Pon De Replay


All the gyal pon the dance floor wantin’ some more what
Come Mr. DJ won't you turn the music up

It goes 1 by 1 even 2 by 2
Everybody on the floor
Let me show you how we do

        Hey Mr.
        Please Mr. DJ


#Play

Because
Because

Because when the sun shines, they’ll shine together
Because he told her he’d be here forever
Because he said he’d always be her friend
Because he took an oath he’d stick it out to the end

And now that it’s raining more than ever
She knows that they still have each other
She can stand under his umbrella

Ella
Under his
Umbrella

#Rewind

Subject was driving a vehicle with Jane Doe as the front passenger.
Jane Doe turned the radio on and switched the station from where it was.
Subject complained about the change and Jane Doe turned the music up.
A verbal argument ensued.

Subject pulled over and attempted to force Jane Doe out of the vehicle.
Subject was unable to force her out because she was wearing a seat belt.
Subject shoved Jane Doe’s head against the passenger window of the vehicle
Causing a one-inch raised circular contusion.

Subject then punched Jane Doe in the left eye with his right hand.
Subject started the vehicle and continued to punch her in the face.
Jane Doe’s mouth filled with blood and blood spattered
All over her clothing and all over the interior of the vehicle.

        Hey Mr.
        Please Mr. DJ


Jane Doe opened the passenger window in an attempt to call for help.
Subject pulled her closer and continued to punch her. Jane Doe
Interlocked her fingers behind her head and brought her elbows
Forward to protect her face.

Jane Doe then bent over at the waist, placing her elbows and face
Near her lap to protect her face and head from the barrage of punches
Being levied upon her by Subject, who continued to punch Jane Doe
On her left arm and hand.

This caused a contusion on her arm approximately two inches in diameter
And numerous contusions on her hand. Subject placed Jane Doe
In a head lock with his right hand and continued to drive the vehicle
With his left hand.

        Hey Mr.
        Please Mr. DJ


Subject stopped the car and pulled Jane Doe close to him and bit her
On her left ear. Jane Doe turned off the car, removed the key from the ignition
And threw it out the passenger window. Subject began punching her
In the face and arms.

Subject placed her in a head lock positioning the front of her throat
Between his bicep and forearm. Subject began applying pressure
To Jane Doe’s left and right carotid arteries, causing her
To be unable to breathe.

She began to lose consciousness. With her left hand Jane Doe reached up
And pressed the horn of the car. Subject bit her left ring and middle fingers.
Jane Doe began screaming for help and Subject exited the vehicle
And walked away.

#Forward

        Come Mr. DJ song pon de replay
        Come Mr. DJ won’t you turn the music up


#Replay


Lithium


The night evaporates around me,
a white, bipolar flame. I waken into dreaming,
into a lithium ocean that engulfs and drowns me.

The night evaporates around me,
a stuttering of stars that taunt, confound me,
until this fragile sphere has lost all meaning.

The night evaporates around me,
a white, bipolar flame. I waken into dreaming.


Life Sentences

after Kotaro Takamura

Winter blares in from the road with me, an icy radio
Blast. I hang my coat, leaving in its inner pocket

Creditors’ papers, promissory notes, lots drawn
Against my few possessions, sculptures, sketches;

They would see them seized from me, trammel these
Remnants of my soul in glass encasements, bars;

The carver’s craft, the lithographer’s ecstasy of creation,
Swallowed by the world’s usurious maw.

Unaware, you smile. Imprisoned as you are under this
Pauper’s roof, amid wood whittlings, molded clay, you

Smile. As I unwrap this evening’s meal, red snapper,
Its simmered warmth dimming in my frigid breath.


Not Play

after Kotaro Takamura

Not play, but we sweep the hours under
Our tatami mats. Together, to work,

But our scrolls remain unpainted,
Our books unread. We laugh, embrace,

Let these nights, implacable, wane;
Let these days whip by like lightning, rain.

Not play, but love abundant,
Sputtering like an August fuse, exuberant

As the bloom and wither of grasses
In the mountain’s ventricles,

As the intonation of sun
Across the clouds’ vast migration,

As the boundless thunder
Bending rainfall into the wind’s color.

Not play, but here at last, and ankle-deep
In life’s most wondrous sweep,

The promise of this transcendent kiss:
At last together, at long last bliss.


Transcendent

after Kotaro Takamura

You fix your eyes on someone who isn’t there,
Tilt ear to voices I cannot hear.

You flee. Ravines and cliffsides beckon,
While you stretch your arms, as if to fly.

I cry out, you turn. But I am invisible,
You step through me, embrace my shadow.

Was your suffering in this world so much,
You had to throw off its yoke,

Make your escape into your vast, transcendent
Fukushima sky? Now and again

I hear my name, from someone, somewhere
Else. Not you, not here. Anymore.


