Friday, October 31, 2014

C’était les pyjames et non le cors
qui se ballottèrent dans le vent –

une jalousie ramasser par la beauté.
Eblouie, la lentille regarda le grillage
avec désir. De proche ou de loin, le brouillard
passa par des fils de métal emmêlante...
et la brume se fut voir en cadre.

En descendant d’un monde, une tète effarouchante
devins une poitrine ainsi que des jambes.
Le tout consomma au bord du pudeur.
Et l’être – enfin isolé, enfin nue – s’inclina
devant l’oeil douce du lentille – plus intime que le désordre,
plus vide que l’indépendance.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Umkehrpunkt


Love repudiates
Aristotelian logic.
The causal-chain,

Retraced, led to
You, Summer
Courtesan, objectum

Aeternam.
The Unmoved
Mover was a joke.

I bought a book and the
Book would nod.
It would speak

A source.
Beyond that source
Memories were vain.

I used to read words and
Twist my neck.
I thought I was

A bird with a long neck.
I would watch the
Black ink

Turn at the
Umkehrpunkt,
Undergo

Total
Ontological reversal,
Or else reveal

A lady, cherry-
Blossom in hair,
Dancer in the

Clearing, mover
In the unmoved.
How merciless

The black ink
Returns, reclaims
Itself in the black

Order of itself,
Seizing
Sovereignty from

Love,
Aristotle, and their
Respective Lore.
When I am no longer the last sigh of the day,
And my pages all scattered emptiness,
The bowls hollowed inside myself
In places
Where fungus grows like angry men
Trapped in the moonless forest, the solitude of themselves
Unbearable in the night, hallucinations of indifferent plagues
Drawn out on medieval mechanisms
Torture and fiendish play, the eroticism of devils
Dancing wood over flesh like dreams, pounding
The air of suffocating geometrical forms, everything
Bizarre a throb of cranial insects eating the dirt that holds
Me together pilled high oblivious of the war of my self,
My impossible staircase never re aching the sky, blood
Of imagery taking me to the secret caves of hoodlum men,
Old and smoking the tea of stolen ashes, the tea of wooden floors
Crevasses of empty might where we are all bandits of ourselves,
Where I cannot but drink the pulse of my tears waiting in the nothingness
Of bodies hungry for the last taste of mountain dawn, the last taste
Of the wanderer high in the clouds above the shadow of his own
Powerless levels of quantum fury, a void that becomes the meaningless sky
Waiting to be swallowed up by God.
Ezekiel Honig 


early morning migration.
                                              
I stand under the sun.

the ground will know
the calls of winter.

and the messenger 

cold rain carried
on the frog’s back.

kicking stones into puddles
I pause.