Seth A. Howard


SUMMER

Dry quiet morning. I hear the seagulls
Call—as if we were in an
Ozu film! These vacuum
Chambers, raspy leaves
Of this basement of deep
Memory.
Orange tide—blue swell
Of my heart as it flies
To you. Where does the
Poet stand amidst long
Lines of Consumerism?
Take it slow, pal. Clouds
Sail; I adore your young
Supple body.
On an evening of cool.
Your long hair, Hypnos
Eyes. I remember this
Of my past, a non-sequitur
Or something else? A
Red
Flame
Of
Summer
Days.
The dark hall through which Lao Tzu strides.



OHAYŌ

A window’s light. The sound of birdsong
Cool air & iced Americanos.

“Hey, good morning.” Day
Is born—a cloak of mist.

Clouds lift from a sink of yesterday
& I come back to that old
Café. In the rain holding a
Volume of Marcel Proust.

Fantasies when I read his
Words. His love for

Albertine; my lust for the young Italian girl.

I wanted to let her know, but
Silence would suffice.

I walk through that old spa-
cious mall; a maze in which
You disappear.

“Waiting for the pain to subside.”

“It hardly ever does,” he
Said in reply.



HORIZON

sound
of
water
light
strands
string
of
filament
&
ozone
a
tender
sundering
death stone of your will; dark
an arrow
flies
flintlock
a
song
of
Mnemosyne
heart-
beat
these
experiments
in
word
the
barriers
of
society
if you speak in a tonal voice
are
they able
to
hear
you?
nine
&
twenty-one
suns;
moon
six
raccoons
&
ete
rn
it
y



Seth A. Howard is the author of Out of the East, & Waters from a Well, two experimental chapbooks. His work has appeared in Otoliths, BlazeVOX [books], unarmed journal, Big Hammer, Oddball Magazine, Chronogram, Saudade, & Elephant. He graduated from the University of Connecticut, & attended Sophia University in Tokyo for three years. In his spare time, he enjoys the practice of Zazen, watches J-drama, & studies French in New London where he resides.
 
 
previous page     contents     next page