Bearings

after Kotaro Takamura

A bird starts from underfoot.
My love has come unhinged;
A camouflage in shreds.

Gunsight at 3000 meters;
Ah, this long-barrelled rifle –
Far too long.


David

Davitte colla fromba
e io coll'arco
          - Michelangelo


Back again in the Valley of Elah,
surrounded by this scaffolding of light,
Mediterranean oak and terebinth.

You and I, we have been in single combat
forty days and forty nights, your shadow
looming over penitence like a wrath.

You’ve savaged my dreams, a lion stalking
among the grasses, a black bear tearing
at flesh; and I a ruddy boy, alone.

Now I stand, unarmoured, unadorned, stone
in one fist, conviction in the other.
I watch your face, try to find it in your eyes,

dark furrowed in that contemptuous glare.
There: fear, flickering like a borrowed wick.
It comes to this: rock against blade, marble

against faith, this armoury of heaven
vengefully clenched, a coiled-up serpent tongue.
Rise up then, unquarried colossus, rise:

And I will sling defiance into your
disdain, chisel deep into your brow
the tetragrammaton of my God.


Artist's Studio, New Year's Eve

after Kotaro Takamura

Let’s not leave the moist clay, earthenware to freeze,
My love.

Tonight the kitchen larder will be empty – no matter.
Let’s warm the fire.

In the bedroom, the blankets may thin out
And you may clutch a pillow,

Shivering, in early light – no matter.
Let’s not leave the moist clay, earthenware to freeze.

I will be your sentinel, sleepless in midwinter,
Letting loose the mercury’s

Thin column, a brigade against the gale.
Though we may find the world has left

The two of us alone – no matter. New Year’s day.
My love, let’s warm the fire.


Renaissant Carol

1465

Madre non mi far monaca che non mi voglio far.
Non mi tagliar la tonaca che non la vuo' portar.
Tutt'il dì in coro, al vespre'et all messa,
E la madr'abadessa
Non fa se non gridar, che possela creppar,
Che possela creppar.

1557

Une jeune pucelle de noble coeur priant en sa chambrette.
Son Créateur, l'Ange du Ciel, descendit sur la terre.
Lui conta le mystère
De notre Salvateur,
Ce Dieu si redoutable est homme comme toi,
Ce Dieu est homme comme toi.

1643

Estennialon de tsonoue, Iesous ahatonnia
Onnaouateoua dóki nónouandaskouaentak
Ennonchien skouatrihotat
Nónouandilonrachatha
Iesous ahatonnia, ahatonnia
Iesous ahatonnia.

1926

'Twas in the moon of wintertime, when all the birds had fled,
That mighty Gitchi Manitou sent angel choirs instead.
Before their light the stars grew dim
And wondering hunters heard the hymn:
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born,
In excelsis gloria.


Salt Gathering

after Fujiwara no Teika

Dusk falls in Matsuo, late.
As the charred salt, wrung
From simmered seaweed, burns –
So smolder the ashes of this heart,
As I wait for you, as I wait.


Wu Ling Spring

after Li Qingzhao
to 'Springtime at Wu Ling'


The wind has calmed, and in the air,
A powdered fragrance lingers. Dusk,
And I am weary, weary. All undone

I clutch these remnants of our life,
Our years. But you are lost - my words
Like salt, catch in my throat, through tears.

Shuanxi is beautiful in spring, they say;
And there I would set sail, but laden under
This my grief, this fragile vessel fails.


Moves Like Jagger


Sauntering down to the Chelsea drugstore,
How you were preening in the mirrored door.

I caught you pulled up to the curb outside,
And I slowed down my steps to match your stride,

Invisible thus, I traversed the bend.
There in your car, the spouse of a close friend.

Inside, you fingered a box from its shelf,
Ego propped with a magnum, pack of twelve.

Straight into your coat with your prescription,
You let slip that smirk of satisfaction,

Then a start when you finally saw me.
Savoir faire scattered like clouds in coffee.

So? You think I’ll be nothing without you?
You probably think this sonnet’s about you.


When You Wake


Tonight, when you are finally
sleeping, I will let myself out

by the eastern gate,
wade river, and the moon,

make my way to Luoyang,
where birds have come into bloom.

There, I will set down my baskets
and gather them all up for you,

so you find, when you wake,
by your bedside in sprays,

all the peonies of Chang’an.


Life Spring

after Kotaro Takamura

This earth is spring-green
Again, rain falls, blue as sky,
Its lush splatter stirring
A rumor of life.

Anxious, the heart trembles;
The spirit flickers, spreads
Trenchant wings for flight.
Returned to inception,
From dying to rebirth, time’s hands
Ellipsed past two, past three, like fragile
Leaflets verdant on a branch. This day,
As before, the spirit quickens
From its cocooned silence –

And suddenly joy consumes me in tears,
My heart holds you as if
In embrace.

