Friday, December 13, 2013

drafts/worksheets[unfinished

[title]

Shadows are more indigenous to summer
Than other days; in sunless winter they may
Appear as friends from a former season,
Companions for an endless cold—because
You need a certain percentage of Bishop
Berkeleys if life is to pass, the armies rise,
The coffee boil.  But can this concensus
Include those in transit, at the bus stop
Patting their pockets automatically since
Statistics decide we don't all die at once,
And bandaids help with that.  Also the fact
We lack wings and therefore can linger in
Doorways comfortably, coming and going
Provides us such opportunity to meet and
Form treaties to support portraits of each
Other, adamant and guilty in their narrow
Frames.  The commute schedule timetable
Confuses every route with eternities as
(Cough venues, bruises perhaps, or sketched
Leisures of transition sidelining the road)
Times fall and evening secures an after-lag
Of it when mermaids keep their stomach
Pumps handy, mythical beings being always
In danger of being poisoned by the day
To day readiness when a window still holds
The unseen edge of its imminence over all:
So tense when candles on a windowsill
Indicate domesticity's anarchy, while
The frontbell is ringing a little something,
Whose wording has not come down to us,
We call it confluence or Cincinnati, some
Home at random under the habit of a snowpeak,
Pure alp up which the gaze drowns all hands lost,
August it wells with grass, with settlements.






 [title?]

Shadows are more indigenous to summer
Than other days; in sunless winter they may
Appear as friends from a former season,
Companions for an endless cold—because
You need a certain percentage of Bishop
Berkeleys if life is to pass, the sun rise,
The coffee boil.  But does this census
Include those in transit, at the bus stop
Patting their pockets automatically since
Statistics decide we don't all die at once,
Breastbraving uniformity for a patch/cache of
Eternities.  Simple wounds could hatch
Your winglessness.  Bruises when tiring
Times fall and evening secures an after-lag
Of it, when mermaids keep their stomach
Pumps handy, each doorway pried from
Adamant guilty portraits.  What pane bears
The unseen edge of its imminence over
Our sill's tense anarch of candles, while
The frontbell is ringing a little something,
Whose wording has not come down to us,
We call it confluence or Cincinnati, some
Home at random under the habit of a snowpeak,
Pure alp up which the gaze drowns all hands lost,
Dreadful it wells with grass, with settlements.


POEM

I tried to phone the Amnesia Hotline
But its hashtone forgot me in the rush
To publication of my hemlines which
Strayed at times to coincide with
Youth and years astride the Nazi
I married.  Hasteless my diary claims,
Facing me off against my sister half,
Its entries present me as someone who
Outspent his coins' grief on verities
Of disbelief, for less and less.  Juicetipped
Thighs, you feed them figs with the brink
Of your tongue, the streets are packed
In gutter but I am gone, gone to war
To avenge how childrens' toys are always
Poe-cast into premature funerals. 
Buried young.  Before their time.




FILM VERSION

Drifting into the blindfold's focus I find
My face entirely by tracing yours no mind.
The cyclops probe that won't take no:
So I was pretending this grief was new,
Not some old, come-apprehending love—
Nor can, I thought, the horizon be likened
To a trafficcop's palm.  Portraits of
Manny's Lacklounge, whole libraries lichened
With its plus and absence shorn-records us
While all I see myriads me.  Devoured by it
I fear this sitcom in sync with doubt may not
Know that if you took a sumac's leaves and
A sycamore's leaves and switched them around
With shears and glue, who'd notice what tree— 
Bod McDylan, kicking out his butler, maybe.
But the rest of us, living in these
Glass-bottomed attics at length-ease,
Would we dolly or is it pan, would we
Sort of fellini forward towards it, slowly.


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