses. It is as though
they know with canine intensity
(they know deep in their teeth)
that the tar smoke smell
is out of place among the
damp trees and trodden flowers.

I have become accustomed
to the way Mrs. Parkinson
(old lady with Parkinson's)
turns her head away while watering
her smiling tulips when I
turn to look at her
looking at me with disapproval.

I have become accustomed
to the burn of the inhale
and flicking the embers on the asphalt
and stomping the finished
smoking stump when the
inches have turned to ashes.

My fingers are yellow and brittle
but I'll never give up the habit
because I like to feel
like a cowboy.
William Crowe II May 2014
Smoking a beer
Drinking a cigarette
Greenery, a waterfall coming
Up from the ground
Suckling at the roots
And the dirt.

My tongue suckles
At my busted lips.

Headache, muscles aching
Brief descriptive experience imagist/surrealist
William Crowe II May 2014
The headdress danced in the sun
On the Indian's hollow
And eyeless skull.

It was framed in feathers
Brightly-colored serpents in the
Salty air flames licking at
Dancing and ***** bare feet.

Dark-skinned, tall, high cheekbones
And solemn eyes full of
Wisdom--he surveys the
Badlands, Moses's rigid face
Blank and silent in a
Heatwave desert.

Beyond the teepees and the
Black bonfire smoke and
The buffalo rhythm, the plateau has
Risen, bleached bones
Litter the plains as a constant
William Crowe II May 2014
If you want to be a poet,
just pretend to be depressed.

Drink alcohol, cut yourself, &
pop pills.

Listen to angry music &
wear black every day.

If you dare to smile we will
cut you from the canon!

To be a poet is to be a disciple,
a saddened & sickened disciple.

If you aren't angsty & angry
you cannot be a poet.

Poetry is about sadness
& hate & anger.

Poetry is a way for teenagers
to hate their parents
& get away with it.

Alas, I cannot be a poet;
I believe in Heaven, you see,
or something like it
& enjoy life
Yes, this is completely scathing
William Crowe II Aug 2014
I am not your enemy.
I want to give you a colossal domain.
I want to bottle up the seas for you.
I want to paint you a picture with the sun's rays.
I want to pull down the moon with a chain & tie it to your pretty waist.

I am not your enemy.
I would give you a palace if I could,
or a distant farmland if your tender soul required.
I would found for you a university,
so that the world's young lovers could learn your
proper caresses.

I am not your enemy.
I would catch for you, if I could,
the world's brightest birds, the world's fairest fishes.
I would build you a zoo, then, with an aquarium,
so that you could watch at your leisure
the creatures of your creation.

I am not your enemy.
I will build you a mausoleum, so that I can entomb
you somewhere where only I can visit you,
with flowers in my hand,
and a pretty pearl necklace,
and tears hanging from my
rounded chin.
William Crowe II Jun 2014
Io Io
Pan Pan

Wreathed in flowers,
feet wreathed in fire,
eyes twinkle dark,
shining from the lyre

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

Sun burning red
and pregnant,
possibility, paradox

Io Pan Pan
Io Pan

Sun giving life,
father gives the Word,
He taketh away
just as He giveth
and He giveth
and maketh the grass

Io Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

He gives the fire,
He taketh it away

Io Pan
Pan Pan Io

From over the sea
the stars blinking
with rapidity

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

Lust in the rivers,
hate in the mountains,
the hills are sighing,
the Nymphs are naked

Io Pan

The moon, mother,
matronly marvel
give us the sight
true sight to see
with shining gaze
perfume flowers
in ***** ****** daze

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

The marble thigh,
the glass eye,
bathed in blood
on bridal bed of

Io Pan
Pan Pan
Io Pan Pan

Envy the golden python,
throw thyself
towards the golden dawn
bathed in the flowers
of perfumed fawn

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan

Thrusting sword into ferns
of folding, the damp, the wicked
the opened eye
the one hand clapping

Pan Pan

Reside in the grasp
of the vermillion snake
the vermin moving
in meadows
thorny meadows
lie silent in silver shadows

Io Io Pan

Flowers on the gypsy rod,
fleshy gate of God
bleeding and burning

Io Pan
Io Pan Pan
William Crowe II Aug 2014
I've got my love
on the tip of my finger
& I'm holding a drop
just above your

waiting on it
to soak through to
your clothing.

