As pertains to LICHTSIGNALE

Death is only resisted, in the condition of its ghost- so much that even life becomes- the pale it would recede; it grips an equal turmoil, when no object is confronted; that nothing be so fatal, than its simplicity; the phase that Dix becomes, is more to lose his torsion; the "guazzo," the opaque tension of its form, cannot convince its distance; the flares commit a carnage, not to be observed; the skeletons - mired to their torque- are almost alembic to deviate, the amalgam they become; even inside their entropy, no war is resonant; the background of white, red, yellow, and cobalt blue, are bold to emanate, what they can't consume; Dix was no less seminal, berated from descent, than to shift his broken skeletons- from the commune of their wish- to fall but not beyond their death; the beauty is that, they are unnatural; and to make them fictive would denigrate, what they can't illumine; they may have dreamed a better imprint- even of Dante's Paradiso- the orders of angels were more suggested, in a yellow rose; that interposition that death creates; the assemblage of a body, reduced without a symbol, when every form is bleak enough to manifest its reason; and yet that logic can't transmit, the reversal of itself, they writhe when all is silent, to declare its lie; art would never be so tempted, to shift their intuition; that even to be functioned, it must condone their absence; and so in the way an aesthetic reveals an instinct from its cause- their Danse Macabre is unexpressed- until they mire form; it is such they have no tragedy, and Dix, for all their pathos in his fury, absorbs the ghosts he can't confide; with the war one year before its end- he sensed the twisted limbs, the mustard gas, the sobbing trenches, the shrapnel he would scar- as if his blood were not their phase, he interposed neglect; consumed without a hero; would he confide his sense? A dream refrained its anomie; their beauty was to be more foreign, imitating death. 

CORONATION 

To be where the moon is scarlet- and shadows are only the distance- between the pillars a rose erects, when nothing is unmoved, and the wind no less a tether, unwoven as my eyes; I am not consecrated. I mimic intuition. The tribulation of a dream, that cannot be disguised. That every poem I wake, wakes to be expired, I must not be outlived. To mimic beauty, I am its premise; art conflicts my imitation- its Protean withdrawal- to shift what I conserve, and without my conservation. A pyrrhic solitude; that any word condemn its absence, nothing is unreal. 

Poetry tempts what I oppose: its phenomenology cautions value- but not so much to dismiss- the value it can’t equal. To erect its observation, it must diminish me. That my fear not be its intuition- that I be less misguided- beauty disrupts its desolation, until I am expressed. 

How must my function be, the function it misgives? As if to mimic form, I mimic violation.    Death is the access of its modulation, to transpose beauty-that any value- inhibits its decay. Even to withdraw, what it must react, no premise is ideal enough not to be evoked. The driving caution of art, is not to be unreal. Truth is not a valor. The lie it can’t evict, that seminal tension, the woken relic, the hieratic occupation: that art seclude its absence, it cannot be unmade- and still, as any sacrilege- to condone what it upheaves. Art can’t equate a beauty, equal to itself. Somehow an aesthetic entropy; its design is not to be outlived, until it is recurred. A primeval torque- the twisted horsemen- unfinished but provoked, and deeper than his hand; the Magi were only sibylline, when DaVinci was withdrawn. So little transitioned to predict, his oil would infect their blood. And beauty spectatorial, to be the witness of itself. That an aesthetic concerns a ritual, it must condemn its cause. Was Margaret wan, conflicting grief, when nothing else was young? “What heart heard of, ghost guessed;” to take what is uncertain, beyond its circumstance. GoldenGrove evicts its passage- that even art is less considered- inside its formlessness. A narration provoked, to question loss, no deeper than the child. Is beauty resisted, when even grief, is the grief she can’t console?

There are no trajectories to confide. Art resolves a path, and still unfollowed, deepening its memory. To be abandoned, without neglect, as if to dream itself: were I The Galleria D’ell Academia, just past gloaming, the halls that walk without a shadow, were I the instinct they convert. When to feel the busts- of writhing marbles- a dream becomes its infancy. What night would not vacate its vow to wake the moon inside itself? When mirrors that shift as tapestries- forget to be evoked- when the walls resist their vellum? And nothing is so funerary, than to be observed?  A word suggests its echo, to mimic his approach. There is no blood to fear. The marble supplicates its basin. Nothing is translatable. The “David” can’t commit his plumage deeper than its myth. It is not to have him shift, that his body is not visceral. The parable of his hand is the hand it can’t resolve. He is equally an artist, to transition ennui; were Michelangelo’s Goliath beyond his fate, no faith would be withdrawn. 

