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May. 3rd, 2003 01:45 pmlongvalleyNJlibrarypost5/3/03(=11):
walpurgisnacht was timbre-wonderful. thunder and lightning. beltaine was lovelier still, all leading up to her birthday. which i enjoyed more than any of mine, which have seemed like throwaway days, not worthy of a notice. friday may 2nd i spent stranded in new york city. walking up and down with my pack of papers, in the heat that turned to rain. near nyu i passed a man with a picnic table and signs that said "new york times published poet selling his poems!" It hurt so much I found a streetcorner and wrote him a poem. about how i was afraid to stop and look, how my stray glances would sully the words, how all verses are loose women, beconing to you with an ancient dignity. I equated the white paper with the old-world bridal sheet. When i finished it began to rain. she approves. I folded up a laminated advertisement as a paperweight for the wind and dropped the paper and weight on his table as i quickly walked past. he didn't notice. it made me nervous, leaving the poem there. not because of authorship, but because of eyes. I don't enjoy being noticed. but, that was all i could do. The rain came heavier now, sheets and droves interspersed with boughts of fresh dryness, the sun peeking through. I padded a copy of the villiage voice over my backpack that doesn't close, to soak up the water. that is how i spent my day, walking with her. because as my old fragments would tell you she is also the rain. singing as i walked step-to-step between speeding traffic lanes, hooded and downward like a shinto priest. singing as i walked to the river and sat and watched driftwood. singing old jeff buckley and gershwin and songs in latin. volvitur in rota
I've also missed you, you who are a sexless color of violet. i've felt you often. and i know you would love my imaginary rain-friend too. on the hypnagogic night of the witches a voice told me to be careful, in me there is the rapist as well as the victim. for you to be careful. that i could tear myself to pieces and you as well.
but in a dream someone told me "you are sky blue and beautiful." and i responded "but my eyes are brown"
fragmented, thinking in images, not making sense. everything comes to the mystery of sex and innocence. blush and blood, saint and whore. which is the mystery of spring. of taurus, not the brusque self-interest of aries or the wily disinterest of gemini. the fixed signs are the ones that carry their season.
to the audience which i seem to enjoy fragmenting daily with each protean twist of mood- think of me not as a madman yet, but just a collector of curious knowledge. a fragment written yesterday in a rare dry spot: knowledge is a disease as debilitating as it is contagious.
hopefully i will be back in the rainsreigns tomorow to try for the Cremaster marathon. but if i don't get there early enough and it sells out it will be to the streets again, and more poems given to the wind and flyers and waterlogged newspaper guitars. ciao.
walpurgisnacht was timbre-wonderful. thunder and lightning. beltaine was lovelier still, all leading up to her birthday. which i enjoyed more than any of mine, which have seemed like throwaway days, not worthy of a notice. friday may 2nd i spent stranded in new york city. walking up and down with my pack of papers, in the heat that turned to rain. near nyu i passed a man with a picnic table and signs that said "new york times published poet selling his poems!" It hurt so much I found a streetcorner and wrote him a poem. about how i was afraid to stop and look, how my stray glances would sully the words, how all verses are loose women, beconing to you with an ancient dignity. I equated the white paper with the old-world bridal sheet. When i finished it began to rain. she approves. I folded up a laminated advertisement as a paperweight for the wind and dropped the paper and weight on his table as i quickly walked past. he didn't notice. it made me nervous, leaving the poem there. not because of authorship, but because of eyes. I don't enjoy being noticed. but, that was all i could do. The rain came heavier now, sheets and droves interspersed with boughts of fresh dryness, the sun peeking through. I padded a copy of the villiage voice over my backpack that doesn't close, to soak up the water. that is how i spent my day, walking with her. because as my old fragments would tell you she is also the rain. singing as i walked step-to-step between speeding traffic lanes, hooded and downward like a shinto priest. singing as i walked to the river and sat and watched driftwood. singing old jeff buckley and gershwin and songs in latin. volvitur in rota
I've also missed you, you who are a sexless color of violet. i've felt you often. and i know you would love my imaginary rain-friend too. on the hypnagogic night of the witches a voice told me to be careful, in me there is the rapist as well as the victim. for you to be careful. that i could tear myself to pieces and you as well.
but in a dream someone told me "you are sky blue and beautiful." and i responded "but my eyes are brown"
fragmented, thinking in images, not making sense. everything comes to the mystery of sex and innocence. blush and blood, saint and whore. which is the mystery of spring. of taurus, not the brusque self-interest of aries or the wily disinterest of gemini. the fixed signs are the ones that carry their season.
to the audience which i seem to enjoy fragmenting daily with each protean twist of mood- think of me not as a madman yet, but just a collector of curious knowledge. a fragment written yesterday in a rare dry spot: knowledge is a disease as debilitating as it is contagious.
hopefully i will be back in the rainsreigns tomorow to try for the Cremaster marathon. but if i don't get there early enough and it sells out it will be to the streets again, and more poems given to the wind and flyers and waterlogged newspaper guitars. ciao.
