long is a memory walk fired by the line of flickering street lights
that often surpass the borders of my mind
and salvage from the pit chasm broken shards of rainbow kaleidoscope glass.
Some late, night, city poems neither start or end
leading all verses to the sacred shrine
on the top of the spiral Old Town road
for they are free
in riding meddling waves of springing visions.
Now, when I am here one more time
I could breakdown and fall on my knees
before the iconoclast image of the dark lady glowing in an agony of sorrow
for all her underground shipwrecks of hope
where she elapses on the altar full of blooming flowers—
those shivering rose buds and marigolds
gaping in freezing gust black n’ blue
between candle flames and white flurries.
At the Stone Gate step everybody falls, for all times seep inverse
there, I mutter the old prayer longing for our sacred opiate love wow–
The weightless feather of a smile once present in all things you touched,
and the same I soared out of the nest
to fly freely and tangle into fragile dreams,
where every morning someone else, afar, remembers what we lost.
I know my love, I am a like a poem tide
fringed with the sharp knife pen and bloody ink
but in those red n’ spiraled drifting verses
a splatter spill over rectangular edges of the golden paper–
touches the pith of ever expanding thought about you
hidden in the kernel of the black matrix cube
which knits blushing veil over new rising sun rays
and day after day–
Do you feel the painted gray pain?
this is me,
the new day dressed in colorless dawn pale
“Galeotto fu l’ libro e chi lo scrisse.” Dante, Inferno
Dante Alighiery, Inferno: Canto V
But tell me, at the time of those sweet sighs,
By what and in what manner Love conceded,
That you should know your dubious desires?”1
And she to me: “There is no greater sorrow
Than to be mindful of the happy time
In misery, and that thy Teacher knows.
But, if to recognition the earliest root
Of love in us thou hast so great desire,
I will do even as he who weeps and speaks.
One day we reading were for our delight
Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthral.
Alone we were and without any fear.
Full many a time our eyes together drew130
That reading, and drove the colour from our faces;
But one point only was it that o’ercame us.
When as we read of the much-longed-for smile
Being by such a noble lover kissed,
This one, who ne’er from me shall be divided,
Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.
Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it.
That day no farther did we read therein.”
And all the while one spirit uttered this,
The other one did weep so, that, for pity,140
I swooned away as if I had been dying,
And fell, even as a dead body falls.
(quot end: http://italian.about.com/library/anthology/dante/blinferno005.htm)