stone repositories for fallen

  pigeon shit

  below them stoned bums

  scrape their lives into asphalt sleep

  on sidewalks slow shuffle scabby bruised feet towards terrors

  only they know

  leaning underground

  against graffitied steel subway poles

  alone carrying their own feverish frenzy

  that needed bathing long ago

  & so each day here where we pass

  each other waiting for love to speak

  to us to everyone so slow in coming here

  to cleanse our needs of these terrible wounds

  scraped raw by these clawing days

  leaning forward into one another

  our lives touching here

  these underground steel poles

  propping up our bodies

  flawed by breath

  & anointed with scents

  from wherever it is we are coming from

  & can feel our flesh rubbing steel

  & think the steel flesh

  & tell ourselves we are not lonely here

  couldn’t be lonely

  here in this gargantuan city

  where steel poles

  give back no sweat

  SNOW & ICE

  ice sheets sweep this slick mirrored darkness

  as keys that turn tight trigger brains

  of situations

  where we move ever so slowly

  so gently into time-traced agony

  bright turning of imagination

  so slowly

  through revolving doors opening up to enter mountains

  where spirits walk voices so slowly swept

  by cold breathing fire

  as these elliptical moments of illusion

  fragile loves sunk deep in snows as footprints

  weak chained black gesticulations

  bone bared voices

  chewed skeletal choices

  in fangs of vampirish gales

  these silver slivers of raucous laughter

  glinting bright as hard polished nails

  A SURREALISTIC POEM TO EVERYONE & NO ONE IN PARTICULAR

  high above the ceiling of imagination

  crescendo thunderclaps of silence

  before lightning, a tongue of pearls slashing

  the tapestry of God’s eye

  totemic gong-ringer of cocaine spells

  consummate tapdancer on the holy rings

  around saturn

  hydraulic wingbeater

  of a dehydrated eagle

  laid back soothsayer

  who sees the world as one grain of sand

  cosmic mindsmoker of the seven skies of dewdrops & doowops

  righteous deep sea diver

  of the hot sucking womb

  this tomb-headed chronicler of the dark

  secrets of the vatican

  omnipotent court jester

  of the kingdom of novocaine

  stomp down choreographer of the nod & stumble

  junkie ballets

  scientific finder of collapsed river veins

  molecular rhesus monkey of the ultimate trip of battery acid

  peyote sky tripper, eater of jagged sharp tin cans

  fire swallowing termite of esoteric books

  bringer of hot-ice seasons of unknown climates

  gri-gri stone eater of broken lightbulbs

  bubonic trigger man of no hesitation

  out here your test-tube children wearing

  uniforms full of worthless medals wearing tight-fitting suits

  with buttons popping club-footed dancers

  of wet dream midnights

  totemic gong ringer of cocaine spells

  all these desert-fried faces

  of sandstorms/chopped iguanas

  rattlesnaking eyeballs swarming with garbage

  flies sweating speech as buzzsaws of termites

  cutting through redwood trees

  night-trippers of onion & garlic kisses

  toe-tappers of naked nose rubbing eskimos

  bellringer of sandpaper pussies

  sardine flesh rappers of cat-shit breath

  whose eyes gleam sharp as piranha teeth

  whose skunk smelling sword blade words reek

  of no consequence & nixonian intentions blubberous

  jellyfishes of short legs knobby knees

  & long flat-footed premonitions

  no doubt about it gong-ringer

  the brain of mankind is sometimes a piss

  of swiss cheese on the plate of a begger

  FROM RICHMOND COLLEGE

  POSTMARKED–MANHATTAN

  from this plate-glass window

  high above staten island

  night closes in on the jugular vein of day

  as black paint spreads down over space

  of white canvas

  squeezing out the life

  cycle of day

  artificial lights shimmer/dance

  bojangle out of focus

  tap-dance across the sound stuffed with slow moving ships

  as the verranzano bridge strings out its chainlink

  of stars/glittering notions

  blurs of flashing carlights

  rippling motions

  & from here across the sound’s

  waters the shore of brooklyn comes alive with yellow

  lights that glow

  like eyes of panthers

  headlights shutter/blink

  down freeways carved from blood & stolen gold

  while the american flag shivers/whips back

  hung up there atop staten island’s

  city hall tower

  alone in the face of ice

  cold winds

  black hands on the white face

  of the luminous tower clock

  move methodically

  while under the bridge

  the strung-out motion red

  lights pulsate like heartbeats

  of a rebreathing bag/dreams

  rise & fall against the darkness

  blood colors

  bloodshot eyes in flight

  feverish eyes of countless rodents

