Everyday Icarus

[A Series: 8 August, 2005- 15 August, 2005]

 

 

The Feather On This Table Is The Title
for Troy


Claw Foot At Full Volume
for Ryan


A Poem Without
for Angel


Hiding To Laugh
for Teresa


A Lineage of Permission

for Michael


Flaunt Blind

for Soma


Magic Realism

for John


Sequence of Repetitious Bodies

for The Ghosts

 

 

mlevell

©2005

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Feather On This Table Is The Title

for Troy

  

I understand predetermination

 

You are reading this

                aren’t you

 

                like a poem in the sink

 

The road you chose to take you here

                is here

                and not a road

                but a survivor

 

It all happens between sight and object

 

                like Sancho Panza

                could not communicate being fire

                so gave his body to the wind

 

This city was here before its name

                before nests

 

                you have no name

      Really

                you are naked and probably

                never made a shirt

 

Names inferiorate

 

Hidden so open we are as blind as air

Drawing lines we invent for survival

 

It’s wax

 

History is wax

     

                the horizon that doesn’t work

                the way it’s told

 

Wax survives

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

Claw Foot At Full Volume

for Ryan

 

Tiredness screams in luke warm porcelain

                using everyone else’s vocabulary

Too fathomless for translation

 

Licking bruises to paste

                wont make feathers stick

 

I’ve tried                to understand why

                                Sancho Panza stayed

 

                                eyes hoping windmills

                                carrying a broken rake

 

“I don’t want to be somebody anymore

  I want to say something”

 

My ears stuffed with dirty bathtubs

                                (I can’t explain

 

While you sleep on the mattress

                submerged

                deep inside your chest

 

Our statues are still in the mountains

                waiting to be carved

                by thousands of drown windmills

                stuffed with shards of leaves

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

A Poem Without

for Angel

 

                an enormous hand

                percolating the horizon

 

“I never saw you stop moving”

 

                with an enormous hand

                impossibly honest like winter

 

Housing the girls you stole from light

               

                in glass windmills

                percolating the horizon

 

Where are you now

 

                there is no pocket large enough

                to hide the winter of your fist

 

“I never saw you

  stop moving”

 

Your wings of tempered smoke

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

Hiding To Laugh

for Teresa

 

“Run” she said

“to my treehouse of 2nd hand feathers”

 

She kept the spring from us

                hid in Daddy’s coffee can

                that used to smell of grease and trinkets

 

(I admire the way her stuffings

                are in love with Don Quixote

 

(The confederate pistol she hides

                beneath her tongue

                to keep from teaching

 

“Run” she said

And opened up the channel in her ear

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

A Lineage of Permission

for Michael

 

The Poet confuses predictions with reception

 

These poems expect

                the response of constant creativity

 

The arson tailor stands

                sample case in hand

                held tight like a dream about flight

 

These poems are about names looking back

                right before the exit of the cave

 

                Sancho Panza is a name

                like Wax or Memory

 

                Don Quixote is a saint that sees

                                the nudity in editing

 

                                                the poems

 

                                                are Daedalus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

Flaunt Blind

for Soma

 

People spend most of their language

                telling other people what they do

 

“I stand up and the sun comes out”

 

You can’t control memories

                no stirrup fits their inconceivable rampage

 

In the park of the possibilities of hands

                chalk drawn sidewalks

                (after yawning out of shape in the rain

                are called back refurbished

                by a media that no longer exists

 

Memory is the color that paints the space

                overwhelming in temporariness

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

Magic Realism

for John

 

The magicians play chess

 

Notice every curve in the room)

 

(and giggle at the imposed space

                between people

 

In the landscape of poetry

                where every Poet is an element

                these poems are beneath the 17th street bridge

 

Above instead of a road

                people gather in for granted geometry

                happening and drinking everything

                beneath the grinding of mill blades

                sounding as important as a feather

 

At the chess table

Mates meet mates

 

As they make (the whole room moves

 

This exists

      as much as anything can

      without being

 

(Somewhere in the poem

                  Don and Sancho never move

                  only being real

     

      as much as anything can

      without being

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

Sequence of Repetitious Bodies

for The Ghosts

 

The same old carpet of language

 

                But where is the ceiling

                        where is the floor

 

Every sentence is an homage to History

 

Don Quixote

                takes his lance of left-sided ladder

                to rip the carpet from his eyes

                so everything else is flower veils

 

Flower bales

Sancho Panza squats behind

                to keep re-making magic

 

                to keep a real piece of narrative

                with holes not for vacancy

                but being occupied

 

Names perch on the edge of the cave

                ready to be scattered dandelion white

 

Don and Sancho turn

                and turn to disappear

 

Will the names jump

                          jump up past consequential dust

 

                                 up to all that’s left

                                

                                 up to the Reader (