Sentimental Boys

Ugh! Boys are so sentimen
tal with their badly-hidde
n love of roses and candle
s and firelight and simile
s and I hate it hate their
idealized expectation hat
e the pressure they put on
themselves hate the press
ure they put on me so I ca
nnot laugh cannot laugh at
them because their hearts
are like soggy lukewarm o
atmealy mush too tender to
o weak for confidence and
I disdain them and their r
idiculous need for materia
l toys these candles these
roses are nothing but pro
ps that they need because
they don’t have real feeli
ngs and they want to have
feelings and they lie and
say that they do it for wo
men but I don’t need secre
ts and moonbeams and endea
rments to cover up the fac
t that I have no passion;
lying to ourselves may be
necessary but let’s not wa
ste the money for chocolat
es, shall we?

Haughty, Detached

My shoulders square, back straight,
and I stride through the world,
haughty, detached,
separate from all the other people except that we share the same grass, the same air;
The wind blows in my hair and makes a game of bouncing it,
and my eyes are weary and fond of all they see.
I do not speak aloud;
neither do I eat, except to sustain my body when I feel it grow faint—my head whirls and aches—
because I have no desire to eat, to speak, to sleep or to write;
All I know is warm wind, warm earth, and to avoid disturbances—I mean people—
My mouth has a sweet, tired ache, and my fingers have a sweet, tired ache, and my soul, my soul is weary and fond.
The thousand tunes that I bring forth (with my fife, with my fingers) use up more of my breath than I have to spare
(I faint, but I do not hunger),
and my love is a story,
and my beloved is a character in a story—a Ganymede, a Patroclus—
and since neither of us is real, and since I have no desires,
I obey fondly and wearily the worn path, and I do not stumble; neither do I run,
and I stride through the world, detached.

Sonnet XV

You, white and softened marble of the night,
are in a calming sky of cotton blue:
for what is it we use the firelight?
The only brilliance I require is you.

The stars are not so useful, not so rare,
for you presented first the mirrored glass,
and you continue on whether you care
about us, who have lives as short as grass.

If there is something beautiful and strong,
salvation might be possible for Earth.
Destruction in the fire does you wrong.
Who is it dares to undermine your worth?

Oh, moon of whitest stone in fabric sky,
why must the fire dazzle in my eye?

Rondeau

When learning the songs of ages,
cherish the words,
for they are the heart of chanting,
a century's worth of sages
sighing in herds.
When learning the songs of ages,
cherish the words.
In all of a thousand cages,
millions of birds
in jealousy have been panting.
When learning the songs of ages,
cherish the words,
for they are the heart of chanting.

When singing the ancient phrases,
worship each note,
for not even one is static,
and strains from our younger phases
weary the throat.
When singing the ancient phrases,
worship each note.
Complexity fashions mazes;
we learn by rote--
for us, it is automatic.
When singing the ancient phrases,
worship each note,
for not even one is static.

When strains are to be harmonic,
cling to the chord,
for it is the first that sounded.
The purest and simplest tonic
lives while unscored.
When strains are to be harmonic,
cling to the chord.
We know it is embryonic,
and it is stored
inside, where the soul is bounded.
When strains are to be harmonic,
cling to the chord,
for it is the first that sounded.

Crowds

It's so sticky and dull,
and I watch the others
as they talk,
play,
do,
and I think,
now that all is ready
and everyone else
is enjoying himself,
what is there left
for me to do?
I love to prepare,
but as usual,
the event itself leaves me
feeling nothing.
At least--
I hope--
all those other people who seem so happy
really are.

Villanelle: Prince lointain

You are the apex of my sky,
although you are too far to reach.
So, Prince lointain, I say goodbye.

Could I but hear and never spy,
then would I love you based on speech.
You are the apex of my sky.

Defending you, I know thereby
I rectify the lies they teach,
so, Prince lointain, I say goodbye.

My actions are made to comply
with my desire to please with each.
You are the apex of my sky.

Yes, you are better far than I
at following the rules we preach,
so, Prince lointain, I say goodbye.

Because it would be wrong to try
the man I marry, blush, and bleach—
you are the apex of my sky—
so, Prince lointain, I say goodbye.

Trickling

I love deeply; I love long. My
heart wells over for the flowers,
for the moon, and for the grass, and

for the mountains I have only
seen in pictures. This sensation
is of melting ice and trickling

water to my toes. It’s softness,
gentleness, protectiveness, and
I can feel it for the laughing

children with the soft, blond hair whom
I have never met. I feel it
for the tired-looking workers

in the stores and on the sidewalks,
for the disappointed teenaged
boys, and sheltered, wide-eyed girls who

look surprised. And I know music!
I touch books! I smell the earth! I
keep the places of my childhood!

