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Rachel's Art Place
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Angel Descends
Angel descends,
leaves us barren,
awake, alive, blank---
a dream that is worthy.
A shower that serves
to cleanse the black,
the brown awash,
refulgent color creases.
Pricks the heart,
slight pins, needles,
desire for renaissance,
her golden return.
Live in me eternally...,
esoteric guardian,
gnostic in your truth,
in obedience, I serve you.
Leaves will rustle for her,
stags will battle beneath,
immersion for water birds;
men, in fear, clasp their reigns.
Fool who proposes
ownership, fool to
believe she wouldn't stay,
affection with no clamour.
propose condolences for
disbelief in a open
ocean of faith. Depart
from nihilism and grovel.
Offer an inviolable shade
honesty, respect, in-material,
autonomous, passionately
engaging with the ether.
Render yourself a child
who protects his mother.
Let no fever blind you
from her love and wrath.
What strength is there
that time doesn't diminish,
breaches the gap, and
harnesses your lightning?
Is there hope in an
intellectual mind, the
burning light that imagines
and remembers love?
Is there any softening
of wolves teeth with
the monuments we erect
for intuitive gentleness?
Moral imperative
can be seen backsliding
into the hallowed cavern,
tempestuous winds follow.
Power, unleashing
the extension of hands;
dispersion, lip curled
Duessa, masked in beauty.
I cannot veil the truth,
nor can I stop change,
or want, desire, loneliness,
or the fleetingness of love.
Sleep to awake.
Dreams are my memories.
these gifts are sensuous
impressions encompassing
like a shield, like a sun,
the warm beaches, a rock,
a soul behind the bitter cold,
birthed imagination and will.
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Rebirth
Rebirth, concrete;
rebirth, concrete.
Traverse, reverse, log-in, rebirth.
Growing against a dying,
dead ends of torches have
been re-lit, cultivating
a bounty, burning the undergrowth.
Master intercom, distorted,
wailing like faint hurricanes.
lonesome workers adjust meters,
scientists moonlight as magicians.
Rebirth, concrete;
rebirth, concrete.
Traverse, reverse, log-in, rebirth.
Field automation, machines
toil and drag until shoots
of post apocalyptic creed
unravel their prophecy.
Science, the myth,
in dreams do dead lie;
now green rows steady,
streaming the soil, repeating:
rebirth, concrete;
rebirth, concrete.
traverse, reverse, log-in, rebirth.
Flies buzzing at treetops
to a key of radio frequencies,
where marginalized institutions
were free to untie their hands.
Once we dreamed
of left and right forgotten.
Now we bear witness
to a completed circle.
Our demands have left unchanged.
Rebirth, concrete;
rebirth, concrete.
Traverse, reverse, log-in, rebirth.
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Mona
White fur laden trollop--
black and gold collides in
patches as you nervously
canter off in a huff, into
some dusty, Vague unknown,
treating me like a landlord
entering a guilt filled room.
Surprising, me slouched over
in the kitchen, now staring
at The kernels of food grown
into brown soaked sponges
at The bottom of your water
bowl, beneath the green plant
smothered window, that you
will not try to think better
of me, for it was me who saved
you from desolation, the rough
Brooklyn landscape that saw you
swept and cursed away in Spanish
with brooms scooting your tired
shedding frame, worn and weary.
I wish, as you decide to let me
caress your Head, meowing and
squinting, shaking off my hand
strokes, cowering like a fugitive,
that I knew your story better,
before you were lost out in that
bad universe, the dark entrails.
Were you well kept with love
once? Can you speak to me as
you dream, curled in a chair like
a dying bug? I want to know to
understand, why the void can
be a canyon, underneath furniture,
eyes reflecting light, widening.
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Still Life
My missing you has gathered me into weariness,
Afghans swathed around me in the screen light, a flat screen of images,
Afgani snipers, snippets of blood, waterless and thirsty, blighted.
Rock is just rock, it crumbles, smashes, and gets blown to rubble.
We sometimes or, most times lie underneath it.
A quivering hand touches the sunlight
and the blood clots, coagulates, dries.
It too blows away, leaving the iron smells of a butcher-shop
with a hint of something else, the dying light of your presence.
Life means something little to some unless,
you are somebody or someone but most important to truth,
you are something to fight for or fight against.
Many people are here today and could disappear
into the sun or they could block it out if they had wings.
The wingless ones to most are just dead turtles
without shells washed up on the beaches with the sea snails
and jelly fish, resting underneath the sand rubbles and castles,
housing the pricks and thieves, endangering the night,
and you did not come here to drown from water sports and oil slicks.
You are here for me and to buy a dress and a necklace and
you wait for me and I do eventually come around to
your palace of things and what nots, and who has what
and who isn't anything and why try, but try is what I must,
or they will laugh and make terrible jokes and poke at my image
on a screen and bombs are going off, big Jesus's name!
The whole car is on fire and there might have been a boy
or some one's grandparent in it, but you are too far, too far to
reach or help so you sit back down and your seat is comfortable enough
and you feel just plain tired and slow and weary soon sleep comes and
your grandparents stand in a pew next to big sullen Jesus and
their eyes are opaque. They have their legs now.
