new poem : "tales of the day"
tales of the day
I am in the morning of silence, the drought of the first half of the
Western world; I look on the functions of industry from its variant
spiritual homes-places like Nikel, Murmansk Oblast, Russia,
standing in blue-black snow with the glitter of cobalt raining down
on me.
I am left panting-not out of breath nor drooling but out of thoughts-I am
asunder in the sea of mourning our world has wrought, from bombs to
plowshares and once again back again. Аппети́т прихо́дит во вре́мя еды́.
when seperated from our grand muses, we then find the subtle, the paltry, we own
the night because we were born to the northern darkness. we were born to a lacking;
and yet what a mess will make this whole, and what falling of books and crystal would
make you listen? and if Virginia is really for lovers, someone up there ought to have realized
what a treasure you are already. see, from what I understand, an F-16 crashed into the old
kitchen of your house and no one heard it, pilot ejected and the drop-tanks caught fire
yet that, thankfully, was put out by the fictional personage of the mammy in plantation
literature: with four-gallon buckets of water, Disney-like, she saved the day.
on a March night with rain driven to make highways into mirrors, I had dinner
with the National Security Advisor. She was late, but magnific as expected for her
office. emerald ring and gown of satin, Chanel and other assorted bling. And it's
all true, it's your own, my friend, in the morning when I wake beside a boy making
a space-opera out of his own addictions I reflect on Nikel, Richmond, white elephants
and white alligators. I want it all. and drink bourbon to them, Liza for having the balls
to cover a singer half or less her age and do it better, Laura Bush for wearing green worthy
of Jackie on mornings no flowers would bloom, Faye Wong for owning the islands like I own
the sky. all. all is dream and all is good, talked now with Koa over in Hawai'i and we prepare
a victory suite all our own again.