Giants of an Electronic Age

Image result for el greco

We are surrealists, carrying the sacred box of literature to those who will never read it.  What are we doing with those words, no… those sentiments that we dig up from those who went before us.  You are the torn up letters of books I have read before and scream out loud to hear the ghost that you were.

You stole my time and so I’ll steal from you.  I’m sorry.

I have looked in all those reference books and dictionaries that once took our ears by surprise and made us cry by the full moon.  I kick my heels while you finish your lines and our friend sleeps on the bed lost.

But I will not be the first to point at him, and nor can you be – we have been there before.

And I am so happy to be here, writing with genius, listening to giants of an electronic age.


Smash glass here

So there you are, standing in the jewelry store, wondering when it all went wrong.

Just smash the glass and run, keeps repeating in your head. The alarms have been hacked, the owner and assistant lie tied up like pigs in the back room. And a car is waiting for you just outside.

Just smash the glass and run.

But then, where is your man? The one supposed to be standing next to you? The one who did the hacking, tying and fine tuning of this whole goddam project? Where is your Beatrice you followed naively into the real world, finding nothing but false images, misrepresentations and facades that smell like honey, but sting like Venus fly traps? This crazy town of butterfly ladies and sugar daddies, in a hand basket headed to god knows where.

Yet, he must be there. You know him, through and through; you’ve known him intimately, distantly, savagely. You’ve known him for your whole life, before and beyond your existence. You know, as you yourself explained, because he is the one reflected in the fish tank at the party that none of your friends went to.

He is the one that crushes parched dead flowers in his oversized palms. He is the one who drags the mab where she will not go. This is he!

You know him: an aging soul in a gypsy shell, with the remnants of some distant formal training. But now you will find scant rhyming couplets and a decomposed structure that tried once only to write sonnets. But winter early invades my hairs and the bones that struck the page groan with premature senescence.

But stop thinking about all of this; who the hell cares?

Just smash the glass and run.

Guy burns tonight

The candles shine strangely in this moonlight. Your faces are caught in their dancing, you who are seated in a semicircle of intrigue.

The bell will soon toll for noble Guy Fawkes, and long-enduring chains with newly oppressed young minds will explode in fireworks.
But a knock at the door will end it all.
In comes the law with righteous fury, beating in the faces of the conspirators. Stop your plans; put away the maps; soon we will have nothing left.
Guy promised all, but Parliament took vengeance with arcane severity. The room is battered, the actors arrested and the farce is over.
And just before the torture and the unjust slaughter of freedom, Guy thought of his freer times – long before his inverted role in government.
He saw her standing there by the window, throwing back her hair and laughing. He saw him too, moving with clumsy footfalls over a nightingale floor.
Why wait anymore to expose the lie?

CI – Impression #2

The armory of my misery is hidden with layers of ancient pain, locked up like the rusty axes of a happier age. Once they gleamed with lucky joy and cut their ways through crowds of gleeful opportunities; with words – naive but words all the same – happy folk came running to see the hero with his heroin and wish them well upon the wave that carried both; willingly would they have their last night, trusting in a tomorrow that always turned up with kingly regularity, giving each and all each and all expressions of candid, azur infinity.

But I sit pious now, remembering those days not laughing yet remembering still the breaking of the blade and the decaying of our youth; hearing still the screaming of those lambs stopping not their bleating while we bleeding to our last, feeding time with sins long gone, sat in the rose garden remembering. Lying. Crying. Dying.

I cannot come again to those fields we knew so well. I cannot open up again the chest that holds the secret memories of my youth, yours, hers, ours – the collectivity of universal remembering, hidden in a poem, an ode to someone well remembered. The armory of my heart is kept away with metal inspectors, queues, delays and layers upon layers of heavy, dense remembering. It is the very recess that none but He can see.

Accept these words – naive but words all the same – and may they wet your tomb with fraternal reckoning.

Now, forever, brother, hail and farewell!