You are the half that completes me.
You cup the grail of my faith.
You bear my cross of sufferings.
You are to me everything,
Everything.

My tongue had tasted
The salt of loneliness.
My heart had plumbed
The abyss of desolation.
But you, you were the one
Who fathomed my life.
You were the one.

I had charted my labyrinth, through
Testaments of grasses and trees.
But you, you were the one
Who compassed me like the ocean.
You are everything, this smile, this dimpled life,
This life variegate with richness,
Banished of all emptiness.

Traversing this world,
I’d unwound my own path,
With no one to take my hand
Save those who understood
Of me only a pittance.

But I no longer lament that loneliness,
In this natural, inevitable solitude, finding
Contentment.

But without you –

No, inconceivable, impossible
To even begin to imagine it.
You are to me everything,
Everything.

In you springs love’s immensity.
If no one else existed in this world,
Through you I would still breathe life’s
Fervent breath, embrace it, celebrate it,
Casting all aside to immerse myself
In that deep spring of life, in you.

Spring then, reborn, to me.
You are, you will be for me
Everything, everything.


Sussuration


With what words to answer,
with what voice?
The sleight of wings,

whirring above your face,
the rise and fall of your breath,
the shadows slanted like blinds

across your eyelids -
You sit upright, cold, breathing,
awake, undreaming.

A secret, hidden in the
hesitation of sleep,
suddenly revealed.


Hill's Crest


Wind stirs the branches.
Across the hill’s crest, the wings
Of a thousand cranes.


Solstice


1

The hand loses its hold upon the reins.

Across the veins of sky the sun courses,
sweating the glistening sweat of horses
mouthing the wind.
                                About the surging manes
the muscles arch, flinging the feeble strain
of arms around the rebel neck away.

Incarnadine the waters of the bay,
shrouding the ashen soul that tried to tame
this sun, to twist the whip across the skies.

2

Turn away the eyes that look up and drown
in the roar of the edging night. Slower

than a falling feather, the evening dies,
a shudder eclipsing the sun.
                                               Lower
O Icarus, O Icarus come down.


La Conversation Galante


Things return to their places, settle
where they used to be: umbrellas, overcoats,
lamps, your books. The silence overwhelms.
Weekends my sister visits, and we talk.
Nights I read your letters, when they come.

Spring’s come as it always has, like an immense
wind from the north. We'll have clear weather,
from now on. Or should I add, I hope.
This morning I counted four sparrows
in the trees - not a flock, but there it is.

I have heard them, hushed, hiding in the eaves,
trembling; then rising at the slightest gust,
whirling like a rush of leaves out, up, into the air.
If it should rain tonight, thunder and lightning,
I should lie in bed all night, listening.

Perhaps it was the summer that led us so,
giddy with the season, the sunlight
and the garden encircling our wandering
like an arm around the shoulder,
meandering all the way into the wood.

Sometimes that evening comes back, flaring
apart from all the rest, like an ember blown back
from ash. How strange summers can be!
Umbrellas, books and lamps, the rain: one seems
not to speak about anything else, afterwards -

Only perhaps the weather, dear friend, if then.
When shall we see each other at last?


Wind-Filled


North wind,
you make my soul
flicker like sunlight
on water,
whirl like the night's
weathervane of stars.


Epitaph for a Sailor


Content? You never were. You dared
Even the edge of the ocean:
A moment unmoving and exultant where
The cliffside rose into the air,
And down you would plunge

                                Then, suddenly -
As though the waters could not hold you pent -
Burst out triumphantly in arm,
White sails mounting the wind spent
From having wrestled with a god. Content?
One cannot even trust you, lying there.


Finnegans Chirp


Book I. riverrun,
stream done. Joyce would be bitter.
Life's tough on Twitter.


Sonnet XVIII Flavors


Shall I compare thee to a peach sundae?
Thy lips do make the most parfait parfait.
Thy smile’s far sweeter still than strawberry,
Thine eyes so very cherries jubilee.

Thou art my chocolate, my rocky road,
My raspberry kiss, my mango tango.
Outside daiquiri ice, mint winds may blow,
Inside our hearts fare warm as cookie dough.

So shall we toast our troth with raisin rum
And pledge our promise with pink bubblegum.
Jamoca love like ours shall never budge,
Only endure like almond roca fudge.

Until time crumbles, cookies into cream,
So lives this praline hope, vanilla dream.


The Bridge at Sakanoye


Perhaps one year the river rose
and never fell, or else the storm
had been so furious
the current on either side
tore out the steps and the rail
and carried way the beams.

Pushed back by the river,
on one side Hitomaro,
on the other Basho.

