COB, LOOPER, THE TRADITION, CRIMSON PEAK WRESTLES THE EMPIRE, BORGES WRESTLES THE SON OF SHIPS

COB

what prison bars do not
is what a spider web does not
bars laid upon stones
on stones & stores
empty, elbow decoration, by bars.

climb a love below the granite line to lock with the
locking sound. The setting lock, the frozen sea of
granite. The smoke of prison bars shape trees

Each bar is a virgin. Each door a flock of
joists & atoms. I am the filament of granite. I
have become the child of filter & filigree. I am a
prisoner at the feet of the dark house. Its sons
are architects

 

 

LOOPER

Why hurry, life, why chivvy on the hour?
You’ll soon have time to sew my mouth right up,
stitching with iron threads.
Olga Sedakova

There are troubles conceiving,
and whether it’s exciting anymore,
when it has a purpose
and such fearsome consequence.
Girls in the street look up
and away
even though I’m only looking
because they’re dressed as mummies.
Or maybe I look disgusting,
feeding myself apricots
like a pharaoh.
But they were grown from wings
and soon rot on the feather
if you don’t eat them in bloom.
Maybe they look away
because I’m ugly,
like a lizard.
Or because I live in my underwear.
Or because of my fertility.
Or because I can regenerate limbs
Or because I insist on tickling everyone.
I’m a good lover though,
I get really nervous.

 

 

THE TRADITION

This is how I lost the tournament with my face
Zbigniew Herbert

The trouble with double vision
is that I lose it
right at the moment when it comes in handy.
As though it were friend
whom you remember is dead.
A strange profession, athlete,
where you are more than your work,
and more out of work than in.
Sadness moans
every time a ball is struck
or some other distraction takes place
in physical space.
Not exactly an arrest
but restraining.

 

 

CRIMSON PEAK WRESTLES THE EMPIRE

British aristocracy portrayed as loveable, because they can be.

American appetites for deeper histories, plastic industries and being pale.

Waiting in the rain for him to leave, old clothes well tailored. Staying put, all alone.

Do the drapes match? Beware of Crimson peak.

Quite sharp, quite interesting development, don’t you think? Your accent. Not a complicated dance really. Yes charming, dashing, so much so to obscure so much

Behind it, people say, grinding, eyes closed to the grind, wouldn’t you say?

 

 

BORGES WRESTLES THE SON OF SHIPS

In this region of the new world there exists but one man.
Though those that are born in ships surround him,
and there must be a second, or third, to have seen him,
he remains, alone, by order, sliced white,
bound into skeletons.

One can live as a beggar, he says, while walking a king.
There are risks to the night not mentioned, or noticed.
Seven chambers, by seven chambers. Multiplying.
Mathematics on a page,
(rather than in the mind, or within a machine).
A doctor’s report that is difficult to read
for a reason that is difficult to remember.
A kind of fame possible, only granted
when the one last man is discovered beyond Palermo.

We do not dare to state that we are simple.
The sea seems wider as we view it from the deck.
Or the neck of a river that keeps breeding.
The walk continues, only with music now.
Honoris Causa in Jerusalem,
possible sums of the numbers 8, 1 and 9, given twice.
There are duels, intruders, old ladies.
Houses, full of books, burning down.
There is a shadow so black that it stretches ministers into poodles,
and poets into novelists.

The letters, arranged as poems, attempt to live as Buenos Aires.
They fail with some skill, and are better for the apology.
A soul’s core, walking, writing, a streetwalker in the innocent sense.
A single man, huge in a city, small in the world.

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