Running by Myles Boisen |
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ZONE OF STORMS
by Robert Elliot Fox The moon walks off its fever in night's black house with its galleries of stars. This is the hour of singing bone, of blood dreaming murals of a gothic complexity. Bearded and bemused, I burn in the mirror, drugged by the nightmare bacillus. The downworld, that ravishing chaos: I know it well. Zoo of mockeries. Psychic zone of storms. I've gone far out/in making maps of consciousness. Poems are re- entry vehicles of the soul. * Taurean matador, abandoning these archetypes of oblivion, I cross the ecliptic of fire; southward the Scorpion stings the sleeping earth. The moon's a leper banished with the night. * Rabid sun bites the sky. I break my fast on the blood of words. |
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JUDE WRITES TO ALL WITH WHOM HE HAS HAD AUTHENTIC CONVERSATION by Oliver Rice I sit in a rental overlooking sand and gulls, listening to the entreaties of the surf. Free falling through extrospection. Making categories of what I know of the near world and the far. How is it out there? Which matters preempt all others? Which spectacles prevail? Which assurances endure? * Enigmas loiter between the words. * I am on a redeye overlooking our habitat, researching our imperfect encounters. Eras emerging through the refuse of the myths, among fantasies old as childhood. Time having no caution. What are the prognostications down there? Why did Chekov fear for all men? Why did Freud have such depressions? Why did Ibsen keep devil figurines on his desk? * Motes drift across the mind’s eye. |
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