to the meadowlark (that I would like to be)

Rain’s lyrical cadence haunts him (Whitman and Eliot too) – but,
it doesn’t dare deposit its wrathful hands on me.

At present, grass is drying (as I lie sighing) beneath a lemon-hued
gorge, overflowing with endless jubilant, unconcealed song.

Clover eyes (blind forever) tumble down over my swarthy skin.
Index finger knuckles brush them away.  Tears remain.

If I stay silently through the night (may it last forever), will you
harbor me within your celestial enemy voice?

phobia theory

Moon fingers laugh with remarkable lucidity
but weep when the rains of April come.
Wrap me in spheres of calcium, flowing fast.
I will not cling to thin vibrating barriers.

Memories implode through convoluted pathways
(forget me not, but ring around the rosy) – what
folly, what fun – yet, if I may, must I repeat
myself (girdled in shame) as you demand?

Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/XI

Her magisterial gaze ensures that
two inattentive eyes
remain in the dark, polluted streets of
Lantern Yard.

Winged lambs, daubed in bronze,
flit past plasmic
lace organelles, waging a shameless battle for
restless minds.

Household Songs: The Brief and Unremarkable Life of Joseph Clarence Strauss/X

A corrugated carnation
attempts to coax stubborn antagonists
out from the moist recesses of a
commuted cavern.

wiggle – jiggle – aah!
Warriors clad in ivory overcoats
solemnly prepare for the long-awaited successors
to ascend.

Klin

Even though I am the wilted white owl that you now
see before you, when I close my eyes tightly, memory’s
magnificent and destructive spirit, once again, brazenly
advances across our land.  I will never forget.

A wet, hairy ice cube grazes my cheek as the morning
is conceived.  Evening’s wounds are still visible on
heaven’s forehead whilst ashes gracefully float down
from incandescent feathers.

At first, she comes like a cautious vulture, circling, stalking,
searching for signs of life below her ample wings,
determining just when she should strike.  We observe
convoluted flightpaths with apprehensive joy.

Into the sugar sea we plunge, swimming in
the sweetness issued from above.  Flapping and
squawking, Sister and I are swallows wading
through frigid rivers of crumbling milk.

Beneath an alabaster cloud, we collapse in laughter.
Drooping limbs sink into birch as warm talons rake across
fragile bodies.  Behind fluttering tents, salmon as long as my
legs leap from salty waters into our yearning mouths.

For three days, the world is hidden from us.  Four
become one, huddled tightly within a tepid blaze of
cruor and serpentine cipher.  Voices, low and uneven,
cry out to ancient skirts and beards.

Suddenly, the rage stops with one cluck of Father’s
tongue.  Have his coarse lips vanquished the conflict?
Under a scornful moon, frozen fields are embedded
deep inside glittering achromatic lacerations.

Long raven locks bleed between Mother’s trembling fingers.
Rough faces look to a star-studded sky for blessings as their
owners prepare for a cheerless journey into the flatlands.
A shivering infant howls from a lightless corner

The dust which falls today shall neither hatch swallows nor
bury ravens.  It will vanish with the midnight visions that
transport us to those imaginary, fanciful kingdoms, which
we often have difficulty remembering.  But oh, that tempest
of my youth – I will never forget

*****

Eskimos have at least a hundred different words for snow.
Klin–the title of this poem–means “remembered snow”.  The other types of snow which are described in “Klin” are shiya (snow at dawn), tslslo (snow that falls slowly), talini (snow angels), intla (snow that drifts indoors), tlapinti (snow that falls quickly), tlun (snow sparkling at moonlight), mortla (snow mounded on dead bodies), and naklin (forgotten snow).