 Were I The Galleria D’ell Academia, nothing else would speak. Even for its discrepancy, beauty is misplaced. He was not intended beyond his trail, and yet for it he is condemned. To be expressed- but incomplete- a mold confirms his absence, to resist its death. When nothing else objects its form, he cannot be evoked. Michelangelo may not have foreseen this posture: unveiled for The Palazzo della Signoria, in 1504, his “David” was the entry of its form. It is almost that the unfinished figures are the entry of his ghost. And it is not for him to approach their absence. They fall away as petals, Herodiade would lament: to consider beauty its supposition, “Si la beaute n’etait la mort…!” Even to consume his will, he can’t resist their liberty; his humanism is obscured. He emits a naivete and mastery- his ghost is crimson- his blood pearl gray; he cannot hear the quarries, that listen for his form; and yet the myth he cannot reach- as myths are made to caution faith- discerns a will he can’t approach. Art is the valor he neglects, to imitate the hero. 

And yet for the shade he would transmit, the moon converts itself; it threads a veil beneath his skin- collapsing veins in lavender- shredded without the twilight, his blood endures its lace; serrating wounds that only bleed, in the drift of a thorn, its liberty, the Rose it can't attach; and yet to wilt, its vapor settles, to bruise the sky beneath its soil: he is observed but too innate, not to fear himself; there is no dimension- he mustn't wake- and the secret of his beauty, is to deny its magnitude. 

And yet his recognition, is to fall before his myth. His treatment is not epical; his fortitude is absence. The moon may hide his shadow, as if to find its ghost; and stir its mold as if he were, no deeper than an echo; that tragic mediation, that even his myth survive a dream, that wakes the rood before the Rose, and drifts as any spectacle; in the gilt betrayal of a tulip, inside a marigold- and the lavender too swollen- to collect an Iris from the rain, when rivers are molten and even Lethe, derided from its clay; it is the light he cannot cast- that he equate a parable- unequal to himself. A man transmits divinity, to premise naturalism, that nothing is so vain, than not to be imagined. He is the eternity of Aquinas: "the possession of oneself, as in a single moment." His remainder is the hero, to constitute neglect; is there nothing more tragic to imitate, than the choral busts misleading him?

That even Aristotelian enough, to connote what a form must manifest- exceeded from itself- and still within the measure, of what he can't expand, no logic is oppressive; he must consider sleep. And broken as an interstice- no revenant consoled- the busts so peopled to civilize, what they can't evoke; is it here his sorrow questions, the death it cannot choose? 

Be it I concern his larger hand, the skein that drifts- when swans resist- the symmetry they feel; as if to be imagined, they must not follow blood; even to betray their golden gallows; that his vision avert the cress, pulled when a wood of raceme, shifts its leaf meal from the sun; no beauty is historic; his secret is autumnal; a yellow rose too faint to shift, the violence it would wake, in those noctilucent cellars, that aggregate the sky; a Chaldean cumulus, should Proteus be stilled, and find an Orphic prophecy: "the gates of Pluto cannot be unlocked; within is the people of dreams." 

How is it to mismanage form, no deeper than its focus? Be tragedy the imitation of one act, the David is one emotion- and yet without a spectacle- he contradicts the "shite;" he cannot haunt his absence; it was an arbitration; Michelangelo's purgatory busts, were not meant to trail his plume; to figure his ink inside a skein- willows a pale- to reproduce; the David can't commit a stage, no deeper than his purge; be it to find a better light, he must return himself.

As such- even that the hall is vacant- he need not know those lyric shadows, that often follow heroes, when words mislead their cause; be it iambs or hexameter; the drums and flute of a NOH play; the ovular illuminations- Ochorowicz suggested- would root personality; to find its own impression, life is barely spectral- until it is resisted- so much that art should violate, the soul that wakes itself; to come as phases that mediate, a mirror from its mask; when every sense betrays a value, as if to be unmade. The David hides his coronation, the immaculate hall he can't predict, even so christened without a hand: he is the child of a ghost. 

