October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
POSTMODERN CITY, BLUE EXPRESSION ELEVATED TO
original rules and orders of life–Aspen, I’ll cling to the old, forgotten words. To the stars with our inspiration, to Aspen, ad astra! We’ll taste mint leaves in lime rickeys at Roaring Fork Valley and end all weariness in a lift viewing the world. Pine Creek Cookhouse. Bandit Trail. Red Onion Alley. Aspen Mountain. Winter and skiers bedazzle each other on endless fast powder. Poised psyche on Aspen Mountain. Ski-jumpers, slalom contenders above the quiet of old hotels. Nature is relentlessly present. Our mood speaks its narrative. The mind is not narrowed
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Rilke of ten thousand shadows, slant-rhyming death-gold, come where Dylan Thomas drank, at Stag and Deer Inn under the ruby-eyed tiger-head. Recite correspondence of Zeus and Hera detailing eight hundred years. Again Zeus’s thunderhead will detonate. Other gods will laugh at humanity’s lost cubist musicians, our actresses with four mansions on three continents. But don’t damn our string quartets, balalaikas, dense fugues and astronauts watching earth’s ultramarine strand drop away. Zeus himself admires earth as a green steel raindrop. O lift a last bracing whiskey at Stag and Deer Inn and eternize this moment, Rainer Rilke.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Storm traces. Someone is writing this all down, getting a state of mind in order. Necessity is in the design of music and in thundering words whispered by the steam of heating pipes where reflections sparkle and dry. You would return to the sky from your cold chair, leaving behind an old heart with its white horses and reckless wild roses in broken shadow. In a hundred years the wind chips away at the memory of those burnt while flying so that these words as beautiful trees offering no shelter descend to nothing and do not shine in the shadow.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Songs are burning at this moment, spilling out upon the page in sun-patterns, or like an earth full of roots. Lingering in our glasses is winter and its six-sided chemical, moon-white. Teardrops fall upon your page of mathematics describing the dark red medicine of the future, but far over the orchard there is a new growth of stars. Night is certain of your pulse, and photos of glory in America are like pink smoke touching our cellophane hands. Somewhere deep inside of us, colors crash down upon the Oliver Goldsmith Telescope in the grove. Angels respond furiously.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Her face at three-thirty in the morning is a mysterious page of determination and heart-driven sorrow. Her hands are the scorched music of other faces now grown bone-blue from the small-town life, a life that is now street maps hammering in moondeath. Yes, there is a pattern in this thunder, momentum to the shadow I speak (true even in a night tasting of smoke), and a physical eloquence to the breeze beginning in secret stone passageways. The green lamp of silence shines an excellent distance before saying goodnight. Children of nature circle the colonial village bell.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Dry moon, dry-ice moon on the necklace of stars. History dreams of citizens equal to its electrical work, equal to its imagination and night. Her shattered words burn in clusters near hands and faces that terrify. When the breathing darkens, the lover’s touch breaks off in my hand, and red lips map the composition of crystals and elements. An eighth rest and a laugh, an eighth rest and a laugh. Energetic harvest- rhapsodies descend from a grand heaven flame-driven to churchyards beneath lamplight. This will be the electrodynamics of objects in motion, queen of hundred-year-old wines.
