"doldroms" poems
Let’s take a silver train underground
to the back streets of Atlantis
thru the corrugated iron roots &
then to the peak itself, to the
saddle of the last ridge past strewn
boulders,
finally meandering thru cascading snow
wearing miner’s hats on the perpendicular
dark night &
going up to the edge of the Southern Cross
where we reach at last the pure white
glistening glaciers &
begin to chant over bones in rags
of Scorpio
Armless in the sticky substance how could
they ever have had a chance?
Permission will not be required
only poems of blood offered to
the memory of TREE
It is not ice which is eternal
but the fury of the absolute
separating the void from the spirit
of man,
uplifting like life when it is used
against itself,
that is, Radical Love -- & again, we
are reduced to living beings
Caught by the instant
we are taken away
We live in the imprint of the flame
& we are helmeted within the internal
blackness
where the ray begins its passage
across the indignant sky
Vain clouds uncaring in a tangle of
crossbeams
culminate in the hermaphroditic mirror
of the epileptic dancer
asleep
And during sleep
the light is joined
to the light
It is all a matter of getting up
and then to abandon the pain
It is there that the journey beings
in the self generated flame of
Spontaneous Combustion
(Swayambhunath)
The main line running counter
to the triangle comprising the
MAELSTROM, the DOLDROMS & the
SARGASSO SEA where sleeping Atlanteans
dream forever,
this line, this battlefield of the ages,
crosses the divide of my most wandering
backdoor heart.
We will all have to go
if we want to reappear
in the rhythm of the ritual
It’s the wheel of fools spinning
over my bed
If I put my left foot first
they will find a way to call me
by that name
tracking tremors
like glyphs
on drunken walls
in the negative palace
just before taking eave
of my senses
the white powder dissolves
in the sunlight
& making noise like a peacock
he hops on one foot up the mountain.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
the gentle roll of linoleum wheels
cellophane crumbling under busy fingers
injured legs and bruised egos hobbling up onto electric motors
plastic temptation oozes in the hollow
linear formations of children and wives amble downward
each man shelters himself behind his own dishonesty
millennium passes in view of the black, hanging periscopes
beyond the doors, they stagger inward
dragging pity on a chain which stretches clear to the highway
hungry dogs trot along in their wake
fragrance of fresh meat lingers in the air
Aug 4, 2011
Aug 4, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
Light-hearted?
difficult.
Gloomy-eyed
more typical.
Strangled by the umbilical,
struggling to be original.
Is this what you wanted,
my parents
(who raised me well)?
To think what others have already thought,
to follow and not dwell?
Is this the life you wished for me,
my teachers
(who taught me well)?
To believe the precious theories wrought
by fat scholars, paid well?
Light-hearted?
difficult.
Gloomy-eyed
more typical.
Struggling against the umbilical,
blind to the original.
Is this what you would have me believe;
that I
am just another?
To work, get paid and raise my kids
in a world that can only smother?
Light-hearted?
impossible.
Gloomy-eyed
most probable.
Strangled by the umbilical,
struggling to be original.
May 1, 2011
May 1, 2011 at 8:52 PM UTC