The bridge remained;
but now we stoop
to roll our pantlegs up
above our knees, where once
its two sides met
the opposite banks.

Your shoulder baskets full of
dried fish and shrimp,
you hurry on to the other side.

For a moment I stand
where I touch
neither earth nor sky.


Postcards from Kings Place, London


1
Martians browse caxtons,
angle the Saxons, and roam.
Send their postcards home.

2
Girls in summer dress.
I must confess: I'm gawking.
I'm no Steve Hawking.

3
Bacon at the Tate's
no breakfast plate. Nor Hockney
Lennon-McCartney.

4
Like sugar'n Equal,
the Phantom sequel. But shucks!
Should pull in the bucks.

5
Shakespeare is tragic,
Copperfield magic. Tickets?
Empty your pockets.

6
Blue pinkie wasted,
Arnold's face pasted. Rotter!
When's the next Potter?


In the Pines


The mosses have taken the steps now.
Rimmed with silence,
The ancient walls yield themselves up
Like a breakstone to the rain
Tilted into the night,
Dividing the fall.

In the wave of the pines
Only the shadows of the castle are unchanging.
Even now they are cast by the moon.


Nagasu-ji


I saw you first at Daitoku-sen,
Lost in the stream, an unstemmed petal
Tossed between the currents of the afternoon.
You waved - before I could say a word!

Since yesterday I have been here at Mishima.
The wind blows across my face.
The rain is due to fall.

I will always remember you,
The way you were, last summer,
At Nagasu-ji.


Winter Comes


after Kotaro Takamura

Winter comes,
An icy dagger, crystalline,
Intense.

A crack pierces
The distance, like a rifle’s sharp
Report.

Muffled sobs,
Shaking the frosted heart
Of morning.

Suddenly, life,
Unfathomable, is upended,
A bitter fool.

Encumbered,
We call this by any other name
But love.

Despot winter,
Armed with treachery and lies.
Winter comes.


Stranded


Beached into gloaming,
the moon splinters
through the darkness

like an arched rib
thrashed across the
ocean's breadth,

ambergris and bone,
stranded on this vagrant,
heaving shore.


Tides


The wind rising, the rigging tight with salt,
we drew ourselves into the gathered spray -
and suddenly we saw it all before us
across each crest of wave, sunlight glinting
on the shattered water leaping from the beams
like coral fragments broken from a reef
and spun out by the stream, away, away -

And the grey cry of seabirds stealing,
stealing over the waters like a stranger
whose voice calls lost in a foreign country,
whirled by the crowd; and the soundless breaking
of waves white against the grey lines of cliffs;
and the last shimmer of lights on the coast
falling into a darkness vast as the depths
rising from the waters and the silence -

Far behind us the thin line of the shore
gave way, broke, and scattered into the sea.


Backwash


Broken,
like the deepened
earth turned back
on either side of a
furrowed trail,
traced across the
solitary fervor
of an oblivious
planet's shakings,
from ripple and dream,
soundless and secret,
the waters turn
from the oars.

All the past is
shattered now,
all remembrance lost.

The current shores
against the rim of this
vague depth, fractured
by this passing,
aching into silence,
swirling, sinking,
lost in the water's
rise and fall.


Fountainhead


At the water's edge,
the same veined leaf returns,
back and forth

across the whirlpool
and its stone rim.
Across the fountain's

cathedral of rain
it startles, sinks,
and then rises,

like a planet scaling its
orbit around the sun, a galleon
from the edge of the world.


Winter Awakening


after Kotaro Takamura

Winter morning.
Even the River Jordan must be skimmed with ice.
Inside, covered in my own white blanket, I lie
Wondering about last night’s play, how it might have felt
To be John the Baptist, guiding Christ into the river,
Or Salome, holding in her hands la tête coupée.

Winter morning.
From the street echoes the clatter of wooden clogs.
Inside, I feel nature’s immensity turning in me,
Silent, like the orbit of constellations.

The sweet aroma of mocha
Spirits itself into the room; eyes suddenly open,
It all comes to me, like a precise equation,
Those harmonies and patterns that run
Through the lives we make ourselves.

Awake, my love!

Winter morning,
And outside your house, the chirrup of birds.

By now you will have opened your dark eyes,
Arms stretching out like a child, smiling,
Dappled, beautiful, by sunlight.
And I am seized to tap out
With my fingers, on my
White blanket, love’s
Warbled song.

Winter morning,
And my heart and voice overflow with this sweet life.
The sky’s morning haze is gold-flecked, amber and blue.
And, from afar, the howl of an English pointer
Awakens something in me, a deep-seated
Animal hunger, a yearning
For my beloved, you.

Winter morning,
And on the River Jordan, my spirit gnaws at the ice,
Exultant, breaking through.


