Monday, October 4, 2010

thirty-five measures, one wrong cut

There are certain sighs for which no gestures yet exist
signed the hushed lady in red and blue, hedged near
the small plump aubergine pokeberries about to burst
from dark and stormy silence into the rain drenched

psychedlic bursts of oily autumn pavement swirled
again sweet thrusts of summer to cloud sniffed dry,
a crisp paisley of turquoise, canary, and rust whirled
arrows and pesky sprays measured in neon blue pulses
highlighting how quickly the most effective incision

will enjoy the muffled comedy while it lasts as
an unholy trinity flickering with black flecks and
fiddling about with things quite gloriously taboo
through furtive curtains passed the frost glaze then

it was the morning of the rosy cirrus dawn,
an epic in which the bald Titan weeds his garden
whistling an etude while reseeding the bare spots
notes morphing from chance brown to fortune green
in the summer turf that was parched unseemly when

I distracted you from seeing the dead cardinal
knowing it would upset you so only in the mind
and I was teased by every red car that was not yours
but prompted me to think of your flourishing utopias:
athena on the half shell with flamingo escort
a pink pulsing speck in the periwinkle mandala.

We left in October with the calculus of tresspass made
before the down tumbling leaves came drinking then
an elixir made from pokeberries burst with scarlet
which might repress the breath's reject of healing air.

That this perfect slice of reality cannot not be the one
that we really deserve:

Those are just lines from an old grimoire.