Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Ode

A crow squawks in my face
A shadow obfuscates my sight
Two weasels and two foxes
Cross the field I am riding by
My horse’s legs give out
My servant falls and foams at the mouth
I hear thunder crack the pillars of the sky
A ghost materializes before my eyes
Charon calls me to his boat
I peer deep into the earth

This river runs upstream to its birth
A bell tower is mounted by an ox
Blood trickles from the rocks
An asp copulates with a bear
High above the rooftops
A serpent shreds a vulture
A fire burns in ice
The sun is a black space
I spy the moon as it drops
This tree has moved from its place


Ode

Un corbeau devant moi croasse,
Une ombre offusque mes regards,
Deux belettes et deux renards
Traverse l’endroit où je passe,
Les pieds faillent à mon cheval,
Mon laquais tombe du haut mal,
J’entends craqueter le tonnerre,
Un esprit se présente à moi,
J’ois Charron qui m’appelle à soi,
Je vois le centre de la terre.

Ce ruisseau remonte à sa source,
Un boeuf gravit sur un clocher,
Le sang coule de ce rocher,
Un aspic s’accouple d’une ourse,
Sur le haut d’une vieille tour
Un serpent déchire un vautour,
Le feu brûle dedans la glace,
Le Soleil est devenu noir,
Je vois la lune qui va choir,
Cet arbre est sorti de sa place.

Théophile de Viau (1621)

Monday, February 6, 2012

The Sun Inside


The sun floats, to everyone’s relief.  It costs
Nothing to black it out.  Adonis shades
The simple day and the cinema of her sleep.
“Stones or loaves of bread or buckets of clean water
Let me carry it for you.”

The tickets were included when I stopped.
The telephone is an archaic fragment.
The renewal notices gather dust, unnoticed
But for the holes that have been filled like pockets of thyme.

It will come out in this shower.  How sad, how wonderful
Now, while it lasts, drinking
It in and breathing it out, and the others will do
As they please, with you.  One fades into bloom,
The mystery being that they ever knew you at all.

Friday, February 3, 2012

I used to Be a Narcissist but Now I am a Flower


Capitalism is dreaming again but when will it sleep
Its buildings are more beautiful with my eyes half-closed
A nano-sized version of myself ogles its cleavage

There are some rules that need to be explained
My job is to invest pleasure in these very small machines
And once the masterpiece has been authenticated sell it

You are a spy dressed to kill and I am bleeding
I have something romantic to say don’t kill the messenger
You are more beautiful than the wind and the stars

And I love you more than money
Which by today’s standards is a statistical anomaly
But you are colder than a tulip in February’s tits

Your ego is like a troll we must band together to defeat
Before you put me down you won’t rub my strings
A black dove is impossible if you have no imagination

The other day I glimpsed him riding the underground
Him or his stunt-double wearing a cracked bomber jacket
And sneaking a bemused look at Ganymede’s wine list

Cheer up, fellas, eventually things will get worse
He was queer from the hospital like a mine shaft had coughed
A diamond into the rough gassy and drunk

I wanted to lay a trout at his feet so he could measure it
Like a man that is true and a man
Everyone and anyone could pass that test, he said

Be mindful of the gap on the island of happiness
The last time we said goodbye the light was crazy with drops
His dream slipped into me like the spine of this book

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Le Chéile


1 packet contains the sweetness of 2 teaspoons
ingrained in the afternoon after 4 or more
we were leaving when the sky broke
like an ugly family sitting on a bench
weeping into a box.  At the end of summer
the windows were shining less; the temper
of steel in the trees as it was scraping
the roof or the door.  A sound inside a drawer
Is a nano-version of yourself moving the furniture
around and the walls that never stop
sighing and laughing and quarreling
like pieces of paper with bland stares
holding paper balloons, in confederate
regalia, for the class picture of quiet
achieved total stillness and now is pure time;
a table with lines a laughing disease a flavor of mind.

