bargain chicklets

<><><><>studio giblet now sports gallery number 04 <><><><>

trial by sun

I

a shifting river of thirst,
i but for this dream rehearsed –
go, think but not what of it,
restful, let the live-long but slumber,
i will awake in you eternally–

golden dancing,
a river of sweating flesh,
colder than marble, a granite reminder,
one trance ended, the eyes blinded,
open heart, drum sounding –
here it comes at last, the vision:

II

more than to the point,
i will appoint you
god-protector
a sunrise diadem behind,
a hewn-from-earth tomb before;
all crumbles, all fades,
a short-term mnemonic,
a lost number.

but in this epoch,
you will rule, bending or breaking in the winds;
parched dreams: east will return to west as we all sleep –
to slake that thirst, that immortal desire,
a fool’s game.

in that desert, we all come to realize our mortality,
the palm of that oasis whispers secrets,
the reeds of midas, a pandoran box:
some sights cannot be unseen,
some thoughts are unthinkable –
before this end, to us undone, thy will be thus,
thy will undone


III

love was sand between her fingers,
luminous ocean eyes and naive hope
that things would change,
that he would change.
some dunes can drift and drift
and never change;
absently, in a dream, my lips brush near her skin,
as if to taste a flower, or forever,
as if to drink her in –
what once i thought oasis,
a mirage of jealous hands, a possessive pharaoh;
an impotent priestess,
relinquishing gods and fertile dreams,
for a sandy piece of soul –
relinquishing her heart’s black soil
to the sleepless eye above.

IV

numina, rapid-distant pattering,
you found me there,
a sleeping fool in noonday sun,
a mourning dove,
a seed pod,
the swirling blades sputter and sleep –
your sunlit crown,
hair and tears cascading;
amongst the living,
i will sleepwalk a little longer.

a fitful awakening at the gates of notwithstanding

surrounded by worthless trapping of so-called art,
unable to raise an intentioned hand to create it,
i, oppressed and maligned for the last time, swear it off:

there’s nothing there but substanceless bulwark and vicissitude,
unformed by higher principles,
unable to tell me what transcendence is.

frustrated and sweaty, heady with drink and aged far too much
to retain the subtleties and incongruencies that make up the sublime passage
of time’s feet on rice paper,
where infinity meets inconstancy,
where i rips from the passage,
an after thought, a scrap on the foot passing,

i, a stillborn photoanonimity, furtively trying to understand,
lest you deign to turn an eye,
as all above crumbles, a marginless morass, ungainly, unsupple.

the paper is ripped and i am unquiet, unable
to pass this sphinx