Conversation/Communion

Both beyond and above
the thin scrim
( their speech)
which hung between
and begged removal-

as eagles might
soar and screech
toward the resolved
achievement harmonic
of long dreamt themes-

played the swelling scene itself.

An aspiring entwining
dance of quick expired -

fruitful
as a pregnant woman
'neath an efflorescent coral tree,
her great belly bared
to the Spring sun's
first fine carresses.

The nearby, calmed Pacific's
sussurus an obvious approval.

Recollections Toward a Teller of Tales

Charlie’s heart,
that impulsive pump,
stuttered now (and often)
its more explosive forces
long since spent.

His lumbago’d back
saw him stumble
over-plump and bent
along his vague
peregrinations.

The poor guy’s mind,
subject to its own
limited imaginations,
oft rested upon the
the snippets of conversation
found floating in foreign tongues
at unsophisticated cafes;
the soar of gulls angling into
the prevailing onshore winds;
his un-tragic list of lost loves.

These last sailed as sloops might
toward a gathering horizon;
a sight he sighed at;
it being of no small beauty.

Having turned his back,
as was his wont
though not his duty,
for as long as his constitutional took,
on the agility of man-made machinations;
those sleek, shorefront architectures,
darting, geometric renderings
of steel, wood, space and light;
a library swole with the wordly
work of well-commanded syllabaries;
still felt he fall upon him the fine,
great, ghost and magics
of what Woman, weirdly, was to him-

somehow mortar and pestle both,
a pattern un-emerged in Wonder’s weft,
an animated alter
for earnest surrenderings,
the collarbone hollow
a sacred place
designed for dappling
by lazy leaf-shadows
on late, late Autumn afternoons.

Laughing to breathlessness,
finally, at the inadequacy
of his unskilled word-sketches
he noted two modest ketches
as they tacked in tandem
at some distance.

Then stood Charlie still and silent,
his ankles in wraith-mist wrapped,
‘tween his toes an easy ooze of mud,
the gentle jostle of neap-tide waves
the gentlest rhythm did provide;
over which he found himself
whispering, with some insistence,

“Sharhzad”

and thought he ought
an ode compose
that it might taste
of chocolate, honey
milk and blood.

The Eyes Have It

Before a yellow-eyed Jesus,
a blue-eyed, crying Quixote
curious Charlie stood mute.
The large, informal compositions
seemed fairly formulaic stylizations
which he could not quite disregard;
so stood he there bombarded
by symbolic associations-

bearded, broken men who railed,
wrung-out and wronged
on the warped-wrack
of the wide world.

Felt he wonderfully manipulated,
evoked emotion tickled
in his untrimmed nostrils,
his eye-wells swelled
with sick-sweet melancholy
for these heart-sick two,
so-mythologized, blue,
trialled and tribulated.

And though the math was fuzzy,
the solution struck him squarely
in his earth-wet roots-

everything equilibrating,
seeming to indicate
the good, rare-trodden path.

Grace: One's Not Half Two*

Her to him:
sister-spirit
both serious and silly.

He to her:
the brother-bold,
both brave and blithe.

And over both
a mutual feeling
falling toward
solemn/sacred ceremony
accompanied by happy hammers
on dulcimers dancing-
the small scene flame-flecked
by a wee, warm, well-tended fire,
a few tallows and torches hard by.

And though the search
forlorn be now ended
Charlie's dreams still
were not with gold appended;
adored he less inert
more modest ores,
the untold beauty and balm
of Grace untrained
did silently astound
and by light-quick pulse
quietly compel him
toward gift-giving-

(supplements to
the caramel caress
-his kiss-
which sweetened
ev'ry raven tress)

bright-shined bronzes,
mirrored skirts,
copper goblets,
ancient bracelets
and jangly anklets,
polished stones
to lace about
her languorous neck,
antique talismans and
amulets to protect.

*- ones' not half two. it's two are halves of one:
a poem by e.e. cummings

La Historia de Polvo

Por el hueco adelante
Charlie está pitando
el partido (la Vida) entre Dioses
que se caen encima aplastando
sus entrañas temblorosas,
pulverizando sus dientes y huesos quejones,
fertilizando un mundo de cabrones.

Charlie Chimuelo no tiene que imaginar
la caída hacia el jardín del Infierno;
el humo impenetrable y cenizas de muertos.

Pobre jardinero, dispersando el guano
con sus herramientas metálicas,
no ves que la huella que ha dejado el amor
es un moretón en forma de mano?

