poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:026

RALPH MONDAY : 'Bergman's Island' & Other Poems
Syntax of Nothing
The Myth Upon the Wheel
Unrequited Harmony

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Syntax of Nothing

Undesirable, though not untouchable the weather wears her as a divine spiral like autumn skirts tight about the hemlines of waiting trees. Her dancing is adored though he can no longer join in, because she is gone into the waves, her last story spit out, etched on the tongue like some epileptic explanation, muddy syntax vibrated out by someone else explaining that the rain we once walked through is razored now, and though October fattens through round grapes, acorns, no microphone can hold the red scribbled song that you sang before your last smile to me spread like a bruise on a potter’s clay wheel, and I could not catch a single note, could not be angry at god, could do nothing but listen to nothing.

poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:026





The Myth Upon the Wheel

This is how I would know you— perched on will’s never ending storm buffeting laborious windmills weaved by a spurned imagination that you crave where you walk in a night that is the color of a woman’s legs. The mind under the moon becomes a river without a ferryman that shivers like a necklace thrown about at a dance for the sisterhood of the living dead. Angering for life, attuned to the motion of sounds you are placed upon the wheel that will survive the myths and read your life as fluent bronze, as graven images and simulacrum where thoughts are welded to flesh and bone. This is how I would know you— a never satisfied mind a woman dancing with long hair to old songs filled with forgotten words of affluent poverty burst into flakes of flames, a partridge held as a fleeting moment in the hand before flying into a dead dawn.

poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:026





Unrequited Harmony 

She gazed at the bookshelves behind her therapist: Freud, but no Jung or Skinner. The therapist, musing at her over his cigar, as he had done for a decade, thought that somewhere along the way she had lost her original harmony. He listened to her self-made myth, an eternal war, a continually moving day to day movie frame, she the star actress. Simulacrum conjured up like a bare mannequin painted over with the day’s chosen colors, she said that she heard from the past a saxophone blowing out forgotten meaning. The horn that he blew like some wingless angel on a roof top shreds her thoughts like paper Mache, a piñata that cannot be burst even without a mask. A piece of flecked amber floats on her throat as she herself hangs inside his vanished tunes, plays the part again and again, while her therapist watches through sullied glasses, bored with the same non-reconciliation, eternal act three frozen like the red ear-rings, suspended statues, blood-drops arcing down from her pierced flesh, the way that he bloodied her with his music, those lost tunes forever save in the movie of the mind, and like the therapist’s thoughts, floats away.




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read more poetry

RALPH MONDAY : 'Bergman's Island' & Other Poems
Syntax of Nothing
The Myth Upon the Wheel
Unrequited Harmony


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