Sand Spilt on the Ground [A POEM REVISITED]

for T. S. E.:

it is the heat that melts the March snow

that allows those dreaded April lilacs to bloom.

I

their faces are long, thin,

covered with dampness not from the sun

but from fluorescent lights,

kissed with dire breezes from silken bottles

whose liquids stream down over premature breasts;

how these figures blossom within gaudy robes,

the makings of queens if not for the ideals

of the princess: rogues whose simple trends

come from bulky arms, untamed tempers

and ever-pulsing hips. when once again time relinquishes their simplicities

their complexities remain blank and unmoving.

unknowing bolts down into wondrous nothing,

their eyes widening not to the sites of spring flowers

harvest moons or even little worms: they refuse

to bend at the knees and look at the ants marching

over the concrete and onto the seasoned mulch.

i see the cusps of buttocks yet i do not reach:

my hands only tremble, my blood only shakes:

when i know these figures die when they all become mothers

stiffens my flesh, widens my eyes,

and depletes any notion of lusting tact within my loins.

i can only see sparking cups and plastic coffee spoons.

any crown not fashioned from gold is a crown of thorns.

i am no martyr

but my eyes are open.

when the summer beats still i want to toboggan down caps

and sift through the beads and diamond rings:

i will hold my breath through the bitter wine

and let their stumbles befall only them.

when i see cotton clinging to their untouched curves

i will only listen to the hush of the heal-alls

and await the spiders to nest upon the pedals,

ready to tangle boney fingers in silken webs,

ready to keep their knuckles from clenching, seizing

themselves over tempters; the rapture sits

and calms itself as a storm before the hail.

brightness, gleaming,

native tongues tripped-up and bruised

by three-, four-, one-lettered words;

saliva fermented, born of stills. i wonder

if they have ever seen a silo, ever seen a blossom

or even a branch reach out from a brutish trunk;

the ground will become to them the most pleasant of thieves,

taking only their footsteps and using them to make

cobblestone paths.

how will they tread without their evening shoes?

II

do you have

more? can your hair stay bright

and in place? when do your arms become

shelter? when do your palms rest in your

pockets and not on

untainted flesh? when do you keep

your eyes from bulging from your

sockets like a cartoon wolf ready

to howl?

your chants are not of Buddha

who breathes eternal life into the Earth:

i see you more as Franciscans

who dwell in the doorway of our rapture.

when all is taken i'd rather your seed end up spilt

upon the ground to feed the Earth,

to breath,

than to simply bloom. i'd rather your vigor take the form

of a jolted fist than temptual glaring. i'd rather you

an Onan than a David: i'd rather you

faithless then to hear your calls over thunder

as i lie in my rain-soaked bed.

take the June and make it yours,

for September is your temptress horse with wine and sleep,

though you are no Trojans;

October are your Greeks who burn your city to the ground

while you slumber, your arms around the girls

whose nakedness keep your schemings rigorous.

i think when you both awoke in the fiery blaze

and boisterous haze

you grabbed the wrong robes.

to grow out is not to grow over reconciliation.

III

the notion is bliss:

the deep pride stuck over thrones

makes us still; it finds a way to exhale

and strip away the flesh of flower stems.

nails pricking

one

by

one

until there is only one Delilah left,

and Samson reaches down to find a barren patch of Earth.

this tale is unheard

when candles nestle their flame in Christmas tree branches;

instead

the stillness of autumn days becomes more elaborate

than summer storms: when grey becomes the Heavens' paleness

and raindrops are merely beating.

Christ's tale becomes a nothing

when strewn, gutted, and mixed with that of the city,

the way the concrete forms itself around stumbling bodies

is more than the Magi: our Wisemen brings gifts

of demons, lusting, and blood.

IV

depths and moves. skills unset,

drawn-out and beaten until the traffic lights hide what the blues are thinking;

we can only keep from shaking while their breasts jump up

and down with each cunning stride;

or their arms reach and grope more shaking moves.

no hips should sway as so unless children in them grow.

out out out

up up up

in in in

chanting

motives; moans;

cries; screams;

unknown.

bring it out.

lake waters are not brick walls: they can be penetrated

so far to let all ones able to squirm.

you'll find me on an engine, revving,

setting up a game of backgammon while waiting outside your bedroom doors.

you always seem to forget about the die when you play;

and you never remember that it takes two, and player two

always gets to move. sometimes i suppose you keep rolling doubles.

i'll teach you Latin if you put the French aside.

all of the R's deep in the back of your throat have made you think

that bearing more into your lungs is alright. remember to protect your jaw.

V

WHAT keeps the armies at will?
what makes them load their rifles and fire when they see
the whites of our breasts? what drives their insecurities
to be curious of our fertile drippings? it's time;

it's time once again and the moon is low, easy for baying upon,
ravenous ribs compressing half-filled lungs from centuries of only wishing
and not seeings—how (if when) the streams merge to make a flowing river
that carries armies over through the gorge.

when i was a boy (twelve or so) i had visions, i had dreams
though too grand to measure with my hands.

a pup not ready to howl, only to wail
until i took a sip of my mother's suckled milk
and i thought that was epitome.

they are always to hungry
when our gammon hangs about on our budding breasts.