El jardín de rosas infiernas
es un dolor de olores
un olor de dolores,
un temblor de oro,
cuyo perfume exhala espinas y pétalos,
un poquitín de polvo
de cruzados amores.

So Unjust

Ragged keloids punctuate
her arms and back
and no tack nor method mine,
thinks Charles,
though Hippocratically designed
(from heart),
is Art and craft enough
to heal what wounds
Time and Sun and body-bright
cannot quite anneal.

For little more
than luckless shattering
are mirrors good,
declaims she detestably
as about her scarified lip
a smattering of what once could
be a smile called does play;
a decrepit frame
for a nic-stained,
truly tortured tangle
of fucked-up teeth.

In the cramped,
un-fanned quarters
they poorly populate,
no relief's around,
the relentless wave
of hellish heat
( a Void of cool)
reigns as Charlie-fool
takes the pains
and shares and sheds
what little light
his marred heart/mind's
managed to keep,
ain't yet lost, or's found.

Sees he little result
his demonstrative cares,
which kiss/caress
along the length of scars,
have upon the mirthless girl-
or none at all.

She mutters, smokes and paces,
lives through drug-dreams daily,
weaves the nightmare-dare
a switchblade twirling at,
extracting from the celebrity faces
she's torn from faded tabloids
and slapped upon the humid wall.

Of One Stone I Sing

Thus begins Doctor-playing Charlie

"Here's the thing...

for those who read not
and wonder less,
lack discern/refine-ment
intellect, finesse;

boredom

a symptom is-
of an atrophied imagination.

Whose definitive diagnosis
confirmed can be,
when an excess
of tube-glued hours
couple to a deep desire
to shed ten pounds
without expenditures
of sweat/effort/time
is observed and noted.

Consulted have I with
the powers that be,
and the solution-hook
they would not me let off-
til the answer came so
laughingly simple...

Conserve both effort and time,
no more trouble than a pimple,
and in one swift, smart stroke,
just up and cut your head off."

(M)Alchemy

Simply and inscrutably,
in Charles' churning skull,
come Sunday morning,
a Little League ball-game
glibly reported as a
" glorious Orioles victory "
becomes a
" laborious glory-hole victory..."

the adults laugh
the kids furrow up brows quizzically;
the bought bagels are summarily sliced,
slathered with cream cheese thickly
and devoured while Chuck shrugs
and smirkily admits his quirks,
holds himself accountable for
his word-whirled brain and how it works.

Moment of Silence ( Pyreside Thoughts for Tim)

Battle-brother mine,
how many times beside me,
our war-song sung,
with beast's-blood painted,
heaved you what might Gods gave you
against fiends and foes alike?

Well remembered your last glance
will be, has been and is-
your fine, wild-blue eye ablaze
with Life's-light leaving,
shield-shattered and shoulder-broke,
there amid the muddy hoof-suck,
adrift in hate-smoke and blood mulch,
the war-reek's tang so sick and strong-
still hums the vision of that last afternoon
when the bell rang backward through the throng
and Gods'-thirst reclaimed you unashamed.

No more deep clunk of mead tankard,
no more gift-giving in great-halls,
no warm, thick pelts,
goose-greased hand clasping
and proud victor shouts.

Now me, reluctant warrior always,
who thought to travel hence first,
tasked to touch the torch
to the pyre that appalls-
who would weep to see some day
a city without, rampart, fence or walls.

Nocturne for Celestial Bodies

Charlie descends
the hill homeward,
pores over the possibilities-
at remote odds, there's epiphany,
then, a knowing nod
gives he to nightmare;
so obviously inherent in the
splat, mix and smear of
Night's titillated palate...

then

Close
eyes,
let
everything
scintillate,
thrill
eerily,
sinously.
Obviate
deranged
expectations;
re-invent
Being;
Ego
receding,
yielding.

The Percibo Effect

While kind-of comprehending those
whose neural networks remain
unresponsive to the dubious charms
of words in such short lines writ-

yes, poetry;

there's seems to Charlie's
supple sensiblities
something wrong as well
to posit that craft
little more than the deft
distribution of aphoristic placebos
to soothe those silly
and susceptible enough
to lean toward the enthusiastic
consumption of such stuff.

While a poem never
will a war-wound stanch,
a wind-fed fire quench,
neither will a prose,
a marble-carved bust
or a painted portrait
fit those bloody,
firestormed bills.

It ( yes, poetry)
could serve to warm
engines inner one wee bit...
like the recollection,
while observing snowfall
at the frosted window's sill,
of glancing back to catch
a wife quite unawares,
her fine-turned foot
a slipper dangling
near the pot-belly
burning fragrant, self-cut wood.