There's purity
in the streetlights,

innocence in the dull
sheen of the water
still wet on the streets,

and love in your

Your chest beats
slowly in the thickening

slowly and heavily,

you shouldn't have smoked
that cigarette,

you desolation angel.

And we pass the
gas stations and the
cornerstores and the
neon OPEN signs
flash and blink at us,

telling us something
gravely important,

inviting us
into their jeweled

their zoo.

There is a light
in your eyes that
never goes out,

looking up at me
in the meager light
of the urban decay
(lights are still on in the
highrises and the section 8
houses & they burn &
we wonder)
trying to find
an answer trickling
from my lips,

like saltwater--
but I can't say

I've been too stricken.

Stricken by the sudden
sound of pealing bells
in the distance,

stricken by the lightning
quick flash of silver
from when our hands
lazily touch,

like a hard tap on the
spine & a hard tug
on the tail.

My insides roll,

my throat is dry,

can't stop fidgeting,

what price cigarettes?

I feel faded like my
old blue jeans,

& speckled in baby
blue paint,

walking sideways
down a dank alley
where a bicycle sits
propped against
old mossbricks.

The smell of the rain
clings heavy on
our clothes, the taste
of the rain seeps
between my cracked

& you clutch my
hand in yours (I
can feel the heat, I
can smell your
butterflies & taste
the sewage from
rusted vents) and kiss
me ******* the mouth.

Left hand meets your

right hand holds yours,

just below eye level
& I can feel you smile
as my kisses deepen you
& open you,

I can feel your teeth
brush my lips soft
like a paintbrush,

I can feel your nails
like chalk
on the smooth
back of my neck,

& then we step out
into the nightlife,
smelling like cigar smoke
and a drunken day.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
It doesn't take long for me
        to write a poem like it
        used to.
No, I see a stream & think
        not of rhyme or of
        rhythm--words spew
        out like blood
        and venom.
There's no secret to it, no
        golden key, it just
It bubbles out of me.
I am a word-faucet.
William Crowe II Jun 2014
Sweet uncertainty;
Double-edged sword
Of love and hate;
The taste of
Tongues and poison.

There is blood
In the sunrise
And blood
In the ocean;
The waves recede,
Then come back again.

In our youth
We were bold
And the stars bowed
To our heat.

The shadows flicker
Across a dim room,
The pipes cough,
There are locusts
In the dry walls.

Our hearts are big
As God and pulse
In the vanity of summer.

Venom drips from
The trees
Of our ceiling
Catch it in your
William Crowe II Sep 2014
I love you
when I spontaneously
spout Robert Frost
you know exactly
to pick up with
the next line.

I love you
you read The Bell Jar
& felt it
in your womanly bones
before those
other girls tried
to grab my attention.

I love you
the studs in your
nose are like stars
the sun & moon
of your marble
green-flecked eyes.

I love you
you tell me how
you feel & don't
try to claw out
my eyes
but claw my back

I love you
the air in your room
is just cool enough
for love
& the light just
dim enough
for love.

I love you
you regard the scene
with cool intellectual
librarian eyes
& step on the tiles
with ballet fairy

I love you
you have known
false love &
the Colossus of
false piety &
you know that I worship

above all the pagan gods.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
lead against the
    paper, rough
  of natural
        moving along
  but feel
    seaside drapes
            and the
            carpet of
William Crowe II Sep 2014
On a plateau
        by the seashore
sits a naked goddess,

a dryad or a naiad--
       she laments a soft
song of mechanical

love. Bathing in the
        quiet night, the
light, the

        stillness. She looks
at me with sad eyes.

On a conch-shell loveboat
        together we sail
through snaky canals

of the heart.
        Cool, lapping
water drips

from her long
        seaweed hair as she
sings for me--

we go beneath
        the sea &
look up at

intangible starfish
        that mirror
the stars of the

William Crowe II Sep 2014

solid solitary
crying out into
the night

around the fire
our emerald eyes

to inhabit the

shamans dancing
roaring into the

snakes wrapping

our limbs

phantom elves
in the embers
of a dream
William Crowe II Jun 2014
"In a row???" I ask, incredulous.