And I want to be in love; I
hear the greatest principles of
chivalry, and with my tongue, I

give the ancient spoken words.
I touch God, and from the deepness
of myself, I heal all people.

Why, then, when I think of all the
individuals I know so
well, can I not feel a hint of love?

Concert

I am here again, in this same concert
where so many evenings I have listened--
listened, heard, and pondered--pondered, shuddered--
shuddered, wept, and died without an answer.

So to feel, to listen, and to ponder--
thus to know the gravest weight of sadness,
such sadness that one cannot even cry,
cannot make a single sound of sorrow--

oh, it is to these gods that I offer
all my heart; I lift it up in worship,
hold in both my hands its smell and flavor,
to an unmoved sky that gives no answer,

and I feel the blood trace pulsing rivers
down my arms until it drips on it:
on that empty body that lies quiet
under me and is me and is not me.

Where does my last finger end? In what place
is the cry of clarinet beginning?
And how soon will it become unquestioned
that beneath my skin there's only powder?

And when will that powder melt away, like
sugar, into all the thick, warm liquid--
liquid that is glockenspiel and 'cello
and the tambourine and rounded horn call?

Is it possible to live without it?
I despair of ever understanding.
Just to cease, to cease to know, and after
to become a being of the light-beam,

emptying myself of all the painful,
maddeningly screaming ear-knife-terror,
knowledge of what was and is and will be--
if I do this, what then could I not do?

But the sound that's trapped inside, unanswered,
hammers on my headache to escape me.
Though I open wide and breathe in deeply,
nothing happens, and my voice is silent.

Virelai

But you know this—don’t you see?
If today it cannot be,
soon it will, wholeheartedly,
fly to meet us there again.

As no matter where I flee,
what I foresee,
what resistance I begin,

this despair, undoubtedly,
when I am free
will attack me soft, within—

in such manner, doggedly,
hope will come again to me.
Though I stumble in debris,
it will surely bloom therein.

But you know this—don’t you see?
If today it cannot be,
soon it will, wholeheartedly,
fly to meet us there again.

Rondeau: April 22nd

If the magnolia petal
would not be crushed,
rotting away and reeking,

I'd make a bed where settle
blossoms that flushed--

if the magnolia petal
would not be crushed.

Even the stinging nettle,
when all is hushed,
might be the bed I'm seeking,

if the magnolia petal
would not be crushed,
rotting away and reeking.

Sonnet XIV

Beloved, do I give a greater share
of love to you than to the darkest chord,
which, having sounded, hangs upon the air
and echoes where our memories are stored?

And would I rather choose to be near you
than to the softest, clearest flower's leaf,
or to the smoothest ice, the brightest hue,
the greenest apple, the most golden sheaf?

And ought I rather save you for the world
than even the most ordinary day,
the foulest insect-kind that ever flew,
or the most squalid ghetto's filthy gray?

No, I would not; ought not destroy the whole,
and neither for you will I damn my soul.

To Cling

When I learned that I'm a mediocrity,
and that I may have no goal in living, and
that the object of my passion celebrates
life forever barred from my possessing it--
that I'm not and never will be great at all--
then I looked up at the empty sky, and I
neither laughed nor cried, but felt the curious
sadness of an empty heart.

Now suddenly,

there is nothing but to wait for death, unless
I instead decide to live with vestiges
of despair, exhausted, with not even the
consolation of an angry bitterness--
for I still feel nothing.

I want only to

burrow deep into the arms of someone who
loves, and neither laugh nor cry, and, silently
saying nothing, then allow the emptiness
to ascend and fill the world.

To cling to his

chest or to his thigh, to give up finally
and regress to coo in utter infancy--
this is folly, and to die is better far.

Tucson

I don't understand
living in the shadow of a mountain,
and this city
is in a valley, surrounded
by many mountains.

They are always there,
within reach,
yet their scraggly slopes are
more bare of humankind
than of greenery.

How can this be,
that a million people
can live in a dusty, dry valley
without enough water,
without enough shade,
and not flee to the hills that stand,
stalwart beacons of immutable time,
ringing the hazy horizon?

Every moment,
outside on the street
and inside at my window,
I think of the mountains, and I long
to go to them--
although the impassive ancients do not call for me,
I and the valley crumble into dry dust.

Glass Houses

Above the storm clouds,
the pink of the setting sun can be seen
away in the southwest.
It's different up here;
everything's bigger, emptier, clearer.
It's lonely and breathtakingly beautiful.
There is nothing here but me
and the occasional wisp of cloud--
even the birds don't come up so high--

and we live in glass houses,
so I say nothing to you.
We live in glass houses,
and I, so serenely, watch you as you make your choice,
and say nothing,
because we live in glass houses.

Where once was tumult
is peace.
Where once was passion
is void.
All this is empty, and I am alone.
Your choice cannot affect me
any
more.