To a Woman in Her Home


after Kotaro Takamura

The compass of my heart’s monsoon aligns itself
With you, my love.
And the night’s cold slips beneath its
Aquamarine shell.
While you, love, sleep peacefully there in your home.

You sleep with the trust of a child asleep, a truth
Transparent and pure,
That banishes the heart of darkness.

Virtue, baseness, all are unveiled before you.
Surely, to one whose transcendent judgement,
Child-like clarity, discerned
A worthiness in this, my unworthy life.
How to fathom what you saw in me?
All I know is that your certainty
Transfigured me to joy,
Engendered faith that what you saw,
That unknown me, could be
Real, here in the flesh.

Winter.
The leaves from the zelkova elms have fallen.
The night is hushed.

And now my heart’s monsoon begins its course
To you, my love,
Like an extravagant, artesian spring
Gently swelling from its subterranean lair
To drench you, every inch of you, your skin.

And as you stir, this vasculation
Surges, swirls, revels,
And encompasses you,
My love, my font of life.

While you, love, sleep;
Sleep through the night’s cold trespass;
Sleep peacefully there in your home;
With the trust of a child,
You sleep.


Owls


after Kotaro Takamura

Listen, do you hear it?
The sound of owls.

An insensate murmuring.
Voices dyed with poison – with a color
Black as winged creatures in the arboreal depths –
These voices surround us, from every tree
And on every path, growing, unbearable,
Engulfing the ears, throbbing as in darkness
Your image mirrors this heart’s pain.
Sinister, in shadow,
Insensate murmuring.

Listen, do you hear it?
The sound of owls.

Revelling in their own voices, passing rumor,
Aspersion, innuendo with each bass note:
A sinister parliament.

Our resolve starts strong,
But they are unrelenting, with their swift
Flicker of eye, their cacophony of overtone and
Insinuation. And so my anguish grows
Against that murmuring,
That vulgar music that
Asphyxiates the heart,
Blurring the line between
The licentious and the insane.

Accursed creatures,
Parliament of owls,
Drowning this absurdity, this anguish,
In a sea of inhuman voices, again, again.

Do you hear it? Listen.
The sound of owls.


Waste Land Haiku


April is cruel.
Stetson's the Fool. I'm coping.
Damyata shantihng.


Red Sky


The sun's artery
beats through red sky
like the light
convulsing from an
ambulance roof.

The stained, dark
hemmorhage of noon.


Verge


Sad ocean, verged against
this faded sky, you breathe
a quiet reproach of clouds.

The vast night shivers,
bone cold, deep, and
blue as the universe’s ghost.


This Evening


after Kotaro Takamura

On the hearth, the gas fire warms
Oolong tea, wind wanes this evening moon.

Outside, the world
Would have us
Regimented, in uniform,
Contriving innocence,
Snapping to attention.
Lost in the world’s maelstrom,
Knowing hearts, once
Artless and free.

You understand. It’s clear
That’s how the world is,
A cruel and callous circle,
Clutching to itself a harsh conceit.
So those true to themselves –
Yesterday, today, or tomorrow –
Are cursed as insincere,
Tormented, as you’ve been.

Wretches!
Never trust them;
As if in horror, they
Spread idle rumors,
Uncaring of who
They injure.

They, it is they who should be shunned.
Turn your back on them, they are
Insignificant, nothing, less than nothing.
Instead, let us follow our own hearts,
Take the path we were meant to take.
Let our spirits seek harmony
In our thoughts, beauty in nature,
Power in our own spirit, indomitable.
Let us transform this grotesque
Toad of hurt into nobility.

And let us love’s sweetness savor,
Let us unravel every tangled strand
Of this our life together, as we are, free
As the wind blowing, as the clouds streaming,
True to the universe, to ourselves, to our soul’s
Compass, nature’s bright sagesse.

Come then – banish these doubts,
Worth scarcely half a thought –
And let us together sup, you and I,
Openly, this evening, outside,
In Ginza.


Dawn


Fuji, Mount Fuji!
I kiss the kiss of your lips
And the brim alights!



Ripple


Shivers in the stream:
A ripple breaks the moonlight
And the heron's dream.



Disquiet


after Kotaro Takamura

No, let us not stir the calm
Of these waters, nor fling in any stone.
Even one drop, trembling,
Disperses a thousand ripples.
Cherish this quiet,
This peace.

No, let us not speak a word,
Not one more word.
Even one whisper, trembling,
Unleashes a quiver of treachery,
Fissured lightning,
A wildfire.

Woman, ambitious, independent; still, woman:
You are this moon, sultrous in an indigo sky,
A moon that ushers wakefulness into dream,
That renders this moment, as it must be, timeless.
Suffer this dream to remain, this moment to stay.

More than that, no, never
Ripple these luminous waters.

