"A psalm for Mr Miura," "Silver Cockroaches and D-76," and "And the sound of AC"

A psalm for Mr Miura
or Berserk on the day of his death 05/20/2021 1:37pm

“My right hand”—Psalm 16

“enjoy abundant peace”—Psalm 37

“You fucking Monster, at least I am human” Guts the Beserker

 

Blade, pen and pencil

a thousand eyes, possibility

muscles  

and restrictions

a brand on the left breast and

the right back of the neck

the right hand

a godhand

the left hand

a cannon

third and fourth chakra

and meridians

a Koan for Kentaro

The man

will not be forgotten

as imperfect as he was

beloved

though his endeavor incomplete 

this endeavor spanning a generation

 

So what does a conclusion matter

Hollowed be your name

Sir, Sensei, Commander Guts

of the Raiders of the Band Of the Hawk

Griffith,

leader of the band of the Hawk

as Femto, demon

leader of his apostles

the Godhand

and the later band of demons

The berserkers, demons

and apostles, mourn you

with or without

this infamous sacrifice

when men and women

must chose humanity

or demonkind to move forward

with or without

this idea of evil

Griffith’s “finally” kingdom

after Ganishka’s tree

or Guts the struggler

always willing to fight

Casca in between them

Our agony

This story

this, this

this story

 

---

 

Music and Lemonade
Silver Cockroaches and D-76

Joseline’s shadow

dim light

this coffee

and chocolate

taste and flavor anticipated

imagined before—

and old memories

of the metallic smell of D-76

and my ex

 

Buds are blooming

this is not about sugar

but about a mouthful

She would be there

with a devil’s grin—

shadows angled near

the coffee machine

drawing her big chin

that bushy hair

spring of confetti

but the machine grudges

for me alone

churns

memories instead

devils, water, dragons, ghosts

silver cockroaches somewhere

 

Most days are the same gray day

with a palsied angle

you wishing in vermillion

but these crux of light

keep egging you to look

Chocolate in the coffee

my porn

melting on my spoon

Diasactol, prescysol

these names of beloved developers

and a photograph of us

my ex and I

in black and white

this one developed in D-76

and I can hear this space

from the metal frame

Things I used to do

photographs overdue

the smell of D-76

was a time

when all I’d look forward to

was to develop a picture

of this dragon, this woman

coming back home, to her lair  

to me smelling like D-76

this chemistry between us

Through the vapors of coffee

the memory goes away

like the ghost of our couple

Coffee maker needs water

 

---

 

Music and Lemonade
And the sound of AC

--reading Anne Carson’s Eros the Bittersweet

 

When the body does not feel

what becomes the value of a

puzzle—

how a period marks

an end, my hunger

and morning light

through the window curtain

the ashy quality of light

 

The edges of desire

and regret

belt the body’s twice sought

ideas and margins

It’s not respect or agreements

we wakeup with

but the other cemeteries

of neck and knees

the morning sun warning

of shadows

health and betrayals

To ankle ones step

tastes raspy

not like strawberries

like nerves beginning

 

My mother

sent me a poem about joy

she wrote about

the fleeting conscience

slipping

with the moment

a paper napkin

or toilet paper

 

Through my wounds

betrayals, the seasons changing

the devil tricking me

with this lie of recovery

the pressure drop

in my ear

the wooden luster

of tabebuias

I am running

I am always running

my mother’s words

a haunting in my heart

“Eros

The Bittersweet”

an idea against momentum

the impression

the sound of waves makes

even more in the mornings

Fall 2020

the AC fans humming so clear

and memories of the beach

photographs of

Man Ray, Moholy-Nagy

Bresson, Brandt

giving shape to spirals

and stairways

A Miami fall

that tastes like devilled zinc

and white paint

and ashes

 

Turning a page

is like arching over a lover

a sound

that can’t happen without a bloom

anther, anthesis

and synecdoche

without losing

what we thought was pace

or taste

awareness of skin and selves

smells

what got them here

tabby flowers freckling the floor

this regret in bloom

my cock

and how it smells

women

 

Tabebuia

this haunting, sweet smell

the shift in light

and the chalky glimmer of these trees

nooks and folds like birthmarks

perverted into

a tangible picture

I can eat

The Beatle’s White Album

or Abby Road?

 

An ear of wood

for my wants, my skin

my secrets, humbled

I am disgusted carrying this alone

charred epithets

and the persistence

and the steadiness of bones

even something as rooted as bones

fragile shells

I found this poem

on a walk

The bones of legs again

the sound of AC

a lucid air of dreams

a ruse, a mystery

space

at old backyards

I have visited

 

You can deliberate a nook

into a needle into a nook

as recklessly as you want

and it will eventually give you

that metaphor you so desire

whatever the comparison

The illusion of stillness in trees

their uncaught motion

again these nooks;

my envy of women writers

the ease of sensuality of their pen

fullness, flesh, anguish

and blood

openness to impression

to questions

I end up tyrannizing unwillingly

 

I heard the world sing yesterday

about our skin

Do not let this passion die

with another’s voice

Cry

say: “Tabebuia”

Shout

say: “Woman”

Consume it

bed it

like your rosemary beginning

as if your legs were longer

denser

more compact

because they are

They help you reach

more than the others

these distal friends

of neck and trees

 

And you, my ear of wood

separate floor and sky

floor from sky

and hear my sin as lack

on the midline