October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
A prism rests in the colored chambers. Now I hold it in my planetary hands. Here are the bluegreen shadows of the moon, underlined by smoke. I hold a woodcut, someone’s keepsake for a hundred years. I offer broken words for the future from my colored chambers and ask cold questions in a little town. Melody grows. A hieroglyph of summer and of the future shall begin with this rainstorm, a distillation of fire. Meteors honey the night. There must be meteors also falling into the sun. This poem will be their elegy, or such is my curious morning thought.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
These are the moon’s blue colors, or many of them. These are the rainstorms at the hurricane’s mouth. These are the colored chambers that break our fingers, break them and outline our faces. These are the bones cracking inside our planetary hands. This is the smoke that creates isolation. This is the smoke that is the beauty of darkness. These towns concentrate on the heavens from their bluegreen shadows. I’ll make words to ripple forever, placing them in the hands of one hundred years. There is so much rubbish up in the clouds. This is for the terrified persecuted ones.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Elements of truth clash in my recitation of the yellow sun done in the grand manner when I was alone. The mirrors shake under the fluorescent lights, blessing thunder-lit music that touches the structure. Those at the back of the universe are listening carefully. Behind the elms the well-masoned wall comforts the streets with its quiet music. That the universe is a poetry is agreeable and wild, as wild as thunder and birches and thoughts of morning. Glistening with victory, the glass panics (at great cost). One person is weary, remembering the unconquered and half-asleep newspaper headlines.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
The moon now floating distantly burns my one hour of contemplation out of October with a rude math. Thoughts are crushed poisonously by the wrong temperature. October is a meandering–a street without dreams, a wrong way. Your heart has still wondered what speeds everything. It is a good, long sequence and vision. This is the now we have been needing. Our need for Orange descends through the woods just below capable Orion, and Bootes, ghost with a shield. Gladly warming your hands by the crackling fire you are. A tin twilight waits for you–muddled confrontation, a blue Venus.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Rain’s not quite quit. Green at the intersection says go. I remember nights like this in other cities when I thought of myself as the wanderer. Especially I remember Decatur, with its twenty-four hour eggroll shop that resembled a motorcycle garage. Intersections of individuals are just as important to us as memorable street and road intersections. Our cheerfulness has not failed to impress the back-broken night. Buckets of rain–what is there to say about that? I’m just being difficult. Beyond night, what is out there? Your reputation for coping is cracking. Scene requiring a moon spun in.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
I got up and took a bath and got dressed, took my wallet and keys and said Hi to Donna and went to Winchells and said Hi to Bari and Paul. Then I talked to Paul and read the newspaper and drank coffee and ate an apple fritter and read meditations from Marcus Aureleus from the Harvard Classics and thought about his pessimism concerning humanity and looked at three pretty girls and was amused to remember a joke in the music of Alice Cooper. Then I thought about aging and a dream I had about my girlfriend Debra! Debra! Darling!
