Monday, November 9, 2015


Hibernian in Hibernation

 I have to fashion a machine
to get outside earth's atmosphere 
to see the hard knobs of the universe
unadorned, as they really are
so my own signal is clear
to all exogenous worlds

Sea chest with polar bear pelt
launched as an escape craft
milky way spills into it
narwhals sawing logs, asleep

the root-embroidered paths
through the darkening wood
towards a place lost to memory

all the poems I wrote
went up in smoke
some got trapped in the stove pipe

the ghost of one poem
comes back down
and sits in a chair

at midnight the poem is still there
in the morning
it's back up nowhere

skittering gulls
vigorous over the wet rooves
rain clouds at last

white gulls in sunlight
before gray cloud past
a mansion of ashes

 blood-stained trees shoulder
the glen of distant children
saturation-green field


November was a haunted calendar of fraught objects I returned to with an ellipsis to indicate that all obsessive objectification stretches off infinitely so why elaborate? It is enough to see and acknowledge the possibility of becoming obsessed in such a manner, to the see the availability of the fetish is be made fetishistic. Who goes there now? Few alive could conceivably remember the the personalities and circumstances. Why stir the ashes? The dignified importance of formal photographs of people long-buried and no longer recalled, the pains taken to create small monuments at the grave site, landscapes devoted to obsolescent reliquaries of the formerly important and now firmly forgotten, is mere vanity, is all vanity indeed.

When a dish has meat in it, no matter how good it may be,
it still has a smear of the charnel house about it

dark clouds Hindenburg the hills
a plane flies slow and low over the ghetto
hoovering up powdered phone calls

November 2015

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