This peace is precious,
Blood-ransomed. Unimaginable,
The measure of that barter.
This peace breathes life, divinity,
That may stir into indignation
At a summer night’s pang.
Do we dare disturb the universe?

No, never. Cherish this quiet
Or be ourselves resolved
When ripples, stone-swept,
Hasten into waves, overwhelm us,
Whirling us in the undertow.

Woman, to endure this, how far into
The heart should we reach?
And could we?
No answer.

But – see that oil-stained railway station,
wrapped in yellow smoke? How moonlight
Transforms it, into a shimmering,
Jewelled pavilion. Signal lamps
Slow down trains and send them off,
In hues of ruby and jade.

Thus your moonlight fills me
Wondrous, suffuses me
In a mysterious cascade.
Balanced on this precipice,
My soul reaches further, further,
All essence visible and infinitely

Quiet.
Embrace, then, vastness;
Render me speechless

Leave this peace unruffled,
These waters unstirred,
This stone unflung.


Ablution


1

Had it all been by chance? Business
completed early, over café-au-lait
at Aux Deux Marie, so a foray down

Rue Saint-Denis, past the old-world
embellishments, shoehorned among
the bustling crowds in Plateau Mont-Royal.

And there it was, unassuming, an old
curiosity shop out of Dickens, window displays
enticing pause, bars protecting militaria

bric-à-brac – ribbons of war, medals,
daggers. A portentous fascination
took hold, opened the door, drew him in.

2

February 19, 1946. On the morning
of the 62nd day of the proceedings at

Nuremberg, Counsellor Smirnov rose
to the Tribunal, resuming his evidence:

'I have already pointed out that the
principal method used to cover up

their crimes was to burn the remains;
but the same base, rational SS

technical minds, which created gas
chambers and murder vans, began

devising other methods for complete
annihilation of human bodies,

which would not only conceal
evidence, but serve other purpose.'


3

Foraging among the emblems, batons, pistols,
he was aware of someone watching quietly,
from the shadows; and as he hesitated

in front of a simple walnut box, that someone
cleared a throat. The Proprietor approached,
and with a "Je vous attendais,"

lifted the box onto the counter. A flick
of the wrist, and the lid was open.
Inside it, on a flat, wooden pedestal –

a yellowish ochre bar, imprinted with the
angular swirl of a swastika. Beside it, a card,
with the inscription "Pologne 1944".

4

'Such as the manufacture of certain
products. I submit to the Tribunal

Exhibit Number USSR-197, the testimony
of one of the direct participants,

Sigmund Mazur, who was a laboratory assistant
at the Danzig Anatomic Institute.'

'Q: Tell us how it was made.'
'A: In the courtyard of the Anatomic Institute

a one-story stone building of three rooms
was built during the summer of 1943.

This building was erected for the utilization
of human bodies. During the winter of 1944

Professor Spanner ordered us to collect,
and not to throw away, certain human material.'


5

"Cet artefact," the Proprietor said.
"It has been here since I started this
boutique du collectionneur after the War."

He leaned forward. "People should understand,
people need to understand. Especially
this." A gesture around the ephemera

of another age, ranged oppressively around
them. "Bien, Monsieur, you see how it appears.
The question is this: Do you know

what it is you hold there, exactly?"
In the visitor's hands, the Proprietor
had placed the object. Soap.

6

'It was in February 1944, Professor Spanner
first gave me the recipe for the preparation

of soap. According to this recipe 5 kilos
of human fat are mixed with 10 liters

of water and 500 or 1,000 grams of caustic soda.
All this is boiled 2 or 3 hours and then cooled.

The soap floats to the surface while the water
and other sediment remain at the bottom.

A bit of salt and soda is added to this mixture.
Then fresh water is added, and the mixture

again boiled 2 or 3 hours. After having cooled
the soap is poured into molds. The soap

has an unpleasant odor, and in order to destroy
this odor, benzolaldehyde is added.'


7

The Proprietor turned it over. "Verso,
had it been inscribed R.I.F.," he said,
"the initials for the Reichsstelle für

Industrielle Fettversorgung
, in charge
of wartime production of washing products,
it would likely have no suspect material.

But with unmarked artifacts from a Danzig
institute, one laboratory undertook analysis,
and forged that final evidentiary chain

missing from the trials, the human link."
Here, in Montreal, on the object he held,
there were – as in Nuremberg – no initials.

8

'I boiled this compund from the bodies of both
women and men. The process of boiling alone

took several days - from 3 to 7.
Over 2 manufacturing cycles more than

25 kilograms of soap were produced.
The amount of human fat necessary

for these 2 cycles was 70 to 80
kilograms collected from some 40 bodies.

The finished soap went to Professor Spanner,
and to Reichert, Borkmann, Von Bargen.

Spanner personally used this soap.
For myself I took 4 kilograms

of this soap. For my personal needs,
I also used this soap.'