Je Suis Hante

That art conflicts what I relent- and any form congregates- the havoc from its myth, beauty is an imitation, broken from itself; and not so much inside a mirror, but to delegate an atmosphere, where form becomes its absence; that death is not its remedy, until nothing is unreal; and every expression an interlude, receded from its symbol; in Je Suis Hante, I provoke a tension; my heroine - for her aesthetic- conflicts amnesia, when even madness, interprets its neglect; is there no divinity to confirm, when every instinct she adheres, resolves my formlessness? To speak without her tyranny, I vacate her relapse; the posit of art, too episodic, not to toil me; the following is of she- to address herself- I am the relic, her myth cannot commit:

Her petals cannot fold the wind;

A basin empties from the moon-

In tears of ash and porcelain

And purple reeds that shift too soon

That Lethe stir their memory-

The hemlock fastening its plume

Too quaint without her heraldry; 

There was no crest the rose outgrew:

The Corona Borealis

The Coventry its ash withdrew;

Salome writhes her stiffened cheek,

To narrate ghosts she can't exhume;

She fears her dance to fear her blood

Embalmed in stars and broken tombs

The silver cliffs she can't erode;

The azure of their swollen womb,

A shadow that would fasten clay,

A mirror emptied and entombed;

She is not young when winter sleeps-

The frost that wilts as if to bloom

A garden buried from itself-

The amaranth her ghost renewed:

Why sleep and not resisting bows,

 When beauty is an interlude?

The wood corroded from her sword,

The opal pasture of its wound.

Tableaux Vivants

To be where the moon is scarlet- and shadows are only the distance- between the pillars a rose erects, when nothing is unmoved, and the wind no less a tether, unwoven as my eyes; I am not consecrated. I mimic intuition. The tribulation of a dream, that cannot be disguised. That every poem I wake, wakes to be expired, I must not be outlived. To mimic beauty, I am its premise; art conflicts my imitation- its Protean withdrawal- to shift what I conserve, and without my conservation. A pyrrhic solitude; that any word condemn its absence, nothing is unreal. 

Poetry tempts what I oppose: its phenomenology cautions value- but not so much to dismiss- the value it can’t equal. To erect its observation, it must diminish me. That my fear not be its intuition- that I be less misguided- beauty disrupts its desolation, until I am expressed. 

How must my function be, the function it misgives? As if to mimic form, I mimic violation.    Death is the access of its modulation, to transpose beauty-that any value- inhibits its decay. Even to withdraw, what it must react, no premise is ideal enough not to be evoked. The driving caution of art, is not to be unreal. Truth is not a valor. The lie it can’t evict, that seminal tension, the woken relic, the hieratic occupation: that art seclude its absence, it cannot be unmade- and still, as any sacrilege- to condone what it upheaves. Art can’t equate a beauty, equal to itself. Somehow an aesthetic entropy; its design is not to be outlived, until it is recurred. A primeval torque- the twisted horsemen- unfinished but provoked, and deeper than his hand; the Magi were only sibylline, when DaVinci was withdrawn. So little transitioned to predict, his oil would infect their blood. And beauty spectatorial, to be the witness of itself. That an aesthetic concerns a ritual, it must condemn its cause. Was Margaret wan, conflicting grief, when nothing else was young? “What heart heard of, ghost guessed;” to take what is uncertain, beyond its circumstance. GoldenGrove evicts its passage- that even art is less considered- inside its formlessness. A narration provoked, to question loss, no deeper than the child. Is beauty resisted, when even grief, is the grief she can’t console?

There are no trajectories to confide. Art resolves a path, and still unfollowed, deepening its memory. To be abandoned, without neglect, as if to dream itself: were I The Galleria D’ell Academia, just past gloaming, the halls that walk without a shadow, were I the instinct they convert. When to feel the busts- of writhing marbles- a dream becomes its infancy. What night would not vacate its vow to wake the moon inside itself? When mirrors that shift as tapestries- forget to be evoked- when the walls resist their vellum? And nothing is so funerary, than to be observed?  A word suggests its echo, to mimic his approach. There is no blood to fear. The marble supplicates its basin. Nothing is translatable. The “David” can’t commit his plumage deeper than its myth. It is not to have him shift, that his body is not visceral. The parable of his hand is the hand it can’t resolve. He is equally an artist, to transition ennui; were Michelangelo’s Goliath beyond his fate, no faith would be withdrawn. 

