Friday, December 13, 2013

drafts[ worksheets

*
Throwing dice at the bomb as it descends
will not decide the outcome of your body blown
apart by which action, yours or the bombadier's:

drone missiles fly contraire, unmanned for the sake
of purity, not marred by the sordid human hand
wiping grease blood feces off its digits.  The muddied

moment passes and we move reinspired by
this vision of non-involvement, virginal
again from the crime that mercifully excludes us;

and therefore we leave it to the computer
to choose those targets whose distance ensures
[our disinterest, its infant consequence

declares those boys' volleys of war a game
because as always the enemy's to blame:
the error inherent is theirs not ours to seek/shirk/see]

or repent since its intent was innocence:
pray for the prank forgiveness[indulgence] of childhood, each strike
/thank the prank-indulgence of childhood, each strike
unbloodied/left harmless by your armless mother's wince.
made harmless/turned harmless/ poured harmless
/
or repent since its intent was innocence
thanks to the prank-indulgence of childhood, each strike
shrived harmless by your armless mother's 
wince, your father's perihelion apogee/trajectory.

/thanks to the pranks of childhood, each harmless strike
unbloodied by your armless mother's wince.

/thanks to the pranks of childhood, each stab or strike
stays harmless as your mother's armless wince.

[thanks to the pranks they forgave in childhood
when each stab or strike stood for bad or good
depending on adult indulgence, punishment pain ????]


/
[no taint is what our semaphore quests for
and therefore we leave it to the computer
to choose those targets whose distance ensures

our disinterest intent, each infant consequence
prank forgiven by your armored mother's wince.

[pray for the indulgence of childhood, each prank
forgiven by your armless mother's wince.]

[repent since/because innocence was this war's intent:
pray for the pure indulgence/forgiveness of childhood, each prank
forgiven/unbloodied by your armless mother's wince.]

... 


*
Where the alley ends is always cast in shade
or simply too far away to be visible
so that is where the usual honorcade
parade has proceeded sure to disshovel

its heroes dumped as clumps of statuary
far past the garbage cans and armored dust
rained down each day's disdainful parody
as confetti junk thrown out from the thrust

of our palace tenements' wasteward sight
that shows for shame scoreboard teams of champions
hailed with all our collective love alight
along streets still streamering more war-wins.

Made trash the gods must stay there safe to hide;
only that pit supports their pedestals' pride.

/
Made trash the gods here stay safe in secret;
this pit is where their pedestals are set.
/
of our minds and tenements, waste-ward sight
from shame's time the hinder/shambling/scoreboard host of champions
/that shows for shame the scoreboard host/team/roll of champions
we hailed once, our collective love alight
along the streets streamering more war-wins.

Some victory is kept hid back there, secret
[It is our truth/victory kept hid back there, secret
in its pit, thumbs akimbo, games/its terms forgot/ we forget.  /regret[  pedestal-set.

[What victory is kept hid back there, secret;
that pit is where its pedestals are set.]

in its pit, thumbs akimbo, pedestal-set.
or pit, thumbs akimbo, on its pedestal set.]

///

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.


///