Post by mfwilkie on Dec 3, 2007 0:48:55 GMT -5
[1] Sonnet for the remnants of November by Mugs
I swear ocean air was my mother's milk,
and that full moon, high tide melodies
bind my DNA with harmonic
flexibility. To me,
there is no such thing
as dissonance from improvising seagulls.
But don't be fooled
by the implication of language.
There is also pain.
And pain, like an upper structure triad
in modal jazz, needs the introduction of contrast
for release, for cutting tension. It is against
the uneven metronomics of the sea
where I go to handle the bitchwork of grief.
[2] Sonnet for the onset of December by Chicky
Where I go to handle the bitchwork of grief
is the fixed ridges found in the ravelings
(the kinkier the better), in the undoing of things
once done. Howsom’ever brief
was the lock with the loop or howsom’ever long—
fibers know. They remember. Left
alone, they will find a same crease and lean just
where they bent and brushed to spoon in song
of some weave or other.
His sweater has been
disassembled, reconfigured to socks, woolen,
warm with brown roses in Fair Isle designs.
I enter December in sweatered feet;
sometimes I dance in his arms.
[3] Sonnet for the resurrection of Memory by Mugs
Sometimes I dance in his arms—
a three-quarter time step-step-close
that slows to images of after-love
in a memory-burn, a twenty second high
with a chaser of fuck-you-pain
we have to hide from public view
because time only moves in one direction
for the distant living. So, what do we do
when a re-awakened rush of hot desire
compares the past with the future making
earnest conversation over dinner? (Poor guy
doesn't know he's out with twins)
The one minute waltz is a distraction—
public eyes on the brocolli, private eyes on the door.
[4] Sonnet for the remnants of Then by chicky
Public eyes on the broccoli, private eyes on the door
to another room—any room. Even outside
in a parlor of rain will be better than
Blue Danube’s turned for the laughs on a day
in a year an hour can’t reach. When ‘Then’ suspends
like a bridge between ‘him’ and ‘now’
you know, you know, you f**k**g know you won’t find
the approach. Only the mist where a rainbow has rooted
paints your open hands and you’re weary of being wet.
Dropping the ‘I’ from all your whines
you speak for a while as if once removed. Tomorrow,
perhaps, ‘you’ will become ‘she’ when thoughts occur.
And by the grace of language, the frenetic
whim of words, a door labeled ‘it’ will close.
[5]Sonnet on the Meaning of Words by Mugs
Whim of words: a door labeled ‘it’ will close.
Stepping away from lyrical, thinking the
conceptual framework for this evaluation
posits a set of determinants worth
considering. How do you leave the married part
of your life, the pas de deux that came asunder
because the gods ran out of miracles
and could only hold your hand?
Which doors to leave open, which
to close? On which wheel of cotton
do you lay out habits for a new life?
It's snowing. Nothing eccentric, but
I'm out of cigarettes and
there's no one to record music for the trip.
[6]
There’s no one to record music for the trip.
But then the moon never asked for whale song
or to hang high and cold—one might even think
out of hearing—anymore than Al asked death
to partner him in a polka. I listen hard, turn
one ear toward the unknown and then the other, try
to filter out the slide of leather soles
across the floorboards of heaven, boards surely
sanded by Hera and the girls to ease the glide
of dead through their beer-barrel promenades,
their Louie-Louie-Aye’es, but all I find
is a storm in the tree limbs and a great rustling
moving in and out, in and out likes tides
forever unable to stay or go.
I swear ocean air was my mother's milk,
and that full moon, high tide melodies
bind my DNA with harmonic
flexibility. To me,
there is no such thing
as dissonance from improvising seagulls.
But don't be fooled
by the implication of language.
There is also pain.
And pain, like an upper structure triad
in modal jazz, needs the introduction of contrast
for release, for cutting tension. It is against
the uneven metronomics of the sea
where I go to handle the bitchwork of grief.
[2] Sonnet for the onset of December by Chicky
Where I go to handle the bitchwork of grief
is the fixed ridges found in the ravelings
(the kinkier the better), in the undoing of things
once done. Howsom’ever brief
was the lock with the loop or howsom’ever long—
fibers know. They remember. Left
alone, they will find a same crease and lean just
where they bent and brushed to spoon in song
of some weave or other.
His sweater has been
disassembled, reconfigured to socks, woolen,
warm with brown roses in Fair Isle designs.
I enter December in sweatered feet;
sometimes I dance in his arms.
[3] Sonnet for the resurrection of Memory by Mugs
Sometimes I dance in his arms—
a three-quarter time step-step-close
that slows to images of after-love
in a memory-burn, a twenty second high
with a chaser of fuck-you-pain
we have to hide from public view
because time only moves in one direction
for the distant living. So, what do we do
when a re-awakened rush of hot desire
compares the past with the future making
earnest conversation over dinner? (Poor guy
doesn't know he's out with twins)
The one minute waltz is a distraction—
public eyes on the brocolli, private eyes on the door.
[4] Sonnet for the remnants of Then by chicky
Public eyes on the broccoli, private eyes on the door
to another room—any room. Even outside
in a parlor of rain will be better than
Blue Danube’s turned for the laughs on a day
in a year an hour can’t reach. When ‘Then’ suspends
like a bridge between ‘him’ and ‘now’
you know, you know, you f**k**g know you won’t find
the approach. Only the mist where a rainbow has rooted
paints your open hands and you’re weary of being wet.
Dropping the ‘I’ from all your whines
you speak for a while as if once removed. Tomorrow,
perhaps, ‘you’ will become ‘she’ when thoughts occur.
And by the grace of language, the frenetic
whim of words, a door labeled ‘it’ will close.
[5]Sonnet on the Meaning of Words by Mugs
Whim of words: a door labeled ‘it’ will close.
Stepping away from lyrical, thinking the
conceptual framework for this evaluation
posits a set of determinants worth
considering. How do you leave the married part
of your life, the pas de deux that came asunder
because the gods ran out of miracles
and could only hold your hand?
Which doors to leave open, which
to close? On which wheel of cotton
do you lay out habits for a new life?
It's snowing. Nothing eccentric, but
I'm out of cigarettes and
there's no one to record music for the trip.
[6]
There’s no one to record music for the trip.
But then the moon never asked for whale song
or to hang high and cold—one might even think
out of hearing—anymore than Al asked death
to partner him in a polka. I listen hard, turn
one ear toward the unknown and then the other, try
to filter out the slide of leather soles
across the floorboards of heaven, boards surely
sanded by Hera and the girls to ease the glide
of dead through their beer-barrel promenades,
their Louie-Louie-Aye’es, but all I find
is a storm in the tree limbs and a great rustling
moving in and out, in and out likes tides
forever unable to stay or go.