 Were I The Galleria D’ell Academia, nothing else would speak. Even for its discrepancy, beauty is misplaced. He was not intended beyond his trail, and yet for it he is condemned. To be expressed- but incomplete- a mold confirms his absence, to resist its death. When nothing else objects its form, he cannot be evoked. Michelangelo may not have foreseen this posture: unveiled for The Palazzo della Signoria, in 1504, his “David” was the entry of its form. It is almost that the unfinished figures are the entry of his ghost. And it is not for him to approach their absence. They fall away as petals, Herodiade would lament: to consider beauty its supposition, “Si la beaute n’etait la mort…!” Even to consume his will, he can’t resist their liberty; his humanism is obscured. He emits a naivete and mastery- his ghost is crimson- his blood pearl gray; he cannot hear the quarries, that listen for his form; and yet the myth he cannot reach- as myths are made to caution faith- discerns a will he can’t approach. Art is the valor he neglects, to imitate the hero. 

Putative Piece, at present

Blank Verse Notations

There was no ancestry to be unmade;
She wakes in a mirror to wither ghosts.
His eyes too hollow not to break her pall,
The waste of heaven to seduce a rose
Rusting the tethers of its velvet thorns.
Her shield was broken to inherit him
Where blood was the clamor of a shadow,
Too much a ghost not to ripen echoes,
The wind too heavy to corrupt its cheek:
No crag was buried to collect her ghost.
A swan is severed but to be exposed-
Her tears are the fury of his ether-
The stage she murmured would not break his mouth,
Never so postured not to mimic sleep
She trembles the rain that collects in wells;
Never so withered to abandon shadows
And the ashen pools that his mask became,
His hands were the pallor of her simper
She was too small not to be his posture;
Never less prodigal to sequester
The acrid consecration of her sleep,
Swollen as starlings that forget to sing
In the hymns they sever to be unborn.

Texts and Blank Verse Notations

QUOD ME NUTRIT ME DESTRUIT
To be unborn,  I must not grieve, the death I cannot posture. What sustains me also deprecates; I am intrinsic not to be, what I can't imagine. The nuance of beauty- to conflict form- as if to goad its absence- to seclude an intuition-when nothing is unmade. That wind and rain and blood and sleep, fall beneath their shadows, I only wake what cannot stir.  The supposition is never so much , that death exceeds what it condemns; the silken rose- its ministry- not to wake the moon; the lily absorbed, that every garden, wake its infancy; I commit strength, no less opposed, to hide what it conceals; am I Aeolian to be transferred, when the wind forgets to bury me? Art transforms its instinct- that even death and beauty- cannot be consumed; no symbol is unheard,  that I forget to be, an elegy too woken, not to mimic grief.


The instinct of beauty, when even death, cannot be consumed.      Dagon Anais The First
I am the covet of a ghost, undreamed but not to mimic death, when nothing else expires. There is no womb to contend. An asp consumes its echo: the Edenic pallor of a garden, too small to hide my mouth.  A rose neglects its shadow, to break my sacrament. The lavender is acrid- as any pall- postured not to wake. And still without a tether, the moon forgets to sleep. Its shrift is no less fetal, not to keep me here. I cannot be unborn, to undulate its quarry. The tidal shift of pools-sequestered that I be- the prison of their lava, the crystal of its
mirror, the shrapnel that collapses the ghosts I liquify. I was made, but to escape, the morgue I can't confine; the moon is less misguided, not to bury me.



There is no beauty to violate, when every augur that shifts my ghost, cannot shift its absence.

Never to seek its expiration, I cannot hide my mouth.


I cannot mimic dreams, until I bury you

Dec 2 3:15 December 3rd at  3pm


I only mimic dreams, to hide inside your ghost.

Is beauty no more the temptation, of a form it can't become?

There is no beauty to violate, when every augur that shifts my ghost, cannot shift its absence.

I only mimic dreams, that cannot mimic mirrors

Saint Matthew And The Angel The Third for Caravaggio

For everyone who died on September 11, 2001:

Saint Matthew And The Angel The Third for Caravaggio

The skeleton's womb is in the sea,

Its tears are the foam, exploding,

Incessantly, from remnants

Of their birth, waves rooted

Deep in the sooty balm of the earth.

And when the skeleton calls back

For that bosom in which it was made,

Its heart becomes the rocks,

The angular teeth of the cliffs

Shedding, every time a wave screams,

For the mother that forsakes,

Destroys its limp esteem.

But what womb would know,

The star that puts its blood upon a plate,

Makes the moon its fork,

The sun obliterating as its knife,

All to reach back into the bones

Grabbed by gouged eyes

From a worm who'd gouge our faces,

From the interstellar sea?

