I. 

 

The redness of Spring, which we know

gave life to all green things,

such is March, and in happy despair

loving nothing, leaving nothing,

Spring was from ashes brought

to the marriage of discontent and safety. 

 

And such fruitful life, which was, as seen,

consumed by love and lost blue sheen

may know the return of redness in wording

such song that we may never sing

think wordless only, like the violin

which, sits, unplayed, in a nest of flowers. 

 

A spring where to know loneliness 

was an impasse; was an impasse;

such life was not born for white things playing-

and in such dreary, homeflew youth

twas i who saw the turning, in Spring,

when born was death and his merry angels.

 

So sudden, see, the twisting shadows,

which turn in a lover’s brain and crush

all hope of flowers, of kisses, fires, 

which would bring home the sky from stars

and kiss the oceans from the sea

to sail no more, and yet be still near.

 

But to brew distrust, i see, is not

the spring-born lover’s heart-

(though in truth, fair lady, I am

not the ending nor the start)

but a thing which cannot be described,

with words in songless singing pride.

 

II. 

 

off, then( to a future i, little i,

see twisting sudden sparks together

and cannot stop the trade

dear sir, one for another- from adoration

to kisses sweet, which from springtime

lay to winter’s end, a dash along rocks and drmmng

deeper than the stay of no-more king)

 

to meet( a silent hallow, saved one day

by kisses turned to burning

and bile rising up to meet

a springtime ne’er returning I

which mirrored in loving rush-

too fast, too much, too soon,

as always, burn life like a candle through the night.)

 

music.( music in rhyme,

in riddle, too, which asks

misery, have you sired anew

through glorious bass which killed 

all thought but notes returning fifth

and diminished hope for happy-ever)

after, though, we see the Lover forged

from stars and shadows of his home

to find the Loved across the sky(and

diminish strength and free the hex

 

 

III.

In my day we walked, dear,

out behind the school-hall

to a shrine where you would lean

up against the brick and smoke a cigarette

I pledge allegiance

and I would worship you, heavenly,

as your brown skin toiled against the heat

but a kiss I could not find rested upon

a memory’s lips, dearest, and that

holding hands in the chapel

I couldn’t give to you, not for all the wishes

all the tea in your cup or the cancer up in your lungs

the early death of you and the late death of me

which hand in hand walked back to the old school

daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring

which was new in its time, which was dead before

the bricks were even shaped from clay and roasted

in a dreamer’s dream heat for summer baby

I can change, I am not worried anymore

standing in the dock at Southampton

And I would love you wholly, then, in our little world

which, while fleeting, I would not trade, love

for the smile of God, for the love of the Father

and the Mother of me, together- i 

but you don’t really care for music, do you

think you were worth more than all that but still

I would cast you away when summer comes again

and the starry-eyed smile painted circles to my song

of this, that, everything, taught me why I wish wings

and to the republic for which it stands

on me, so I can fly to her across the sea and proclaim

“I am yours, be mine-” but this is not her song, this is

your song, true love’s song, which broken by bond

and by blood repaid on the yellowed paper of pain.

in thunder, lightning or in rain?

from this day forward,

when the hurlyburly’s done,

for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer

when the battle’s lost and won.

 

 

IV.

 

catch the cab, dearest, we sail away from Manhattan

and just like that my love is dead.

i would never even look to you for the way home,

but i would walk five hundred miles to see her say goodbye,

even her pain is sweeter to me than your sweet touch

though your lips fuller, dear, hers say what i want not to hear

and sing it in sighing, you never listened to me anyway

but now I am gone for the sun-colored smell at the top of her head

when we were curled for one moment was when i finally forgot you

 

and remembered her singing in my naked dreams in the old cabin

(I have probably dreamed of her more than anything else)

but never once did I tell her of my dream, for fear of losing

once again the holding dove, smiling goddess, who walks with air

in the bottoms of her dainty feet, can i even say four words, i know

I know i’ll sleep alone again tonight, and tomorrow, for I never

told her to bend her neck back and kiss me, 

damn the consequences

 

 

V.

so i sit and think of her, and switch to someone else

when here in shadow there is a the flesh that lurks

tuning my brain like a lyre, “i’ll sing her praises

for evermore,” i’ll say, “i’ll keep her in my heart because

she is beautiful and because she is here and

because she is white and because she is funny

and because she has more soul than a dominant

because she has more soul than anyone, than james

brown himself, she could be my soul but she is forgotten

in spring, when lovers become tangible

 

and eyes that pierce the veil of sleep return in wedded phantasms

which dance away through my window

could not see me when I looked out from my window

and never, not once, let me in

to her cold room full of wine and those old poems

i have crumpled for forgetting

( but they, the eyes, are invaluable, for

all of us are eyes and what are we but crumpled poems

left under bed forgotten, and I am a poem

alone but for the word she scratched into my side;

 

unless

VI.

she not for me, in this dream, (in my day)

for sweaty old men who have never smoked Marijuana 

and would play another man’s saxophone,

dry bleeding melodies played a hundred times

perfect at it, perfect at it

wrote the book on it,

wrote the book on everything,

writing more books on more

 

and still sleeping with you in their heads,

hard tingling rubbing apart the now and then

to forget exactly why i am i but i am not i i see you-

truly, to compel me to it, drive me to death and silence and fatigued whimpering

of a broken star shooting from A to B but i am not such a thing

i would wander across the ocean in my capsized boat

and would keep a twinkling fragment of your smile in my special breast pocket

for fat-lipped virgins across the lake to see how thin your lips can be

when they curve upward in my jesters toil,

but i awake to find you still not here but there,

still empty-armed and without your absent

cheating husband-to-be-not-me, see?

or don’t see, believe that i am not so much a man as a twister,

not so much a taker as a leaver, and the only reason

i still haven’t spoken real words to you is the truth is i think

that no matter how many words i say it will still not be the curve of your neck

and it will still not be my lips touching one another but for a rushed brushing

of

 

 

VII.

here is a place

to be strided through

sandy futures i can glimpse

like water from a cup not

like a place

that is here

 

she(thin

ks that she(gone

through so much but s(he

doesn’t see her

beauty because

she is gone

so i rondo and i quake and i hope i return

to the man i was when i was naive, playing in springtime

and sleeping in summer,dead in winterholding a candle

like it was my soul

 

VIII.

tumble us through central park,

i’ll follow the winds and the sounds

of thumping bass thump thump thumping

through the trees, we could

sit on the fountain where the french girls sit

see, here i am hiding! how much your name

sounds like the devil’s old friend

 

you must have been teased, but say

c’est la vie, and the french girls laugh

i have forgotten old flirts in the autumn of my youth

now that i am in the winter of memory

remind me how you say that again, oh yes, ha ha

let’s take a boat trip out to that island and never come back

 

follow me, friend

and do not mention that fairer sin

and i will not mention the spring-born lover’s heart

or be four again

 

 

 

 

but you will never be four again

 

IX.

since, in time immemorial

we have always kissed,

to continue to do so is 

what is best and Lady

do not think me selfish, i seek

 

only the alarm sounding in your chest,

for this escaped prisoner from innocence

come, and i will take you

 

to

the

happy-after

 

end

 

X.

 

saw you the other day,

like waking from a dream,

and you were not all there.

i realized through closed eyes

 

and been blinded, see, from

all the jokes i missed when we

ran out of words to think, i’ll be

damned if i have to sit through

 

another minute of this waking

body shaking, earth quaking

through my books to my brain

from when we were

 

never much in love, so be strong

mend the tears before they form

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