Showing posts from October, 2013

First and last stand, illustrated by Heather Wilcoxon

I had an Armageddon dream. The terrible
explosion nearby sent its heat-maddened shrapnel
scudding from a cloud like a decorative bottle.
City center transformed into a great candle.
Then the mind’s innate drive toward its own survival

shifted the dream’s setting into a new panel.
In this segment, I was recording the prior
end-of-days scenario into my journal.
This dreamself explored the symbology of fire
in futures untouched by the Ragnarok fractal.

In the later dream, I told you of the terror
we felt standing in the hot hail of the world’s fall,
now passed into the safe angst of a dream’s prior
dream; but your face fell, and fell away, the final
bell of the morning’s first alarm. I want to call

life a blessing, shadows and all. But today, you’ll
please treat me to your soft voice and a tender smile.

Who wept at the romance, illustrated by Healther Wilcoxon

Who wept at the romance

    for Ginsberg and so for Solomon

The moon yacketayakking,
all over the street, danced on
boxcars. Boxcars racketing
over the rooftops. Storefront
Moloch, whose ear is smoking,

wandered around and around
seeking jazz or sex or soup,
trying to giggle, but wound up
with a sob—animal soup
intelligent and shaking.

The archangel of the soul
will never return your soul,
faded out in vast sordid
movies. Holy Istanbul
vanished into nowhere Zen.

Midnight streetlight smalltown rain
ended fainting on the wall.

What’s Cooking, illustrated by Aisha Rahim

My grandmother called this “Snare-a-husband.”
She never wrote out the recipe but
made me memorize it before she died.
I’m humming the song of ingredients,
stirring around your name, my bowl, my bird.

Yet your freedom’s what I love most, my heart,
and I’m far too giddy to bake a trap
even if I wanted to. When we part
tonight with our bellies full, night will wrap
its separate dreams around us. My David,

will you dream of me? Earthy smells rise up
layering the edible atmosphere
held steaming beneath the coal-crusted tarp
of stars. If you will be mine, then we’re here
for that purpose. Eat, my friend. Fill your plate.

Two birds told me about the weight you bear.
Swallow that bite then share, please, share your thoughts.

Queron 18 illustrated by Mark Hammermeister

Shall I compare thee to a Winter’s day? Thou art more still and far more temperate. Rough winds do shake the manor’s windowpanes, and Winter’s lease hath all too short a date. But thy eternal Winter shall not fade
so long as in the virgin’s blood you bathe nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, when in eternal crimson-thirst thy ghost administers its soul-suck to thy prey.
And yet in aerial din cold Death may boast his servant to the Netherworlds beguiles. Innocent, I laid near thee, Twilit Host, but, O, thy soul within a nadir lie. By dawn we both drank deep the salt of Fate.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can cry, so long we shun the light, we canst not die.