  impressionistic images swirling

  penetrate the dark rhythms

  while down at the ferry landing

  cars move like monstrous bugs

  down long curving rampways

  headlight tongues for eyes probe/open up

  the darkness with their bone bright keys of light

  crawl up the snaking asphalt pavement

  while people move in slow

  fast shuffling motion as in old homemade

  silent movies in black & white dragging

  their day behind them

  anchored to tired drooping shoulders

  now across the sound

  in the other direction towards manhattan

  the eye locates the oxidized green french

  woman carved from stone lighting her torch

  in the harbor

  while manhattan looms up behind her

  a gigantic electric circus

  of sizzling lights

  now night closes finally

  its walls of mystery like dracula

  enfolding himself in his black sweeping cape

  while all around staten island supper smells

  tantalize the nostrils

  now as eye am leaving

  the wind dies

  down up on the flagpole the flag hangs limply

  while black hands on the white face of the clock

  turn around the hours fast as jessie owens

  winning the olympic dashes

  in hitler’s germany in 1936

  now panther against the dark

  eye enter the ferry

  slip down through the womb of its doors

  like a letter being slid into

  an envelope

  slide back into the night

  postmarked: manhattan

  II.

  LEGON, GHANA, AFTER DARK

  soft voices invisible serenade

  from roadways, courtyards,

  laughing trees & serene ponds palming

  flat wide green leaves

  holding incredibly loud bullfrogs

  croaking over motion

  of silent goldfish

  Ga language sings over

  darkening shadows mixing Akan where

  English is pushed back into corners

  of language gumbo style

  crickets orchestrate

  their deafening oracular melodies

  blend high-life rhythms & C. K. Mann

  with afro-sound of Fela Ransome Kuti

  rumbling ground & a lonely

  car horn

  music, life’s music

  punctuates the sweetness

  of this beautiful modal cadence

  lifts the spirit into rare ecstasy

  now listening to sculptors

  of ancestral root music arranging

  & rearranging their perfect chords

  & octaves of discord & accord, dissonant

  counterpoint eye begin my fall back into the black

  inkwell that leads to the egg-yoke

  on the blue plate of God’s table

  fall into deep & untroubled sleep

  at Akuafo Hall, at the university of Ghana

  under rare dark incense showers under

  rare deep dark incense showers

  GHANAIAN SONG-IMAGE

  after rain

  dark trees &

  ghost shadows

  sit upon

  shoulders of

  cotton mist

  IGBOBI, NIGERIAN NIGHT

  for Ron & Ellen Pulleyblank & Seyi Bajilayia

  dark fall

  african masks

  martell bottle

  shadows

  the wall   spider

  in the corner

  of the cognac

  bottle a lone candle

  burns on the table

  invisible sounds

  hum from imagbon

  street climbs through

  the open window

  & love in

  the heart will last

  beyond distance

  & time beyond

  separation

  of the graves

  MEMORY

  a lone candle

  burning penetrating

  the dark deepening

  memory—pain

  only a finger

  thought away

  OUT HERE WHERE

  out here where

  the sky grows wings

  the land is broad

  & everywhere eye go

  space holds me

  within

  III.

  IT IS NOT

  it is not who or what you see

  but how you see

  it. the night.

  the woman. the rhythm

  of night lights going on.

  off. in her face.

  the smile of neon.

  jewels on fingers.

  the sound of ash

  colliding with cotton.

  the sound tears make falling

  through blues. the voices.

  guitar strings strummed

  by silence. echoes.

  echoes. gold-capped

  dues of a mississippi black

  man’s grin. is. not who or what.

  you see. but how.

  you see it. thin.

  or otherwise. deep.

  this life is.

  what you make of it. not

  what you hope it to be. but

  what it is. right or wrong.

  what it is what you make it

  to be it is right

  or wrong. thin.

  or otherwise. deep.

  a blues. or its absence.

  it is. a lyrical

  rhythm. dissonant.

  painting the night. the sound

  of ashes. colliding with cotton.

  is. how you hear it. feel it.

  is. not what or who.

  you either hear. or. you do

  not hear. but how you hear

  is the question here.

  this poem. that gold-

  capped blues. of that. black

  man’s grin. mississippi. is.

  the sound tears make falling

  through guitar strings.

  colliding with cotton.

  echoing bones

  that lay screaming under-

  water. under earth. is

  the feeling you hear. chains.

  is not what you see

  but how you see it. death.

  this life. is how you

  make it. see it.

  feeling, see it. hear

  this life wedded to death.

  see it. feeling. see it.

  feeling. see it.

  see. it.

  hear. it.

