Autumn's Finch

Morning’s clarinet of feathers
over blunt autumn cold

Singing finch
scurry branch to branch

Southeastern’s feeble flame
burns November’s thin wick

In the air
blue ice whistles

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from my 6th book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2014, 2015 all rights reserved

"Autumn’s Finch" was first published in
'The Filid Anthology'

Sound

The spirituality of sound
of a gong
of a loon
the impossible grieving
of mourning doves
the cracking of ice
the drone of urban streets
trucks rumbling
over wooden bridges
a cat’s purr

There’s a need to hold sound
to feel its pulsation
to see colors of sound
or to hear the sun mounting
the sky or
the bloodless and wicked
sound of lightning

Ah, the overflowing tapestry
of sounds
with their invisible force
or the unconscious sounds
of the dead
diffused and distant
or the meandering of echoes 

the broadcast, the transmission
the longwinded sermons 
the cry of a newborn
the utterance, the announcement
a city’s cacophony, the uproar
the dissonant chord
the rhetoric of schizophrenics
or Purple Passages of Deep Purple
psychedelic or progressive sounds

Om, a sound of guidance
the chant, the mantra, the moan
of orgasms, the gasp, the scream
the subtleness of whispers  

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from my 6th book-length ms. 
©dah / dahlusion 2015 all rights reserved

"Sound" was first published in 'Chicago Record Magazine'

Fallen Sea Star

The chilly North Pacific:

we build a fire for the moths,

a lamplight. Their wings, angry

with flames. Sky: dim and small.

In your standing stillness, you are

an old clock

that has run out of chimes.

The small hours of the past,

a fossil, a nerve. I hand you a flask.

You say: ‘August is dying.

The stones are cold.’ In your hand,

a dead sea star. Summer bronze

burned into your skin. Your eyes,

moist black pearls.

Along the horizon, dark fog

is an oil slick floating against the sky’s

gray wall. Your silhouette, solitude,

the wind’s nimble stitching of your hair.

You say: ‘Memories are wounds

infected with melancholy,

that push the past deeper into ruins.’

—the old houses sold, the Village

demolished. To dust. 

You ask: ‘Why did you leave?’

I answer: ‘There is nothing left

to remind me to remember.

After the bricks fell and shattered,

the villagers became anxious.’

You reply: ‘Trepidation is God’s

offering. Listen! There’s no rush

to reach the future’ — a turnpike

of unraveled lives, sun-bleached ghosts,

pale, tired.

All night long moths fly into the light,

into the stars, the flames. The wind stirs

their powdery ashes.

Body against body,

there is deep silence between us.

The waves break. The future rolls in,

disconnects the past.

The sea star falls from your hand.

Make a wish.

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from 'The Translator' ©dah 2015

"Fallen Sea Star " was first published in
'Deep Tissue Magazine'  

Dictator

To those who forgive me

I loathe you

for you are weak

No

your voices are not worthy

you spineless living

dead things

worthless as dumb dogs

If not incarcerated

I would do it again

would squeeze everything

out of you

land

pride

dignity

your life

No do not say you forgive me

you are not gods

You have no power to forgive

you are impotent

After I vanish

I will haunt you to your deaths

and there

I will be waiting

to squeeze the light from your soul

until nothing but darkness

 

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 from my 6th book-length ms.

"Dictator" was first published in

'The Recusant ' (UK)  
 

Chair

Sunlight swells into buildings

rolls over my feet

gets trapped under my soles

At this moment

there is nothing more to say

When you rose to leave

your skirt

made the sound of a bird

caught in my hands

In the distance your silhouette

dark, then gray, then

birds landing on a statue

make the sound of your skirt leaving

Overhead a low jet noise

I say something

but cannot hear myself

and across the table

your chair, the emptiness

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"Chair" was first published in

'Red Wolf Journal'

from my 6th book-length manuscript

Psychoplastic

Everything never happens. Nothing

forever, uncertain, anxious wisdom,

idols, icons, Infinite Poet.

Every mystery is free, is distraction

is necessity. Tomorrow begins

a blank New Year.

I am ready.

I think I am ready.

So many mind spurs,

kicks and blows, footsteps

of words, heels of words

toes of words. Soul. Nonsense.

Enter

there, full center

ah, star-ashes spawning life,

unnameable, unknowable, unwritable.

I repeat, everything never happens,

it is true, it is not true, Seers, Prophets

Demigods. Choose a belief,

for example, everything chooses itself.

Across earth, droves of unrest,

disordered, unsettled. The future’s

jammed thoughts, brazen, agitated,

defiant, full thoughts with thrust,

bounty and punishment.

Big seeds of ego.

There is no truth that is not corrupt   

in a psychoplastic world,

in the muddled meaning of being.

Perhaps true, perhaps not. All-in-all

it worships and moralizes

O slippage of truth, half-truth, false truth,

plugged into nothing.

Ah such gratifying relief. Nothing.

So unassuming … nothing.

_______________________________________

from my sixth book-length manuscript

©dah 2015 "Psychoplastic" was first published in
'Chicago Record Magazine'