Tongueless
Leaving, she praised the skill
of his tongue in giving her
song for the nights they met in
a starless arena, as if those notes
were all that traveled in the traffic
between mouth and body under eyes
that roved like helium-lights.
Now it is dark. The stage is empty. Beatrice in her hurry seems to have left a play behind. Time is yet to press it into the strata of myth. Orpheus is yet to begin his singular wailing descent. In this version, I heard it told, he will not return for Beatrice takes two tongues down with her.
My Poems
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A Question For The Masters
Why is that, O Respected
(and Expensive) Masters, that your
eyes always saw the sky filled with
warm porridge, with cotton candy, with
horse manes, or with golden sheaves
of wheat, and never absolutely empty
of all essence like a giant blue
or black bell, with a tongue
of golden light or silver rain tolling,
tolling for God knows what?
At the Met's "The Age of Rembrandt" Exhibit, September 19, 2007
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Some Lineaments Of Gratified Desire
After a night spent
cradling my bawling desire
- how much we want from things and experiences: cities in rain, schools of fish swimming in coral bays, fossils dug from the flinty backs of high mountains, beautiful bodies of lovers to enter and leave as if they were cafes in Parisian sunlight, a taste of plums under the tongue, camphor smoke perfuming the hair, dancing with pomp like peacocks -
I wake up, brush my teeth, bring a kettle on the stove to boil, and break eggs over a sizzling griddle for breakfast, all the while humming Blake: "Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear! O clouds unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire!"
My Poems
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