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Cleaving

1

 

‘Tis said that poets write of love.

’ve felt its waves, been at its shore.

Correspondence Below, Above

’ve reaped – were mine the tide’s encore.

Grain of Earth am I – as seas pour

Of form I know not into foam,

Of hearts aswell, God to adore,

Of chambers dark, rising to home.

Could lightning justify the gloam

Of history before new dawn,

Though slash One Word tome to tome:

Two-edged sword – thus am I drawn

From ‘fore to what after time yawn.

Thus my edges, thus am I rent –

Might I muse love be that upon?

s there without You an event,

Some seam or no of some extent?

The without is coupling’s essence,

One yet multiple incident

Of split designed to coherence.

Though can’t think the math that I sense,

Attentive am I, you I wait,

n faith or insane, thus I tense.

Well, of heart weave I write, of mate,

Long open my tremulous gate.

 

2

 

Forgive me, Genius, I’m a stupid child.

Compared to your brilliance I tend to fade.

’m an undone fabric, threads loose and wild.

f aught Great I’m part perhaps it’s as shade.

Though make you my guide I’m a touch dismayed

That when I write you remain quiescent.

Better did you ring bells juvenescent,

Better poems I displayed less decrescent.

Why greet you? Instead of coming you go.

Shall you bright blossom in these lined shadows?

Shall some passion you show? I wouldn’t know.

Thus to what cause is it this scent blows?

Hope that in my dark mind anything glows?

More words I join the more you be limbless.

Self-impoverishing me! Nay, vimless!  –

That so great distance from Genius I dwell,

Yet think with this pot to draw from its well.

 

3

 

A white horse called Clarity

’ve long endeavored to ride.

But ink makes only judgments

While rendering not even clues,

Wisdom ever beyond reach,

Just farther off than words’ chains.

Spikes of black satin high heels

‘Cross these terrazas have splashed.

Then to alt’ring steppe beyond

Has my looking been provoked.

These busy spells of meaning

On which Clarity's dreams graze!

f but pleasant this fishbowl!

 

Silk this? But a stray gold sequin.

Meanwhile scarves of lace whisper –

hear a tinkle, now a chime –

As if garden beyond bloom

Or the white lips of a shade

Could build given-up castles.

Seems that both future and past

Have scraped out the blank present.

This, then, the cocktail I concoct,

No Clarity pretended –

What ghost this be if not slut,

So many marks few will quote,

Clarity’s “real” horizon?

 

How oft have I been ambushed

Due to what I embroidered?

How oft ruminate genius

That but a zombie unfroze,

Persuaded I had a flair

For riding without saddle?

Though true, I’m no less confused

By prophecies attending

These translucent tattooed slags,

These bones which form I know not.

Yet don’t collar me, I pray –

Mine are not conceited fruits,

For I have ridden Clarity.

 

4

 

But ten lines to not rush the worth of you,

Nor wonder to satisfy nor construe,

But to appreciate your beauty blue:

Tender soul – God’s very own, that I know –

Whose gentle sadness now melts you like snow.

Whose golden wisdom that daily you sew,

Whose name means pretty – indeed, you’re gracious –

To part from you I do fear too spacious.

May but ten lines, then, express veracious

My dear love and your manifest merit.

 

5

 

Yet one more spike to hammer through a wall,

Though doubt this marks the spot of a fortune,

Elephant of the everyday, this scrawl.

Or is this an obsessive compulsion,

Unlike the cosmos bloomed into motion?

These threads of inconspicuous stitching

Move in the blanks of verses bewitching,

 

Afloat out thee somewhere, from which these fell.

Yet does Creation show us as we are?

s it the ringer who’s heard or the bell?

Yet cease, comprehension! Don’t my verse mar!

Yours is façade – who think grasp you most far.

nto what, then, do I drive this dumb stake?

Shall I write sane or correctness forsake?

 

Does originating Source know its facts?

Shall Such be my companion this walk?

Think not I’d mind if these poetic acts

Could be writ with more than presumption.

But I note this poem is fat with but talk.

Why, then, bid this page these verses carry

f killing time’s our whole commentary?

 

Fittingly blind, deaf, lame this severed limb,

This prejudice which would rejoin at once –

How very fine were such not but a whim.

Meanwhile man breeds or the icy confronts.

What this keep as I pass through its Amongst,

A glad distance mine, and paralysis,

Nor yet free to give clear analysis?

 

n these drops, then, not a lot to avoid –

‘Tis but a wardrobe, though of self-respect,

Some sign of mental disturbance employed.

Not rigor mortis, then, nor sham’s neglect,

As try to conceive 'midst all I reject.

Well, what more unsafe amidst the masses? –

‘Cross frozen bank of snow this verse passes.

 

Would that this pen were a candle to thaw,

Would that this ink were punk to light a flame.

But it’s unfitting, I know, and owns flaw

‘Midst prescription for ever all the same.

Meanwhile I must pass beyond, risk or blame –

ndeed, my eyes have known spit come like sleet.

