* * * *
MOON TEARS
the moon wept. he collected the tears
(from dark fields where mice had gathered them
in the stubble of corn fields)
& stored them in the shadows
of his own room. in town, people believed
them to be beautiful women crying
at his daily departures. he himself was never certain.
* * *
THE STATUES
the statues forgot they were once beautiful,
forgot their beauty was greater than their now magnificent
silence.
they forgot that the wind was articulate enough
for their dreams to survive.
& when the rains came, they allowed themselves
to fade into the very grounds from which they rose,
they who had become merely granite & no longer heroes.
* * *
TO HELL WITH IT ALL: A NOVEMBER SONG
1
the poet sits in his corner & he studies the night.
he studies his hands, his face.
he studies the face of the universe.
(it is i! i am the poet!)
of everything discovered, it is only himself.
2
i knew it was not rational to believe these dreams
could be understood by the seekers of gold,
the inhalers of power, but i was hopeful.
i knew it was not safe to exchange dreams with the madman.
now dawn drips, as if angels pissing.
the stench, the nightmares are all truth.
the madman told no lies, even if he told no truths.
fog & ice on the south shore.
i watch boats fade in the foggy distance.
voices, which are also real, remind me
my fate was sealed long before i understood it.
3
do not be comfortable with the poems anymore.
they are not designed for comfort.
do not expect softness here.
here is the roughness of rock,
long blades of grasses that cut delicate fingers.
4
i have abused the dream that was you, even as i held it sacred.
will there be forgiveness, after penitence?
worn, shredded papers contain the remains of my love.
i was certain it could have altered the entire course of
humanity.
the night screams: i absorb the dark songs.
i am altered.
5
kiss me in my dying.
lay your hands across my face.
6
ships wait in the harbor.
storms at sea, & only dead men sail on nights as these.
the fish will wait.
they always have.
tonight the wind is frozen & the foothills are all white.
do not expect to find anything easy here.
7
once i stood before the great Lord
& loudly proclaimed:
Hoopadee hoopado! Hoopa Hoopa dedado.
No greater praise does any man know.
the great Lord smiled in appreciation,
knowing no more than i what had been said.
8
fatman knows god is bogus,
has theorems to prove it, in poems & dreams unrealized.
disillusionment shouts to withered bones of another closet dream.
fatman knows he has little to show for his pain.
9
i will no longer give bastards my heart,
though i will give them laughter.
laughter here is cheap,
merely a mask that covers anger & despair.
10
i wanted to be brilliant, to surround myself with brilliance.
i fell in love with the curiosity
of Pound, Williams, Jeffers, Berryman.
i fell in love with what i could not be.
i wanted to be brilliant
for your perfect as sin flesh,
for the luxury of your long perfumed legs.
11
silent lark on a broken limb,
watching the sky for omens,
which neither of us understand,
frost of an early winter upon our backs,
as the sun that has no visions peers upon us coldly.
12
old friend, are you dead yet?
is it time for black suits, sad faces?
or are you still reeking in the odor of fabulous sin?
i find these curtains that veil your existence a nuisance.
it is just as well, you across the continent.
summer has gone as a vagabond.
i did not notice the discolored leaves
on the dogwood until the tree was nearly dead.
the woman at the university extension
said it was a common ailment of the american species.
(my arms are branches in need of attention.)
black dog barks at ghosts now.
darkness is a friend without a voice, only hands.
the only truth i know perfectly is pain,
but that too is a symptom of being american.
(my arms are messages in ice upon
your early morning window melted in the first rays of sunlight.)
old newspapers wait to be read.
dirty dishes wait to be washed.
one will stain your hands with vague impressions
& the other will take those impressions away.
(My arms are dark clouds across the horizon,
storm warnings that never quite materialize.)
13
i stare at blank paper -
pieces of the puzzle missing.
i curse the pain i cannot define,
illiterate drinking the discharge of broken dreams.
it does not matter, not this, the poems, your smiles.
nothing.
stars still glow in the distances,
grow in one quarter, die in another.
i am morose tonight, unable to contain it.
i am alone - enamored with loneliness,
disgusted with it.
14
the snow is heavy with rain.
look into my face.
do not be fooled by the lines & fatigue.
my eyes will tell you all that need be said.
15
i am obsessed with words,
with the luxury of flesh,
with the wind over dark mountains.
16
the highway is an ice trap tonight,
but then again all journeys to your heart have been treacherous.
fog dances past street lights,
leaving frozen footprints on the sidewalk.
it is a scene right out of a gothic novel.
i try to look beyond the brume,
in search of galaxies sending messages of your well being.
i am yet a fool believing in hopeless dreams
* * * *
(c)1999, Kenn Mitchell