"Nah, man."

"Were you at least #37?"

"Well, yeah. But still that gets to me," he says. He starts counting change, playing with pennies on the glass counter.

"If you didn't see it, it didn't happen," I reply. I pull out a $5.00 bill.

"That's childish!" He looks at me like I'm a babbling idiot.

"That's my life!" It was my life.

"I can't believe you sometimes," he says. Nobody can, bud.

"You better start. I'm smarter than I look." I'm bluffing now; I'm a ******* idiot.

"Yeah, yeah. Do you wanna buy anything or not?" he goes back to his pennies on the glass counter.

"Yeah--Marlboro Reds," I reply hesitantly. For a moment I thought about Camels.

"$5.00 even." It's always $5.00 even when you're with friends.


"Shorts or 100s?"

"****, man, shorts!" It's my turn to look at him like he's a total stranger.

"Just asking." He puts the bill in the register.

"Shorts say badass. 100s say suicide mission."

"I suppose you're right."

"It makes perfect sense!"

"Either way you're going to die."

"Yeah? So are you, buddy."


I exit the convenience store, pack my Marlboro Reds, turn two up (one for luck, one for ****, to be smoked lastly out of the pack) and light one.
William Crowe II May 2014
My Soul through nighted halls
did stagger to be remembered
and rejoined in hollow Void.

The limps, the shackles did echo
on shadow'd floor as fire
flickered in the lamps.

The empty sea full of Ego
it's waves did crack on temple
walls and we left it behind

to defend the fanning flames.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
God in the window
God in the door
God in the staircase
God all over the floor;
        We went out tonight,
        Wondering, weeping,
        Dreary down city lanes
        And lonely in the street.
The trees line the sidewalk
The trees are staring at us
God is in the majesty of the trees
God is in the wisdom of the air;
        There is grime in the cracks,
        The cracks of the ***** street,
        And it springs up like April showers
        And it licks the air like May flowers.
The puddles rest at the edge
The puddles are still and shallow
God is in the naivety of the puddles
God is in the exultance of the moonlight;
        We are home now to rest and dine,
        Comfortable in the warmth of the fire,
        At ease with the taste of the house
        And God is in the house.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
The leaves form a shade (a dead mobile)
Hanging over the heads
Of the pedestrians,
Who don’t even notice
That summer’s beauty has been
Stiffened; summer’s leaves
Are falling as if they were
Birds soaring too close to the sun
And so fall down in loneliness.
It is as if orchards are dying high up
In space; as if star orchards have
Lost their weight, and so fall resignedly
On the head of the earth. But
Something is holding all of this falling up,
Isn’t it?
William Crowe II Sep 2014
Pick it up with your delicate fingers;
The tiny oval, purple and bruised,
And in it is contained a life, and cold juice.

Nurtured by the sun, surrounded by
Fresh air in a vineyard; now
Bathed in the sterile light

Of a public school cafeteria.
If grapes have a religion, I’m
Sure the sun is the Son of God

And wine tasters are the dogs of Hell.
If grapes could talk, would they mention
How ugly you look

As you raise grape after grape into your
Grape-colored mouth? I want to speak to the
Grapes; I want to know what they are
William Crowe II Sep 2014
There is a nativity scene in my backyard every morning.
I can look out the window and observe,
With tired eyes, the birth of Christ
And the treachery of Cain
And the flood of Noah
And the sacrifice of Abraham
And even Moses’ burning bush.

The sun rises above the forest every morning.
It smiles on the grass and makes it grow;
The dewdrops on the trampoline
Cast tiny rainbows on the black rubber surface;
A tiny autumn breeze sways the trees
And they dance with a mysterious genius
That man cannot know.

I can hear the music of the birds in the morning.
There are tiny red berries and honeysuckle flowers
On the trees at the edge of the woods;
There is no serpent, though,
And there is no Eve to pick them and eat them,
And there is no Adam, naked and ribless,
And there is certainly no angel swinging a flaming
Sword in my Garden of Eden.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
The lights of passing cars dance
On the darkened ceiling—
The only light in a pitch-black room
Is periodical and flickers away
Like a monarch butterfly
On honeymoon with a new lover.

