October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
She is spilling the gold dust of dreams into a night too dark. We’re wandering through a forest of stars, looking for her until night breaks. She has turned into music from a very old-fashioned love song. We are ready for the light in her. Her light spills gold breezes into Sunday kisses. She is spilling gold dust of dreams into a night too dark. She is not found crying, like a girl crying in a cherry orchard. Her hands touch casks of old, dark, rich red wine–rare, French and rose-colored, poured in sparkling star-spangled summers.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
All women have suffered the bitter dictations of Harvard poetry in this rain, and now they stand as dismembered webs. It is not just this rain, it is the rain set thinking by musicians. The rape of a dustpan against the wall. All women in their tiredness notice the loose electrical plate. The equality of thunderbirds. Sixty centuries of exploitation is the zucchini of logical astronomy all women have suffered, and all women have suffered the bitter dictations of Harvard poetry in this rain. The macho moon in bits of light. But girls will scratch your heart with grandmother’s citrus.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
My heart is a stopwatch shuddering and burning to death. It is a one-hundred-year-old nutcracker inspiring me with her scintillations at the Christmas table where the moon unwrinkles. Those of you who are now persecuted, what gods and what madness brand your century with the espionage of unoccupied faces under the blue sword? A crisp garden scene beds where the shadow bled from couplets to vulture in a train blackened by the sex meteors coloring my peace. Smoke knocks on the planets: hammering and woeful rust. Now we smudge out a mosquito, reddening John Barclay’s Pauline commentaries.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Black ice of the moonrise hangs like a cold steel nerve of brass-white charcoal, but there is unrest to the electric sparks of its brilliant golden spill! All of our red chromasomes get older, O nocturne of the anti-war cherry breasts. The dial-tone is the best thing, the green onion slices on a plate like six heart attacks, in the nocturne of the anti-war cherry breasts. Nectar of the Mozart Requiem is a sapid portrait of the artist in block print, the muscles of the sea, and nothing else but a rash nocturne of the anti-war cherry breasts.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
My father with hands warm as high octanes at a dead jetport in blue leaves, my father who wisely thought nothing of Bartok’s death, my father who lived in the past whenever I touched his echo, my father of gold still accruing in my memory, my father whose bones were burned one morning, who rusted shut at night and was whistled away into absolute poetry, my father who listened to rock music while carrying moist roots in his hands, my father who fell into the machinery of moody spinning wheels, whose enflamed iron spectacles longed for more nomad emergency moonrises…
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
I shall infuriate this piece of parchment with a discussion of stars or some other unaltered thought which could be set forth as musician to this universe. Fragile parchment on a night of forgetfulness, reach somewhere into distant architecture, for it is the somber hour of the beast virus, stopped by no cries from our hearts. Watching the thunderstorm of countryside colors covering October Mountain, I agree that the almond moon is a trusted old image etched on the reflections of much older myth. So from rain-glittered thunderstorms I will stain your parchments with a falling darkness to remember.