9

"Les Catholiques, they have a word,"
said the Proprietor. "Transubstantiation.
The changing of the essence of bread and wine

into the body and blood of their redeemer."
In the light the brown was splotched
with white. "What this is, Monsieur,

is the transubstantiation of the essence of –
not divinity – but humanity, into a form as
unextraordinary as bread or wine,

but which contains in its substance,
in its essence, the distillation of
l'âme humaine, the human soul."

10

'Exhibit Number USSR-272,
submitted to the Tribunal, the written

testimony of a British citizen,
William Anderson Neely,

a corporal of the Royal Signals.'
'The corpses arrived at an average rate of

2 to 3 per day. Most of them had been
beheaded. A machine for the manufacture

of soap was completed sometime in March
or April 1944. It consisted

of an electrically heated tank in which
bones of the corpses were mixed

with some acid and melted down. This
process of melting down took about 24 hours.'


11

"And yet in many ways," the Proprietor continued,
this mystery surpasses even transubstantiation."
The Proprietor turned the soap back to the

arrogant crucifix of the swastika. "You understand,
Monsieur, they would have you believe
that the words spoken at la dernière cène

This is my body, this is my blood
were statements of fact, to be accepted on Faith.
But this artifact, it makes itself accessible

to chemical reagent and spectrometer, the way
the bread and wine cannot. What place is there,
then, for Faith, when you can test for Truth?"

12

'Some acid was also used in this process.
I think it was caustic soda. When boiling

had been completed, the mixture
was allowed to cool and then cut into blocks

for microscopic examination. I cannot
estimate the quantity produced, but I saw it

used by Danzigers in cleaning tables
in the dissecting rooms. They all told me

it was excellent soap for this purpose.'
The Counsellor rose. 'I submit

some unfinished and finished materials,
which from the exterior, seem like nothing

more than ordinary household soap. I submit
this to the Tribunal as Exhibit USSR-393.'


13

The Proprietor returned the bar to its casque,
turned it around; on the rear, just below the rim
of the lid, a small square of paper, a label.

"Voici, mon ami," the Proprietor said,
and offered up the box, so that the white tag's
numbers burned level with the visitor's eyes.

"Is this not a fair price for a human soul?"
For a breath, as after a consecration bell,
the abyss held him in its gaze - Kaliningrad,

Bydgoszcz, Stutthof - for but a breath.
Then he fled, the door hinging against darkness,
against darkness, immeasurable and deep.


Drowning


Dear Mister-I'm-Too-
Good-To-Write-Or-Call,
this'll be the last
time I harass y’all.
I'm in the car now, 90
on the sprawl.

Radio crankin’ out the
soundtrack to the drive.
You know the song by
Collins? About that guy
who coulda saved that
other from a dive.

That's kinda how this is.
Yeah it's too late –
I'm on downers mixed
with vodka mixed with hate.
And all I tried was
to communicate.

We coulda been
forever, never doubt it.
Now you can't sleep
and dream about it.
Instead I hope you
kick and scream about it.

Keep bangin’ at that trunk
back there, go on and try.
We’re almost at the bridge
and we gonn fly.
At least we’ll be together;
Stan, good-bye –

And I can feel it
coming in the air
tonight oh Lord
I’ve been waiting for
this moment for all
my life oh Lord
oh Lord oh Lord



Helium


Outside, the winter frieze has banished all
except the shadows from the streets. Beneath

it all, a final subway train engraves
a drawn, unhurried course across its tracks.

Its sound reverberates through the grates, an
electron in its shivering orbital.

Here, colder still, in the railway tunnel
of the MRI, the liquid helium

embraces in its coiled magnetic frame.
The shutter trips, and I become a flash,

protons cascade, a corona of light.
Etched in the scanner's screen like the Turin

shroud, a self-portrait. The cranial tumor
a frosted silver, like a crown of thorns.


Silence Has Bound Me


Silence has bound me devastated, desolate;
Has me in its anguished cocoon,
Bound in an ember, pining, dying.

Me an ember muted in gloom.
Devastated, anguished, pining in darkness deep.
Desolate cocoon, dying gloom, deep tomb.
.....

#Revolution


You say you want a revolution
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it's evolution
We all want to change the world
          - J. Lennon, P. McCartney


You talk about a #revolution?
You there, carrying the bayonet
Of Internet protocol, bearing
Elliptic cryptography’s body armour –
Listen – let me explain a few things.
Alongside the armies of salvation
March your trending hashtags #Tunisia
#Egypt #Jordan #Algeria #Yemen -
#7thcolumn at the squares of liberation.
You say you want a #revolution?