The sun rises in three days and plants itself, muzzles itself
right into the crux, secure and tight, sweet sleep is mine.
Anthrax, flames, and electrolyte drinks are not so significant
anymore and I am dreaming. I always dream of a house inside
a tornado that is inside of me, and the jet streams tiny flagellum
tailed sea snakes and horses carving in around my veins so fast
nothing can see them but I flop fish-like in a trance to my own approval,
bursting through another being like a man through paper and
bombs and car explosions are faint drops in coffee that taste
like the morning and you have a face like a Shakespearean dawn
with no monsters or fathers to harm or protect you and I am here
and we cry a little and laugh at ourselves maybe things can work
and maybe there is justice for our lives and maybe,
there is a silence that keeps a huge landing pad called love.
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Managua
"Viva Reagan-Muerto"
We have seen your kind,
crouching atop shadowy borders
where the strays bark, run wild.
Your sweat stings, acid venom.
The sun piercing vision blind.
We fatefully desire dimensions
when surreal clouds take all forms.
Managua,
applied culture ministry,
in a sedan riding the mountainside
highway, Contras exchange bullets.
Behind the barricados
Sandinistas plan a surprise,
a blood speckled windshield
beneath the sunrise.
The slightest move will be your
death. What black market Cordoba
can offer the faintest sanctuary.
In life, in trade, everyone pays.
We will never become clean with rain
from a dark cloud. Throngs of dispossessed,
bred by ravenous wolves, live
with silence, they are of the earth.
Graffiti truth burns psyche,
There are no borders or dimensions
to what awaits. No dirt paths will
lead you safely from the gate.
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Nonetheless, A Warm Place to Be
Old brown dresser tagged red with crayon,
impressions of a childhood lived long ago.
A rocking horse rests with a wicker chair silent,
memories, like smoke, conduct their faded task.
As flat square carpets connect white stained walls,
a warm blood rush is chased by melancholy.
Thrift store pictures hang beside a dark closet,
buoyant images now raise themselves, never breaking.
A guitar, mattress, television, a kerosene heater,
my father's alive ghost felt behind old farmhouse walls.
Floorboards heard creaking, feet crunching brown paper,
my finger motions his shadow from a cold worn entrance.
Delighted in sadness, bearing his memory with open arms,
standing in a grassy patch, that was once my childhood home.
Breathing deep, skipping about in between the lost and present,
my heart searches for a commemorating whisper past due.
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David Hawk (2009)
What High Structure Had a Heart
What high structure had a heart
That kept a wearied pace like my own?
They sally the wind across the stones,
But not a strong faith in my art.
My garbled voice from the lonesome start,
Their pastoral phrase and rustic drones,
A truth not formed by what is shown
In a simple horse pulling a cart.
What high structure had a mind
That revered the knowledge of my blood?
Ideals only measure what's understood,
Seizes only what it can find,
Never to capture my whirling dove,
And dies grasping for what it loves.
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EROS IN HELL
Do the wounded ever heal
or is there always a remembrance?
A faint shadow of a gap.
Fingers here once stirred
the tiny crevices, drunk on
texture, zealous for examination.
The love for peeling back
the subcutaneous, revealing
the dancing blood tribes, grimace
red lava stomp, deepening
red, slowly they advance
they never truly fade.
Spring-loaded, in precision,
the head snaps back, those
woeful eyes and languid mouth;
exhausted but somehow propelled
by unseen forces, unveiled fear,
affinity itch, l'angoisse.
They are the relentless excavators
of the slight film. a seething
apparition of desire submerging
in a loose struggle, sinks
into torpid black and
drives itself into silted bedrock.
Cursed wanderer, the vast
desert alludes you, you who
consult the blind oracle, frenetically
rolling the bones bottle to and fro,
their manic brutal prophesies
discharge like loathsome bullets.
The primordial rhetoric rushes forth,
Nimrod in a K-hole sputters and gnashes,
the frenzied wind weather-beats
our broken bodies and we now
have final sight of where we
stand, in disillusion, ninth circle.
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Waiting for Harold
Anticipation,
like a child waiting
for father to come
home, he's sitting
on the lumpy bed.
Toes tapping and lip
biting, he cannot
fully express what
time you will be back;
though not being much
alarmed when the old
electric doorbell
rings and a smile comes
to his face knowing
that you are outside.
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The Great Encounter
Too young
or too influenced
by the old,
I lost a chance to marvel.
The very image
that approached my being
out of the dirty water,
the entrapment of a stream.
Outside it's flow,
the whirlpool tendrils,
staring in a face-off
with a bronze scaled deity.
It's immense
Aquarius eyes
shone a dead calm,
a minnow of grand proportions.
I had the audacity
to intrude its silence
with my hands
extending a pronged forked staff.
Feet, sinking in mud
of silt and clay,
I made my way
into it's dark center of solitude.
Legs, dividing
the water awkwardly,
I took aim
at the base of its head.