jahmt

Monday, January 23, 2012

Notes on the Description of Black Minerals


Notes pour la description de minéraux noirs

- Suie mouillée de taches de fraîcheur – ou va-et-vient de moire, de soieries obscures ; arbres calcinés ; des frissons morts escaladant à nouveau leur gamme froide.
- Mille itinéraires brisés ; un labyrinthe absolu.
- Une hibernation éternelle : je m’en éveille plus sage ; et plus fervent.
- Torpeur approfondi, hantise étanche, cursive ramassée, foudre patiente, aurore méthodique. Je prends mesure d’une autre échelle.
- Greffes, buissons, gerbes, chardons et pointes, tout départ d’épines que clôt brusquement leur propre dureté.
- Ténèbres gorgées de poix et fontaines de poix ; bitume noble (ou ennobli : une nuit plus nocturne) ; Ténèbres saturées d’asphalte et le mâchant d’une manducation perpétuelle : à la lettre, broyant du noir.
- Fusées d’artifice parmi les paroxysmes d’orages. Elles ouvrent dans la pluie battante leurs chrysanthèmes de lumière. Les éclairs les trouent, les traversent de leurs paraphes convulsifs.
- Masquée,
taciturne ;
et proscrite : toute pierre jetée au centre de soi.
- Paillettes plus luisantes que celles qui composent l’aigle, le serpent et le nopal aux jupes des filles de Jalisco : l’anecdote.
- Les brusques fanfares de l’espace au désert. Apex de feu : aucune périphrase ; rien que d’explosif.
- Qui ferra le reflet, non pas comme les sabots d’une monture, mais comme l’éclair du poisson accroché ?
- Entre l’embellie et l’embolie, entre le sourire du soleil et le caillot de mort à l’entrée de l’aorte.
- Dans une vapeur de chaudière, confirmées dans leur tranchant, des arêtes qui s’aiguisent ; dans la sueur de pierre et de métal, qui inventent un rasoir inexorable, le fil transparent et sombre de l’obsidienne, la nuit devenue couteau.

Roger Caillois

 
Notes on the Description of Black Minerals

- Soot damp with fresh spots – or moiré patterns, obscure silks; burnt trees; stiff vibrations climbing their frozen scales once more.
- A thousand broken trails; a perfect labyrinth.
- Eternal hibernation: I wake up wiser; and more fervent.
- Deep torpor, hermetic obsession, tight script, patient lightning, methodical dawn. I take measure of another scale.
- Grafts, briars, sprays, thistles and spikes, each thorn as it begins closed sharply by its own hardness.
- Darkness choked with pitch and fountains of pitch; Noble bitumen (or ennobled: a more nocturnal night); Darkness saturated with asphalt, chewing it in perpetual consumption: literally, grinding melancholy.
- Pyrotechnics within paroxysmal storms. Chrysanthemums of light blooming under a heavy rain. Lightning strikes through them, transecting them with convulsive initials.
- Masked,
taciturn;
and proscribed: every stone cast in the center of self.  
- Sequins sparkling more than the eagle, serpent and nopal on the skirts of Jalisco girls: anecdote.
- The sharp fanfares of space in the desert. Apex of fire: no paraphrasing; only explosion.
- Who steels the reflection, not like the hooves of a mount but like the glint of a hooked fish?
- Between embellishment and embolism, between the smile of the sun and a deadly clot at the mouth of the aorta.
- In the furnace steam, their cutting edges confirmed, their lines are sharpened; in the sweat of stone and metal, inventing an inescapable razor, the dark, transparent edge of obsidian: night turned knife.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Small Boxes

Positive and negative buildings
The beautiful clouds they spew in the cold.
A blotch of earth.  A wild forsythia.  Yellow.
A factory calmly rises and falls.
It is taken back as soon as it is given
Fortune and favor, hard hats, bubbles
I can feel them still
Are you selling enough product?
Bright spots, with clumps of grey-blue

I am pretending not to notice.
This continues for several hundred pages.
There is a feeling I am walking around
A destructive assault on the mind.
The children want you to go back to the box
Where the toy thoughts are kept.
This is the bitter one
I ordered the silky butter nut!
Your attention drifting back to the sky

To Hope

Although I no longer feel the push and pull of you
I am lucky to love you
There is a shortage of good days
The more impossible, the more beautiful they are
I have never known any so beautiful as you
Somehow I am over you though
It took me a long time to decide whether to write you
There is something strange in your absence and your refusal to reply
It makes no difference to me
The future is one unchanging color of night
You are the future the frame of everything
You turned away from the camera
I never loved you
I have always loved you