Thus from that I shy with these feet.

 

Odd I pursue airy light by this weight:

Metered bounce, though not mirror’s reflection –

Think not I try to load us on this plate.

’ve heard something like that is perfection,

Receiving and giving beneath the sun.

Yet not much here occurs but silence done.

 

Well, such as poems can but faintly brush past,

Mine but exercises written to none.

‘Tis such as occurs upon being cast

nto poverty as can live no one.

Comprehend? How? Understanding’s thin.

Let us, then, rest, “stand” not, be without it,

To no stampeding delusion befit.

 

These, then, not cheap, but I can’t cradle them.

Smug success, angels’ hum, I can’t pretend.

Thus this - no final chamber, nor last stem -

Seems less and more a robe than what I intend.

Darkness meanwhile keeps, for light you condemn,

So brilliant you be in the good that you prate.

This the while no wings, though ‘pon open gate.

 

6

 

Through the cycles, one acting, one waiting,

Said that’s the way of onward progressing.

That I much doubt: all my penetrating

Has yet left progress less than professing.

Constantly forgetting while recalling –

What use I of such, so chew some cud.

Though far better than writing is stalling

here, without root, grow another bud –

Or I’ve the mouth of a child, seems ever.

Stirrings to balance ahead, but I'm lost –

This shall join me to what as it sever,

This apart from itself, at once crossed?

This grows not like nature; ‘tis growth’s relief:

No point to reach but bewildering rest.

Nor this a mirror to dress like your grief –

’ve attire my own, be it cursed or blessed.

Yet what this clothing but nothingness nursed –

To what beyond sorrow or hated fate,

Whilst unto who loves me always my thirst?

’m not very brave. In fact, I’m quite late –

Been doing weight, been doing blame and fault,

My whole intellect but a partial thought,

Pretending not I know of all begot.

O, I pray you be kind – I’m not quite wise:

don’t grasp what I already comprise.

 

7

 

Middle name, why say you nothing at all?

The quiescent part of a larger crowd,

Message in a code you let others haul,

A pea in a pod supposed, for not loud.

You do your duty to bloom upon call,

Anonymous otherwise in your shroud.

 

Middle name never needing sunglasses,

An agoraphobic screw throughin nuts,

An unknown pass betwixt greater masses,

You get no exercise in the guts,

Alike a root connecting two grasses

Which are seen, while to the rest the eye shuts.

 

Locked behind drapes in a house of two walls,

Aristotle’s golden mean binding aims,

nward parapet between two epaules,

Middle name so underspoke between fames,

nto your place your worth so rarely falls

One could think whom you fit have no real claims.

 

Middle name standing in line less than plain,

Unpolitical, rarely elected,

Represented by others along your chain,

Are you neglected or well-protected?

Or do you choose to not help stain the pane,

Undetected, no more than suspected?

 

Not seeming imperative nor routine,

The sleeping part of a population,

To make documents official you’re seen,

Then vanish to secret nonlocation,

Not cast in the play though know the whole scene –

An unsituated situation.

 

Like a whorl undiscerned until printed,

A distance safely unsocial away,

Beyond which that you are is but hinted,

Though it’s your purpose a self to portray.

Middle name, that without a name’s stinted,

Why left so often concealed and astray?

 

8

 

’m feeling anxiety, as always.

’m nothing much of a magnificence.

Magic all about, but nothing it pays.

Life and nature glow with munificence,

But humans all want what I‘ve not – the dime.

Amidst such complaints I’m not one to prance:

Ever nascent am I, not much to chime.

My cogitations old, they’re but a glance –

Good thing there’s grace: I not much life adorn.

Well, I am an infant to terror born.

 

Human reason a whore, all that it tells,

Of easy money goes genius; my shame

s that fountain of Truth beyond its veils,

Where there is neither profit nor glory to claim.

Nerves of words are not wealth, power, jouissance,

For these are helpless, too unknown their veins,

Though from beyond humans they rouse response.

So, mute ‘midst humans, I continue these poems –

Who hear me care not I’m poverty marred,

And believes me when I say I’m stung and scarred.

 

Mute is infinite pain, but now I twist –

ndeed, I weep, and great power I breathe,

A kindness even as like I consist.

Yet, as I think what is mine to bequeath,

Judgment of me looks less than the highest.

What’s possible I do – that’s the power –

While unto what is not I’m the shiest.

was born to a malevolent hour

From which escape I cannot, nor much rise.

Would time not so blocked all there is to prize.

 

Am I falling from grace to destruction?

Well, many years I’ve died ‘pon “awaking.”

Has someone nourished me, all obstruction,

Awhile swallowed by life’s endless aching?

wasn’t blessed, nor am comely, shapely.

Though there’s a Genius to lend me its skies

’ve been a spurned banquet to the apely,

My belly’s feast that of cursing and cries.

My blame had been kindling to feed their fires –

Now I squeeze through my toes what better mires.

 

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