  IN A SILENCE OF BELLS

  in a silence of bells

  & cardboard mackmen

  round midnight

  a screaming riot of trumpets

  fork the suffocating hours

  bones stretch here

  & are hands time-clocks

  beating hearts with no bodies

  surrounding them stall

  an absence of rhythms

  but eye come in on time

  with no outside help from metronomes

  picking bass strings of the night

  but have forgotten

  my subway token

  so have to walk

  the music all

  the way home

  IN MEMORY OF BUNCHY CARTER

  in this quick breath

  of water spray airy

  eye see your face

  of light so darkly lit

  through knifing

  rain long gone friend

  shadow of your tracking

  tongue still moving

  this pin of lost friend-

  ship to call out your name

  so distant now

  so night grown green

  under avalanches

  of sunlight

  & flowers

  THE OTHER NIGHT

  the other brandy

  sweetened night we was

  kissin’ so hard & good

  you sucked my tongue

  right on out

  my tremblin’ mouth

  & eye had to

  sew it back in

  in order to tell

  you about it

  FLYING KITES

  for Nathan Dixon, friend & poet

  1.

  we used to fly kites

  across skull-caps of hours

  holes on blue wings

  canvas of sinking suns eclipsed

  winged eyes locked to wind

  we’d cut the kite string away

  then run them down blue tapestry

  up the sky down again the sin-

  king sun over

  again the sinking sun

  2.

  now we fly words as kites

  on winds through skies

  as poems;

  holy bloody sounds

  ringing like eclipse

  the sun’s tongues

  TRANSFORMATION

  catch the blues song

  of wind in your bleeding

  black hand, (w)rap it around

  your strong bony fingers

  then turn it into a soft-nosed pen

  & sit down & write the love

  poem of your life

  FIREFLIES

  fireflies on night canvas

  cat eyes glowing like moonbeams

  climbing now towards hidden places

  they speak to the language

  of darkness & of their own lives torn

  from roots in flux & of their sub-

  stance forming the core

  substantially transparent they

  swim through ethereal darkness

  where silence can be wisdom

  searching for open doors

  IV.

  THE DAY DUKE RAISED: MAY 24TH,1984

  for Duke Ellington

  1.

  that day began with a shower

  of darkness calling lightning rains

  home to stone language

  of thunderclaps shattering the high

  blue elegance of space & time

  where a broken-down riderless, horse

  with frayed wings

  rode a sheer bone sunbeam

  road, down into the clouds

  2.

  spoke wheels of lightning

  spun around the hours high up

  above those clouds duke wheeled

  his chariot of piano keys

  his spirit now levitated from flesh

  & hovering over the music of most high

  spoke to the silence

  of a griot-shaman/man

  who knew the wisdom of God

  3.

  at high noon the sun cracked

  through the darkness like a rifle shot

  grew a beard of clouds on its livid bald

  face hung down noon, sky high

  pivotal time being a five in the nine

  numbers of numerology

  as his music was the crossroads

  the cosmic mirror of rhythmic gri-gri

  4.

  so get on up & fly away duke bebop

  slant & fade on in strut dance swing riff

  float & stroke those tickling gri-gri keys

  those satin ladies taking the A train up

  to harlem those gri-gri keys of birmingham

  breakdown sophisticated

  ladies mood indigo

  get on up & strut across gri-gri

  raise on up your band’s waiting

  5.

  thunderclapping music somersaulting

  clouds racing across the deep blue wisdom

  of God listen it is time for your intro

  duke into that other place where the all-time

  great band is waiting for your intro duke

  it is time for the Sacred Concert, duke

  it is time to make the music of God

  duke we are listening for your intro

  duke let the sacred music begin

  FOUR, AND MORE

  for Miles Davis

  1.

  a carrier of incandescent dreams this

  blade-thin shadowman stabbed by lightning

  crystal silhouette

  crawling over blues-stained pavements his life

  lean he drapes himself his music across edges

  his blood held tight within

  staccato flights

  clean as darkness & bright as lightning