You there, standing in the plazas,
Surrounded by the salt of merchandise,
Armed with nothing but your placards,
Your Molotovs of #poetry; your comrades
Slumping in the streets of your suburbs,
Bloodied like a dried inkwell, swirled
In hake. You falter like a weathervane –
Listen – you are not alone. Raised with
Your fist our own, fingers together curled.
We all want to change the world.

You hear about the #revolution?
You there, despots, heedless in your
Palaces, your pyramids of gauze,
Your minarets of conjurement and smoke –
Listen – that is the sound of the great deluge
Bearing down upon the tined illusion
Of your gates, etching away the mortar
Of your garrisons, wave after furrowing wave
Sweeping your citadel in watery immolation.
You tell me that it’s evolution –

Let me show you how the comet
Struck down the ancient tyrant’s reign
And made it brittle bone, cowed in stone.
You say you want a #revolution? This is the
Word, meme, singularity – seize it, share it,
Chirp it, reddit, storify it, glorify it, tumblrd
And tubed, until we surge victorious,
Philosopher, mason, poet and serf,
#Freedom the final stone that's hurled;
We all want to #changetheworld.


New Orleans Lullaby


There is a voice in New Orleans,
A baby's mother's sigh,
And as she holds her daughter close,
She sings her lullaby -

     Now dry your tears, my darling girl,
     Your daddy's said good-bye.
     He loves you still, as he loved me,
     Sweet baby, rockabye.


Outside the storm begins to grow,
The evening turns to night,
And as the clouds begin to close,
She sings her lullaby -

     Now dry your tears, my darling girl,
     Your daddy's said good-bye.
     He loves you still, as he loved me,
     Sweet baby, rockabye.


And soon that voice in New Orleans
Begins to break and cry,
But as the rising sun appears
Still sings that lullabye -

     Now dry your tears, my darling girl,
     Your daddy's said good-bye.
     He loves you still, as he loved me,
     Sweet baby, rockabye.

     Please dry your tears, my darling girl,
     I'll never say good-bye.
     I love you still, I always will,
     Sweet baby, rockabye.


     I love you so. That's all I know.
     Sweet baby, rockabye.


One Stop, Poetry


The bus folds shut its wide accordion
doors, and reels away from shelter.
Finally settled in our seats, we press
against the window glass. Outside,

the world unrolls its cinematic
cartography, the vagrant landscapes
of imagination. Here, a young boy
swivels on a bright red

bicycle, his suited father panting close
behind. There, two women edge
a garden path, hand in hand, one on
the stone, the other on the grass.

Beyond, a wife and husband swing
together on a porch; the sunshine
wanes across their faces, and their forty-
seven years of cinnamon and tea.

These are the triolets and villanelles
of life, and we its jostled passengers,
marvelling at the projected tapestry
that weaves, unweaves itself

across the circuit of our journ –
browsers, writers, dreamers, friends –
companions on this craft
that has but one stop, poetry.


Eleventh


The streets
weft breeze-swept sheets, texts,
letters, sentences never ended:

Beth,
Next bet, Everest! Ever been
there? They tell me extreme,
WTC-sheer. Yes! Wherever
there’s extreme, there’s me! Tell

Jeff:
See Excel sheets 20-23, rev 7.
The VP feels the new Eng’g Dept
spend needs exec check. Prep
NYSE. Then pre-Dec 3, delete

Bennett:
These extensions skew the
expected rent levels. Next term,
they’ll exceed the free expenses
precendent. Nevertheless

Helen,
When we met, speech deserted
me... Never expected the sweetness,
the perfect tenderness... Melt me,
tell me the deepest secrets... Let me

September 11.
The breeze sweeps the letters.
The letters never sent.


A Child's Plate c. 1840


This is the last of you, consigned
as part of a collection to Sotheby’s
for an afternoon auction. Lifted from
the salt-glazed stoneware teapots –

a Staffordshire child’s plate,
polychrome, 5-3/4” in diameter.
Impressed on the border, a pearl-white
pattern of alternating pinwheel daisies.

In the center, a garden scene –
handpainted in orange, yellow, red and
green – an oblivious boy, intent
on his book, and a young girl pining:

The tulip and the butterfly
appear in gayer coats than I -
Let me be dress'd fine as I will,
such poesie exceeds me still.


Your first discovery, unearthed
from an outing to Portobello Road. Later,
when I got back from my conference,
you presented it to me in triumph.

I remember it, your smile –
the same smile you had that last night,
propped among your pillows and tubes,
the muted blip of the bedside monitor

pacing my own heart. You pressed
my palm with the soft of your thumb,
whispered finally to me Piaf’s:
Non, je ne regrette rien.

But this is mine: that I might have seized
more zealously our days with one another.
And now, this is all that is left of you,
the pearlware figurines, the pottery

figural clocks, the thimbles, the scent-bottle
holders, enamel necessaires. And they mean
nothing, nothing – only your smile
remembered, wistful, underglaze.


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