Wall

With the smug, self-righteous faces of a
Pharisee, you point your finger and ac-
cuse me, shriek with all the venom you can
muster--but you have no power. What can

you do? Will you call me names? Will you at-
tempt to test my sense of obligation?
Play upon the traces of my guilt? For
all these tactics you have used before; thus,

long ago I learned that you cannot be
pleased, and this is why I try no more to
please you. Do not ask for me to give an-
other reason, for I feel no need to

make apologies; indeed, now I feel
nothing. You will find in me, no matter
how your long, thin fingers squirm and scrabble,
searching for a weakness, nothing but the

smoothest, thickest wall of stone. My heart is
hard and unappealing as a freezer-
burnt fillet of meat, so do not touch it.
You will hurt your hand, and I will not cry.

Rondeau

No matter how I endeavor,
I will still lose.
I wish to give in to dullness.

The dictum endures forever,
but I refuse.

No matter how I endeavor,
I will still lose.

Must I acquiesce, however,
aim to enthuse,
appraise the allotment’s fullness?

No matter how I endeavor,
I will still lose.
I wish to give in to dullness.

Ballade: 妹 [Little Sister]

No matter if a thousand times it’s told,
each tale we hear makes echoes as it starts;
each story’s end has hardened and grown mold.
Everywhere I turn: unhappy hearts,
guilt, discontent, and all the wicked arts,
and in my soul as well, these things I hold.
The fate of men and women is a game—
if I am victim of the burning darts,
my object suffers from another flame.

We stand together; though we search and scrape,
suffering frames the eyes of all we see.
There is not one of us who may escape.
Can this be love? And must it always be
so very ugly? Ought I rather flee?
Will my soul wither if instead I shape
life on assurance from that giddy cloud?
Oh, how I’d like to be both glad and free,
and still have kept the zealous fears I vowed.

Ghazal

Seal your heart, which is unattainable and unbearable:
I can never be calmly happy with the unbearable.

These small favors that you have already granted shatter me.
How can kindnesses bring to me discontent unbearable?

You have given me admiration and poured out gentleness;
I am humbled and overwhelmed by this grace unbearable.

So much passion is in your voice as you speak of beauty now;
I am staring at you with longing that is unbearable.

In cool mornings and heady, still afternoons, you sing alone.
I am listening, and I sob with a joy unbearable.

Fascinated by animation that plays across your face,
I admire you with a sympathy near unbearable.

You are truly an artwork, sculpted with care, exactingly,
with a strength to which nothing earth-crafted is unbearable.

Oh! And how will I ever keep myself from just reaching out,
touching that flushing cheek, and trembling with fear unbearable?

If I only could smooth away all the grief that lingers there!
Yet more beautiful still are you when in pain unbearable.

Thus, we go singing endless rondeaux of bloodless suffering
while the universe weaves a carol: despair unbearable.

Euterpe

The nectar that may never be my own, tonight, I taste again,
Though faithful, I do not deserve the wreath of your regard again.

I sit alone, entranced by mélodies of Ernest Chausson,
While all the crowd is spellbound by the verse of Gautier again.

My eyes glaze over and my cheeks become volcanic, curling fire;
My hands are red and swollen with the blood that twists me ‘round again.

My skin is cold, but on the inside, I am burning up with zeal,
To me, an inspiration and a breath are now the same again.

Thus, at your feet I fall in supplication, begging for this boon.
I am your lover, like so many others. You have won again.

You know that I could never love another while I worship you,
And I have never been unfaithful to the vows I take again.

Your beauty is so terrible I fear that I may stop my breath.
If I cannot inspire, then you cannot inspire my voice again.

Please give to me the secrets with your whisperings, or I may die,
And with me, wisps of caroling that might have come to life again.

Suffering (January 2007)

the Sinner suffers

the Sinner suffers more
than any victim
wild, ugly “s” curls ‘round
curls ‘round the words
and makes me sick.

the Sinner suffers so

and it is for the Sinner
that I feel
and it is with the Sinner
that my heart throbs in unanimity

the world cries for the dead,
the world cries for the cut-up ones,
for the babies whose blood was drunk,
for the women whose heads were beaten,
for the boys whose bodies were taken

but I cry for the killers,
the rapists,
the adulterers,
I cry for those who lust for children,
I cry for those who steal and eat too much,
I cry for those who cover shame with untruth

and my cries have no tears,
but only wordless strangled pain-sobs

because I know the Truth of sin—
and that is that
the pain that comes in with the knife or the bullet
is nothing to the pain that comes in with the shame.

when one has done nothing wrong, and is rewarded with violence—
that is ugly and unfair.
when one has done wrong…

that is indescribable.

I know the Truth of sin.