Once myself
was close enough
to greet him
with a shock, I threw down.
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Do not Become the Dog
Do not become
the dog who imitates
its master the liar.
Do not enter the
room as a corpse
retiring to its grave.
All that commands
bears me a noose.
The campus rules
condone cleanliness.
We search the dirt,
fidgeting the old
deck of cards,
finding its youth.
The photos of the
demonstration,
the photo inserts
of cassettes,
reading their metaphor,
something despicable
is part of the pleasure.
Gone is the death of glory,
the annoying lisp hatred,
surreal landscapes appear,
words are spoken,
I can see the letters form,
and the consequences
for their destruction,
deeming them legitimate.
I also see the consequences
for the handcuffs you propose:
Mothball storage,
the humidity of your breath,
the years of lying in bed,
the death of it all,
how it drags,
how silent,
no arousal.
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David Hawk
2009
Twilight, Chicago
Shades,
shading the
mistakes.
Out goes the
imperfection
with the black
night of summer
or the howling
night of winter.
Imagination
moons, Diana.
I will hunt you
on the edge
of lakes with
hungry lights
drawing out
a city sketch.
There will be
the evening,
ancient, crawling
the secret shores.
No fear,
it will either
hide or seek us out.
The gesture of
the dawn predicts
nights truth
indeterminable.
There is no
invitation
to this game.
You are here
nonetheless,
crunching the
snow after
a silent blizzard.
You are here,
in the twilight hours,
trespassing.
I have found
the empty
liquor bottle that
has made you drunk.
Winter has fled,
now the
water's edge
is for us.
Indulge in the
lonesome
void
that seems
to lunge
at the sky
and the city
in defiance.
A sign points
to the facet of
the edge of
the known world,
watch yourself
fall off of it ---
watch yourself
dangle, and drop.
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Fire's Anarchy
The roads widen deep,
guiltless, gasoline tears
crusade sinuous paths
around fire tongued prisms.
Momentous destroyer,
freedom's red synergist,
you free the black spacing
and set the eternal example.
What splendor they have built,
you have spied its carbon
and have wildly dreamt fumes,
too pleased to be unleashed.
Embers crackle laughter,
changes darken to ash
on the back of wind's rage.
you dance to it's howling.
David Hawk 2009
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New York Caught in Rain
The insufferable city rain
forms insufferable pools
like moody lakes in union
with the insufferable city dirt.
Its co-dependent infected populous
eyelid fosters dirty raindrop tears.
Curse this toxic drummer!
This merit-less downcast, entering
without introduction, swinging
to its own chamber tune, beats the
slighted brown tympanum surface
and co-mingles with a tiny echo,
rising in shock volume.
There is no chance of "it"
giving in and minds its
orchestra with a fury.
In harmony, city sirens
holler and moan, serenading
a city detritus wading in
the street's river, slowly
spinning, swimming, diving
kamikaze into the grated dank
drains an alternate universe
below, never to commence like
it should, leaving us never
wanting an encore.
David Hawk 2009
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American Eye
I do not believe I will go dancing
around a table of solemn objects
or porcelain virtues, nor my
headdress be a plastic garland bursting
from the stems plastic fruits and leaves,
my unfixed eye rolling, stiff with arsenic,
my jacket or vest full of nickel,
transmitting lavishly my vision,
encompassing the obvious malstrom,
with obvious me at the astute epicenter,
tied to the masts of a ancient galley,
a splintered one I never helped design,
or lent a hand to fasten its sail,
nor have ever dropped its anchor.
I could assume it was circumstance,
an expert builder and destoyer I could blame,
inducing my feet to stomp about.
I gleefully leaped into its working heart,
into an abyss, heaven, or another,
whatever unknown it was.
It was circumstance most likely,
leaving my center perpetual,
my third eye somehow sidelined,
grievances against the transparent,
my American eye, women and men,
gods, gel capped, clasped with fear
that losing was a disaster.
David Hawk 2009
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On Solitude
Solitude, how you come to me as a gift.
Not as some lonely orchid, mild and gray,
surrounded by gray ash far
in a vast plot built solely for thee,
but as yourself indulging in nothing full
or full of me, in a great cavern full of flame,
or a quiet dusk that is caught in rain.
Solitude is my bare calves half-caught
in the country streams or a long highway
that sings with bare company, built with steam,
hearing the scuttering gnaws of the rose lady bug,
or how the earth worm moves
quiet, snug in the quiet earth
and heavy time is yours to shrug.
David Hawk 2009
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The Politician Under the Guise of the Wild
No stubborn, sick mules allowed,
please drive them away into ether.
No whipping dead horses criminally
With the touched hand of Nietzsche.
There is a fatherless light seeking
all who shed their governed fur,
eclipsing the burlap brained who
vanquish their skittish profanities.
Let them consume the promise,
like footsteps eating sacred stairs,
happy to crown the childish skull.
Keep their heavy eyes lit externally,
internally untouched, unmapped,
heels dragging, shaking awful brays.
David Hawk 2009
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