October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Chords in the blood–listen to their answer at the door to all human beings. The entrance to our nerves breaks with our andiron-black rainstorms. Each bone finds a cauldron to dance in. Each light, each mistress near my face, Polaris in the syllable, voltage in the remembering, giver of passionate breath. I cannot see a Job in the sun. Vanilla moods pass by in a parade–it was a wild self-education. You with solid-colored hair, you, Joseph, deserve the oxidizing thread of goodnights which are four-fifths flame, having several souls storming deep inside of you.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Detonations of warm violet this autumn. Back and forth we’ll drink farewells! Love on another evening returns as a strength on this one. The heart is seared by each thought in the music, music for a painter at tea who finds more than tea glittering in the china cup. There is a cruelty we know and feel right down to the bone. We are alone with it usually, kicked by its eternal blossoms and formulations until we think we have found life. Such is my constitution, what I am made of, what my face and heart share with the wind.
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
