- we put our hands to these dead
we are born not of the buried but of these unburied dead
- Charles Olson Le Preface
these dead/ they walk again within us
slow poems
lyrical etudes
dramatic re-awaken//ings
repeated stones falling from
olympus
(((((((({})))))))))){))})
it is this light
that allows us to be born
dead things
in a time of war
a time when there was never
this to play
(to)
there has never been such a time
(as this)
i fool you into believing
hold flame in
hand
take this key
find the treasure if you can
put it in your pocket &
leave
it is gold that tells a story
tho it may not be an interesting one
to tell.
there is little space left
between
here &
now.
Bush calls to Bush
glory of green hearts
green kids
wish to wish
eye - ear - sense of touch
by eye for eye ear with/
out resolve or wisdom
fit
the power they give that
lazy crazy imbecile
bid all we have of fear
he unawake behind the.......
.......barrack wall
1.
deaf fingers spell
your name
reminding us of death war love
untidiness age & agelessness
freaks & walking
walking beneath the
moon as it mingles w/the
stuls & flames & coming
wealth
i place a stone on my head
& dream that i am dead
& paying homage to my / self
i experience night as if it were a
flickering beard of light
invented by blind men in a storm
i am demolished by pain & crowd
control
& my balls have no personality –
dad gabs
( funanambulably ) while tip toeing on a tightrope
a dream i have awake about death always
about death scratching @ my thighs
like a bored cat
spool unspun a net of dnicts a copy/cat
scrawler throwing his loneliness @ the sky
& all remaining the stone on my head
& my head struggling to become the
mo on
& between back & forth we become un-
dangered.
2.
i am empty yet so
full
of my/
self
filled w/chattering
si ………………………………..lence
& shattered prisms
all containing distances & tangled rain-
bows
brief thinking my hand to my mouth & the night
a pile of cinders & deceased lang
uage & lapened pupp(i)e(t)s.
3.
hot flash:
the world is becoming endless
hot flash: black is the color of the fractured light
hotflash: time is the music of armies
h ot f lash > a shivering # erects itself on his chest
broken sleeveless
24 + 42 + 2+2 +4+4 +4+2 +2+4 plus @+$=
hot flash - the wind is a gypsy that thinks it is a mirror
FLASH /// * i am stained so much you would think I was wearing a suit
flesh; i am rusted & undone
Oh sweet GACIHC
hot flash?
i wait
a waiter
weightless w/heavy
socks
gone in copia
burying the emblems
become a headstone -
yet you remain sockless.
Steven Dalachinsky was born in Brooklyn, New York sometime after the last Big War and before lots of useless little wars...he has been writing poetry since before then and has always...he is basically self-taught...his great loves and influences are the Beats, Blake, Kafka, Camus, Harpo, surreal and abstract painting and music......especially jazz and so-called "Avante Guarde" or "FREE" jazz. Two key elements in his poetry are spontaneity and the idea of transformation rather than description with a preference toward non-linear, non-narrative though. He resides in Manhattan where he has lived for the past 30 years.