Steve Dalachinsky
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EMPIRE (for Kamau Brathwaite) the rain has stopped for us today the sun comes out at sunset the wind brays sweetly thru the now-pale onion flowers open to a new diversity the sounds of equivalence & rhyme but it is still and always will be true Columbus never stopped here.. lost letters & mores my wife does tai chi in the cramped space of the living room shamisen reeling on the radio humanity reeling along with it to feel that much of it penetrate the skin pierce the very soul as if i myself were the guilty party party perhaps doctors displeased with the test results never know the singers in a kind of howl kabuki ensemble frenzy of sort controlled historical drama clappers clacking away distorting industrialism down to its very very mad foundations why the cruel heart unaware of reproaches hovers like a walking stick on a branch above me is beyond my feeble senses to figure she manuevering between bags & chairs & glossy shadows flute & drum as foreground as this border-on-grace pantomime continues for the sake of love for the sake of love i the husband no less dutiful no more filled yet “obsessed with death & the abiding sadness of human beings” their blood their insanity & insane needs their sunsets & rich full moons she’s left the room when i was unawares a slow sweeping gesture still remains where last she touched air. every day is a good day, John Donne 6 days rain few breaks dormant rain sticks piled in corner of seldom used damp porch empty coat rack painted deep gold surrounded by screens cold porch keeps rain out while enclosing deep smell of pine & other green blue bordered broken stained glass adds to list faded pink frame on chair covered by grungy multi-colored macremame holds the words diagonally in japanese beneath filthy glass : EVERY DAY IS A GOOD DAY black rich brush painted running horse it is not that the sound of rain is unpleasant - on the contrary but other than voice of human, dog, ocassional bird, vehicle, phone, me there has been no other almost constant with residue dripping thru trees during brief respites though historically & poetically ignorant lumbered thru John Donne today who sayeth that “ houres, days” & “monthes” are but “rags of time” “what is metaphysical poetry?” - she asks..... rain increasing itself the answer betrothed to our insecure souls the way rain sticks animated by a sudden jolt were once some promising limb the wind jostles the branch of a young tree what is the physical ? what is ladder & door & suitcase shabby attire wicker box & cardboard 6 days of rain sticking to the leaves dripping from faded green shingles from the roof of the world what is house ? dry carved cracked ritual statue eyes closed mouth wondering breasts sagging hands on belly once alive...... “Busy old foole” where are you we need your light to creep inside & warm us “Busy old foole”
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