PUNTO REVERSO

The iris on the sill
thirsts—

your breath
flays the green flesh,

the purple cusp
(parted and flushed)
quivers against the raw
light.
You slip

to the kitchen, shuffle back
with coffee and
fumble with the Times.

THAT MOVIE

I like the one
with the knight, who under
the helm is soppy and
grim, a pouty hard-luck
bastard.

You liked the cold guy
with firm jaw and
bold chest. The crisp boy
who looked charming
in 3 a.m. boxers.

I think that "Rusalka" is at last ready. I have edited the piece to a point of satisfaction, if not contentment.



RUSALKA

my eyes
lap at
the sluggish white shroud
of water
(at white lips, at
your white comb of teeth).

Is the water’s murmurous wisp

the sough
of your limpid throat—
or the stark vespers
of the firs?—Oh—
past the cloistral trees
the wind gnaws
at the steppe,
at the green heart,
and cold things sob
among the stones—

The black water is your palace gate,
the white froth your crystal arch.
Am I not your Kiev prince, the shanty against your wall,
the courtier in your hall,
the hart upon your fire?

ODYSSEUS ALONE


I have clanked
through the sulfur-breath
and shut my ears
to the dead; I
confronted the baggy buttresses
of your face, mother.
How do you think that sat with me?

I crouched in the wood guts
and watched a babe
amid the trojan revel.
How do you think it sat, that sticky reek
between the fingers, that furious joy,
that small soft head
on the stones?

I am a man.
How do you think it sits with me,
that I know no gods
but those who fling blood in my face.

A new edit of the most recent post, modified during my odyssey in Los Angeles. This is, I feel, a less distracting condensation of my theme. Also, a note: the real title is the one above THIS version. Sometimes, having a "G" next to the "H" on the keyboard can be such a bother. I almost wish it were the former title--better consonance--but we would, alas, lose the allusion and lapse into confusion.


GRANDPA HERLEWS

I smell the barbaric clay
and flay the soil but
when I rub my eyes the dirt
makes me cry—goddammit
when I toil in your hoary garden (once-mannered, once-young, goddammit)
I churn up the rusty taste
of your cuirass; of
the sweet scarf you kept folded
in your back pocket;

scraps of your chest—
spackled in mold (bright black flecks
on your lungs),
impaled on the spear invisible.
goddammit.

my lips and nose crush
into the gravel—I shall
eat the earth bellied over you; I shall
chew to your dark wet womb and
gnaw away the strap of decay. I shall, goddammit,
lift you up slick and new-skinned.
every callus renewed.

but of these thick stone glades,
which stone is yours? in the hot mist
you are obscured, and I hear the distant
thump of hooves.
I cannot find the broken lance, nor
the one who thrust it in.
So
I cannot pluck it out.

I understand that it has been a long time. Truth be told, I have not written much lately. But here it is: raw and unedited (yet). Gerlews refers to a knight from "Le Morte D'Artur" who was slain by an invisible knight. Balin, a knight of the Round Table, swore to avenge the death, and guarded Gerlews' damosel until this was achieved.



GRANDPA GERLEWS

you know I smell the barbaric clay
and flay the soil but
when I rub my eyes the dirt
makes me cry—goddammit
when I till your hoary garden (once-mannered, once-young (goddammit))
I churn up the rusty taste
of your cuirass; of
the sweet scarf you kept folded
in your back pocket;

scraps of your recliner—
your throat simpers, your lungs
juggle (impaled (the spear invisible) goddammit)
and the snakeskin victrola
of your chest hisses out
rusty songs.
susannah’s a funny old man,
man,
man.

my lips and nose crush
into the gravel—I shall
eat the earth bellied over you; I shall
chew to your dark wet womb and
gnaw away the strap of decay. I shall—goddammit
lift you up slick and new-skinned.
each callus renewed.

but of these thick stone glades,
which stone is yours? in the hot mist
you are obscured, and I hear the distant
thump of hooves.
I cannot find the broken lance, nor
the one who thrust it in.
I cannot pluck it out.