No womb, no skeleton, forsakes me:

I do not feel my bones,

I do not feel the sea,

I do not even feel the earth

Re-claiming me, my arms, my legs,

So I can finally dance, and see, the shadows

None can see, in the mirror of the dark!

Wreck me, so you may see my dead city,

The sighs and words have been annihilated

And I am Virgil, with no voice to guide,

My mother has died, but I am dead, too:

Medusa fixed her eyes upon a point

So the snakes would writhe,

And reach out from a concave shield,

The perspective your eyes might yield,

If you cared to see beyond their death.

I have no breath, I am no body,

My bones are buried with Shelley,

Off our Tyrrhenian Phalanx,

We are not shielded from dying.

And the waves continue to drool,

Until the drool becomes their foam

Dragging us into the loam

That bases all forgotten things.

But I have dug through the soot,

From beginning looking in

Took apart my very bones.

We are not shielded from dying?

At least we know the light

That is rooted in deepest black,

I do not want to go back,

Still something drags me to the womb,

And my skeleton falls apart,

Each bone inoculating the sea,

What beast will come of this unholy kiss?

I am the son of unholy trysts,

And the blonde reaper will not take my star,

The moon will not outshine its death,

For as it dies it is most brilliant,

Re-claimed by interstellar ash,

To be re-born, inveterate mass,

Verging into human skin.

You are grabbing me from without

To take me within, and your hand

Has all the flesh I have forsook,

But you at least see the spirit's flesh,

The spirit's skin:

Lambent tears, dying stars

Against a sky much blacker than ash,

Falling deep into the sooty womb

Of Demeter. For we are the lost daughter,

We pluck Asphodel in forsaken fields

And Hell feels much brighter in the light

Than the black tears from our distant Mother,

Praying, as she knees into the grass,

For spring to come and reclaim her child,

Her womb. And yet, you take me too soon,

And yet, not soon enough.

*

   The columns at the entrance into Chancellary gardens are exposed by graffiti. Above shields, the stoic armor of men, who may or may not have been stoic, the names of lost comrades. In the gardens of the Reich Chancellery the bodies of Eva Braun and Hitler are burned and buried. In Oberwallstrasse the bodies of Germans and Soviets are decaying into ash the stars do not envy. The graffiti on the columns licks its wounds. It would rather obliterate the ash buried in the garden. And grow into beautiful weeds, destroying the flowers that were gutted from heaven and fed to hell.

   Hell has skinned you. But, unlike The Gestapo, its fires will not touch the snow that buries your heart. It is your heart that will burn through and tattoo: the snow, heaven and hell, graffiti on the columns, an American solider in the Berliner Sportspalast stabbing Hitler and every ghost of Evil that isn’t really a ghost and not even light enough for the night sky in mock salute.

   I see Saint Matthew and The Angel in a book. I look at Vandivert’s photographs and notes. (M) oldy SS cap lying in water on floor of sitting room. I laugh that the skull is almost obliterated, subjected to water and mold. And weep that Saint Matthew, a face you must have taken off the street, a body with a hide subjected to toil and sun, a man who may have been a farmer with deep black eyes recalling the soil’s lore, that this man must gore in his own haunted wood. We were never happy and never good.

   Your angel overlooks Matthew. Places its effeminate hand over the hide of his arm. Peers at a book in which he is writing. I do not know what he writes. But Matthew is the earth, and if the Angel has been before his birth, has always been, it has not preceded me. For I do not see, cannot trace a question mark in the dirt laying ants and all their structures asunder, without looking at the night sky to wonder, does this dirt make to be?

   My bones might rot in ash. . I do not know. Still, I go, where graffiti thrashes with gutted buildings. Skeletons, surrounded by the rubble of their very bodies. The hands that made them, long gone, maybe ghosts weeping that their blood should be mixed with a broken bust of the Fuhrer. And their skeletons haunt them. Reclaim them. Graffiti on the columns. Their song a throng of vespers digested by the air: I was here, too!

    And I am here, now, to reclaim them. . Reclaim you. I do not look for angels or saints. Only an angel can define a saint. I can only define my skeleton. My blood has been re-claimed by the earth. Where Saint Matthew and the Angel are both destroyed, and the graffiti columns restored, and all the rubble painted away, the ash too heavy for the sky never re-claimed, flowers gutted by noble weeds, a mock salute. Come to me. I can only look down. If I am the voice that might save you, you who stepped on the fangs of a snake, I will not look back. But the stars look back at me. Graffitied against an obsidian wall. My skeleton breaks. And I fall.

