Post numero uno.

Hello world; and hopefully you have a happy day full of applause for the newest venture into the overcrowded Blogosphere and the even more brazenly full and exclusive world of poetry. This is to be my font of opinions, and you are to be my captive audience; you are expected to ovate, boo, or scream as conditions warrant; while I regale you with my modest genius and epic failures, be they in essay form or verse form, formal or unnecessarily strange.

As I don't quite have a topic for this first of many entries, I feel that I should explain the background of the name I've chosen to represent myself to you, faithful audience. I currently have a pile of around a hundred and twenty separate instances of poetry laying on a table next to my computer desk. I have just finished organizing and cataloging them into a single cohesive work, however, at some point during the sequencing, a poem *gasp* fell out of its rightful place and onto the floor. As I haven't really had the time and inclination yet to put it back in its neat little order, it lays on top of the stack. As I was searching for a nom-de-web, my eyes fell upon it, and voila! My late night Dada urge gripped me and I chose a random little string of morphemes from the poem that seemed to represent something or other; what, I'm not exactly sure, but I'll let the academics agonize over it later.

So, here, for my first post, I will reprint for you this little poem that you might glean whatever small understanding it offers and get acquainted with my work. Enjoy.


Book 3: XV

Pale youth,
apropos of nothing,

the sky is ocher for you,
can you not see her drip?

thighs of orchids and cream,
hanging, a mistletoe,

the cusp into destiny.
She does not wait for pilots, for astronauts,

but for the children, blue and breathless
who choke upon her pigment.

She sends her cirrus valentines
to these. Her stalactites,

ghouls of vapor, palpitations
of air, are tubes

that drink your grief.
O saints and suicides,

guiding her arms into place,
can you hear the spirits

knocking at the horizon?
We will come in.

You already see,
painted in your rhyme book,

our faces, approximations
Noh masks and gongs

twirling, sounding, drowning out
like an engine's rotary blades.

Our anatomies
are the machinery of the stage.

Every night, our snowfall
quenches the summer that blushes our cheeks.

Open the stoppered end,
let us fly into your passageways

let us rest on the cloth
of your breath. Bend us into

bows and hoops, arrows and escutcheons,
that we may sleep, and war; and sleep again.


Finish, and Goodnight.