everyday811: July 2017

Monday, July 31, 2017

Kiss this seal with your lips: Lollipops,

Kiss this seal with your lips: Lollipops,

Kiss this seal with your lips: Lollipops,

Hershey Bars, Radical Youth, yet then still

Innocent, yet then still ours, in the Commons

Of Oakland. Cry your heart out that you lost

The Radical Fruits of Play. Of all you

Stood for on your own two feet, holding

The ball, passing, waiting, observing,

Second by second.

The Oakland Commons lived.

It breathed sweat and odor and hope.

The CIA brought the dope

And brought an end to all that.

Crack was easy, it ate the Commons.

We aren’t late, we really didn’t have

A chance. Or dead. Long.

Just a Wall Memorial for the names please.

Build it to the moon, and leave it blank.

What is it that makes it go? It must be

What is it that makes it go? It must be

What is it that makes it go? It must be

Beyond conjecture, it must stand alone,

An image, trust that it does. It must be

Beyond the Supreme Fiction, yet the girl,

As though in the brack of Dublin bay, a lament pure though.

It may be the chalked red dust in the air

Kissing the white paint on the sailor's hat,

It may be butterfly wings that go wung wung,

Or the sad face of a guilty clown heavy hung

From a Janus-deed walking across the boards of

Saint Mark's Square, next to Alexandria's

Gift, a prophesy of bones.

Mon Legionnaire: “Pax Tibi Marce Evangelista Meus!

Hic requiescet corpus tuum!”

It may be Dean Moriatory.

- Anatol Cordua (c) 2017

I Will Taste What’s Left

I Will Taste What’s Left

In the orchard I lay my head down and look up through the branches.

The grass odors my clothes and my skin and I can smell its earth ground.

A jay with white under-plumage and blue wing tops blares over me in flight.

There’s a strange new day coming, and we will not know who we are.

Remember! exhortations will be lost.

The fascists will kill us, the fascist state will facilitate it, a devourer of its own.

I will be buried in the dug-up orchard with five thousand others like me.

For now the jay rips the air and flies over me from one apple tree to another.

- Anatol Cordua (2017)

You the Righteous

You the Righteous

You the righteous of the democracy

You the leaders

Remember.

You who hate man

Remember.

You heterogeneous mob of spoiled infants

Remember.

Remember the dead of your wars.

Remember until you are flooded with blood.

You who kill and steal from you children! Remember!

In Switzerland, I studied life

In Switzerland, I studied life

In Switzerland, I studied life;

My sadness was sweet, but

It was the Lake Zurich that killed me more than once.

I held the swans to my breast, I called them, coo coo, I called,

Amidst the rich patrons of the public wealth on the Golden Coast

Of the Lake.

What I could have accomplished there was never known to be.

What was done there was not accomplished but merely done.

I ate in strange quarters when I roamed decidedly wayward and dangerously,

Destruction and ramparts.

In the Alcyone of a life

In the Alcyone of a life

The images of the sea, from atop the cliff,

Are noblesse; but noblesse to be obliterated

And the bones to be kept as relics

In the Alcyone of a life, to be reached once,
Then obliterated.

That Part of Me a Relic

That Part of Me a Relic

That part of me a relic the blue wave of the cosmos

Playing ball, mitts, mitts, bats and candy and a crowd, dolphins

Wild flowers and roses in the vase over the cars on the stinking tarmac crosses

On the sill, I'll try for all of that

And let go,

The burning blood in my lips

Tasting bread and fire and lime-laced wine.

- Anatol Cordua (c) 2017

Going to Sleep

Going to Sleep

Come back into bed

Before the back hand

Of the shovel in the precise

Insanity of the night

Can swing. Let us

Be murdered in peace.

The air is thin

And someday

I’ll have cloth

For you

Black cloth

Why black

It’s your eyes

Why your eyes

They are black teeth.

You are unclean

Stay here

It is safer.

Tell me about

“The little Hamlets"

Of your old house.

Of your present
Company.

Images lent the knell of time’s arrow

Images lent the knell of time’s arrow

Images lent the knell of time’s arrow

Into the riptide sleep of history's obsolescences.

Now says the god you’ve finished that.

That caper is never finished.

That knell is a book, a closed purse.

Curmudgeons pull it close.

Libertines tear it away.

Virgins pray that it will stay hidden.

I want it to be destroyed,

Time and time again,

Until there is nothing in the world

To stop it again.

Tempest Blossoms

Tempest Blossoms

The alien crafts of night the tempest blossoms,

Infinities of mittens on mauve hands,

Satiety he said satiety I’ve come to Venice,

The black railings in the alley canals.

Tempest blossoms make rivers run

Granite eons of water and velocity

Paramount alliances of chisel

Never sounds the pebbles and crayfish.

The shadow is the aroma in full lips

Anna is the tempest

Bashing images.

Thursday, July 27, 2017

Funnyman antics

He was the sort who got enjoyment by a clever anticipation of others' reactions to his funnyman (and sometimes clownish but humorously self-composed, playing the part) blurts.