The sickly smell of lilacs hangs
In the still air—
A remnant from the incense,
A reminder of previous activities,
The scent sticking to the walls
Like cobwebs, to the ceiling like ice sickles.

The sound of the television in the other room
Intrudes through the cracked door—
It is a ghost that talks hurriedly
Of things that no one should care about;
It finds its way into my ears
Where it holes itself up like a chipmunk in hibernation.

The hours pass away like relatives or lilac bushes
At the start of the new winter—
I lie awake haunted by the television,
The rancid smell of dead flowers,
The light of busy cars,
And this horrible poem.

This poem bleeds out of my pen as though it
Had a heart, and I stabbed the heart—
As though its blue pulsing ink veins like vines
Had been cut; the ghost of the words won’t
Let me sleep, so I may as well
Stay up.

The sun peeks over the horizon like a newborn baby
Peeking out of the womb—
She spreads her rosy fingers and her rosy lips
And her grin creeps into the dark room,
I can hear the rooster crow; I can feel the moon find his way back
Into the cave.
William Crowe II May 2014
Pale heave of heavy *****
with each blossom of panting
roads of veins line the
tops of tender *******--
the hair on the head
a straw-colored pigeon's
nest unbrushed and dull--
the eyes are sunken and darkened
like Cleopatra and Isis
beneath light and gentle brow--
the lips soft and pink
like the skin of a babe and
the light of the Crucifixion--
rosebuds, rosebuds, darling rosebuds!
Reach out into empty silent air
spread out on the velvet sheets
to become scarlet and inflamed.
William Crowe II Aug 2014
I don't like the way
you criticize
the Smiths, or your
gentleman callers,
or that I will never
be good enough, but I
don't mind the way you
look at me,
or the way butterflies
infest my stomach
and then my throat when
I try to speak to you.

I don't like the way
you skirt around the issue--
you beat around the bush,
but I'd rather
burn it down.

I don't like the way
you live right down
the street, as if we were
put here for a reason,
and I lie awake at
night, thinking of
you, talking to
you, knowing that
you might just be
listening to the same
breeze that I'm listening to.

I don't like the way
you might be using me,
manipulating me,
opening me up and looking
at my bare soul
like a roadmap, and then
you use it as a welcome

We hear the same trains
at night, we see the same
cars passing
by our houses, the same
leaves fall in our yards.

I've torn my heart out,
opened up my rib cage,
and let the blood
spill out, and now I've given
it to you.

You can do what you
wish with it--

but I would appreciate it
if you would lock it away
and throw away the key,
and please
please just don't step
on it.

My head swims with
confusion (so does yours,
but you're so afraid
of your emotions that
you can't bear to see it,
so you say)
and you make me feel

So look at me again
and open your lips
again and speak to me,
that's all I need.

I'll try not to think
about you, while you
go off in your confusion,
and try to sort out your

Fear is the heart
of love.

In the end,
you will accept the
love that you deserve,
and the only love
is mine.
William Crowe II May 2014
What pale glory dwells in
the clouds, in the sky?

A thousand angels,
a thousand gleaming

The golden notes assail me
and fill my head with
Heaven's glee until
it is heavy and droops.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
I stand on the porch
& it overlooks the road
& it is painted white.

I smoke a cigarette
with my left hand
in my pocket.

I exhale & enter
a daydream
where I am yours.

I close my eyes
& I taste your lips
& I touch your thigh.

I open my eyes
to peer into the desire
lounging on my tongue.
William Crowe II Sep 2014
So now you've left me
nothing but quiet bones.

You have pulled out
my unreal teeth.

You have taken off
my unlaughable clothes.

I **** the bitter
night. I **** all its

kisses; they bring
me no joy. You have

trimmed my unabashed
hair, my unyielding

I am quiet bones.
William Crowe II May 2014
April, April
Your showers come down
In flat gray sheets
And I pregnant the earth
With cardinal majesty

April, April
Your flowery children are cloaked
In green fragrant humility
With roots that kiss
And **** gently at the wet earth

April, April
The sun smiles on you today
As you sit beneath
The cloud blankets of Sky
And cry
Written for the rain.
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