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far out for us

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  • far out for us

    millions of faces are blurred
    the very lips obscured
    as these years they have wandered
    scarred without reprieve,
    a doleful and lackluster story to tell
    the foregone minds, gone to hell,
    embraces that seem so blind
    the sightless sleight as we pretend,
    and yesterday's full of bells
    because their movement really never ends ...

    around the courtyard square,
    not something so easily lost
    beneath the edgy eyes and the birds,
    no music to create a rhythm first,
    and so: ten thousand maniacs go
    flailing about the windowed wall,
    go careening upward, not just
    for the very and sheer dare of their fall
    but the surety they could ever gamble

    sitting in this position I manifested
    and the dangers that are my lessons
    while the splitting atom forms a question,
    quasar shell and photon beams go orbital.
    it leads me into a quite shallow place,
    where I've only the back of my face
    and an infinity of this distance
    stacked up, piling in some basements.

    the dodgy old reasons beget the tides:
    and swamps that never let up will rise
    next to the swan with the moon
    still so happy in its swallowing jaws
    forget target, and sing an ugly song
    yet happily and so lonesome.
    the black reflections menace a spot,
    and yesterday's destitute numbers
    don't mean a thing, for this meat will rot.

    and I'll leave you alone
    about the presents or our parents,
    I won't go entirely insane
    in front of the guests -- if kids
    suddenly unbar themselves from
    those deep blue star strewn beds,
    and they wake up from life and death?--
    tell them a story, I said,
    indian style without any lightswitch to touch.

    and then find them with your fingertips
    the edge of the mask worn and obvious;
    settle your nails into its edges, let it give
    its wrinkles a chance, the broken mirror
    leaves: then there are your pores
    hiding all those buried tears in your skin,
    in your eyes the dust of it trying to get in.
    everybody watching you get older,

    we thought that the staring was sacrilege
    (you thought silence like that
    made for bad poetry, there wasn't a poet
    in the walls of these halls walking easily.
    dragging a pencil up and down the doors.)
    you got lost talking to me, and what died
    for years looked like so much
    dross: between each page I fell apart,
    something eventually lost

    and something like forever, gone,
    as if it would take an entire stupid poem
    to get across to the girl that 'I love,'
    or should I skate around the thin air
    in broken tangents of icy torrents,
    breath on my breath, immunity from a needle?
    I taste the cigarettes
    nights I was trying to forget,
    and the litany of myself rather than God

    trying to make it, lie like I've lied
    before. but underneath the star
    twinkling sometimes I can find it's so near,
    and I can feel the way that it's there
    however far and still connected to my heart
    to the clear scintillations
    and mercury vibrations as they dawn
    and prattle each other along

    so that the voice of the reaper
    as soundless as the shutting of eyelids,
    bracing down and bearing upon
    this form that lived and lived so long
    my own smile is set into its bones
    and I throw myself -- my stark contrast
    past tomorrow's deadline crash:
    past the mark where stars vanish.

    knowing only that you're next to me,
    it's okay to remember
    bad things happen, even with
    all of these safety and cautionary things,
    with our spirits
    which could be flames, could be little
    burning replicas of the love we all end,
    just for the art of excuses
    for the afternoons that used us
    for something permanent