           *

I'll paint a flower that thrives in ash,

And finds a sun in deepest black,

The sea evoked my skeleton,

Berlin up-heaved my reckoning,

Beckoning my bones' blood,

To account for the sea's flood,

The womb that bleeds anemones,

Has no will for enemies,

So maybe you reclaim my ghost,

To make a body I am its host,

But I know that the man I killed,

His blood forever from dirt distilled,

Haunts nothing not even night,

Not even the amber light,

That comes to preserve the first cry,

Even though we all must die,

Still your eyes have the sea's shade,

A blue moon with its heart shaved,

And tears will take you nowhere,

Your bones are not your despair,

You cannot see a shadow's death,

Berlin in rubble re-claimed my breath,

Then I will make you from my brush,

Into an angel Saint Matthew trusts,

For you know not angel but paint the saint,

Your songs bleed without restraint,

Rooted in a sooty womb,

You cannot see beyond your tomb,

And I see the color of Asphodel,

Smells like the apple that never fell,

You think we were never made free,

From everything we cannot see,

That demons lurch from haunted eves,

Of roofs from forests with black leaves,

I'll set you Angel in human skin,

You will gut the rind that rots within,

Your Saint cannot taste its seed,

So I will paint Berlin bleed,

You'll both be on an empty street,

No voice except where your eyes meet,

The Saint will be a newborn child,

Wrapped in a blanket bloody defiled,

The Angel will be in a black gown,

Its read mouth attachés a sinister frown,

They'll stare deep into each other,

The baby wanting its mother,

Its mother dead underground somewhere,

And this Angel holds the Saint without a care,

A rope that would easily let go,

Were it not for the ash falling like snow,

The Saint's skin will be light grey,

The sky on an overcast day,

The Angel will look like porcelain,

Lighter even than the snow's skin,

And behind this equipoise,

A city in the gutter's throes,

All mist and gutted bloodless too,

All rubble except an ash draped shoe,

I'll paint a flower that thrives in ash,

And finds a sun in deepest black.

                    *

*

The dirt’s blood is the motion of everything. When the sea came at the soil with her blue teeth, she put it into the air. And wore the wind around her thyrsus, which she stamped towards the night sky but could not reach. Until a star cried, because it was afraid of its luster for all luster means death. And put its invisible tears into the wind, where every spirit, from everything, would eventually dance.

Put down your brush. I do not care that the painting is unfinished. Because you and I have bitten the apple. We’ve divorced the Myrtle and the Cypress. When Virgil has no voice to lead will Paradiso and Liszt’s heaven be anything but restrained hyperbole? And now I am seeing a bloody rood. La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi Cathedral, locked inside. But I don’t care. I’d much rather be locked out and see the spires try and pop the star’s tears.

I wear the rood. The blood has been so engraved; I wrap my long hair around this thyrsus, just to hide my graffiti. I do not want to read what it says, but I think it might say: your spirit has been stolen, your battle horse is too swift, you do not even rein Eden in the summer and spring, and your kidneys wear scars that will never heal. The pills that keep you alive are the Hemlock Socrates took. The pills you stopped taking, to stop the voices and avatars from hell that treated your spirit like a changeling, made you another Conrad Veidt in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. And now you must pick up the ash covered shoe and murder the Angel and the Saint. They are back. The stars’ tears will keep to themselves. There never was an Eden. There never was a Hell.

So go. My sacrilege was in giving your ghost a skeleton. And letting you feel the flesh, again. My roots will not even touch the air. I looked up at the sky, just now, and saw a formation unlike any other. A sliver of clouds shredded by shark’s teeth. The cerulean tent did not faze me. Because eleven years ago my city was murdered by rubble. And it wasn’t a shoe made prominent in ash, but people I’ll never meet. Crying tears that tasted like Ambrosia to our new Hitler. Still, I meet them in the cloud shredded by shark’s teeth.

My tears belong with the stars’. And I cannot touch them. The wind tries to blow my hair from my thyrsus. But I keep it wound. Black Ivy shining under a spring rain. You will not escape this rood. My eyes are blue dahlias. Locked in a glass cage. They see the graffiti maybe all of us fear:

I was never here.

                                                September 11, 2012