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Wick Lit: 2005-08-21
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Flickers in a bone scriptorium. Saturday, August 27, 2005. The Great Bells of Heaven (1). The rounds - away and back home - which have defined my most crucial engagements in The Life, my marriages, my endless labors in the service of Love, my hardest work, my most foolish gambits, my nobility, my errancy, the endless reforging of the sentences - these rounds follow the hero archetype, or are grooved in him. Actually a new poem. His strength comes from a father. No one has the balls to know. Do I have the.
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Wick Lit: 2005-07-24
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Flickers in a bone scriptorium. Friday, July 29, 2005. I Seek the Darkness in the Light. Bronze deathless days, what a blade you conceal in your shrill augments! Summer now is at high mass, a towering spell of sun which burns the tops of every living thing. The world’s skull splits in the whack of you daily overbright ax-blade of hosannah, welling forth the dark fruit you have long ripened in caulish brute undertow. I turned 13 during my first summer. In Florida, hard-ripped from my. Screen, my wild pitc...
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Wick Lit: 2005-07-31
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Flickers in a bone scriptorium. Friday, August 05, 2005. I'll never move to new. On her sweet blue paps. Feed me milk to sleep. But wake me fresh with. A slap of GI Joe. Not salt. Havens in the wave but. A torc of fire hammered. Round my heart, the Cerne. Giant shadowing my stance. Not by providence of hour. But victory of tongue. Does he crest and clear. Wake up asshole, it's time. To move on out. Better be alert 'cause. Your next poem may be. Your last, its gauzy reach. May not hear the springing.
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Wick Lit: 2005-08-07
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Flickers in a bone scriptorium. Friday, August 12, 2005. Brother of Dark Doors. Can I praise this dark hour enough? Now the black bulb of night burns, hot and swanky, cauling the rooks of my vowels. Dazed crickets or naiads heave an expiring sigh, the sum of all spent lovers. Where are the butterflies at this hour, the ones who dance round the pentas all day in luxuriant petticoats of flame? The Origins and History of Consciousness. The sacred tradition of the. He is Black Angus MacOdrum the selkie king ...
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Wick Lit: 2005-07-17
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Flickers in a bone scriptorium. Friday, July 22, 2005. Mine, Thine, Yours and Ours. High moon this morning at 3 am, leaking past full, one night past the blare which burnt all noctal surfaces with unforgettable gleam. It makes me think of other full moons, from all lunar seasons. To wit, this one:. We curve and curl. Of your flesh in. Would you steal that blue fire from me? To spark what engines? Who am I talking to, anyway? David St. John. The definition of beauty is easy;. I know the moon is troubling.
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Wick Lit: 2005-09-11
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Flickers in a bone scriptorium. Friday, September 16, 2005. First time all week I’ve wakened without the hooves of a migraine bloodying up my matins. Thank you Jeezus. Air through the windows of this 4 am not as clotted with heat, crickets weaving lower registers, the dark in the window not so labored nor heavy nor oppressive. This is not work for hire. You make yourself a place;. You make yourself a way. For love to reach the ground. In its ambition and. Its greed, its violence,. By the survival of.
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Wick Lit: 2005-08-28
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Flickers in a bone scriptorium. Friday, September 02, 2005. Panic over gas ebbed considerably yesterday, no lines at the gas station though the fuel's over three bucks a gallon. The scenes in New Orleans, especially at the Super Dome, reminding me of Robert Coover's novel. And then, around 3:30, shut off the tube, ditch the ice pack, and get to work. Carl Kerenyi on the nature of myth from his Prolegomena to. Essays on a Science of Mythology. Bollingen 22, transl. RFC Hull:. March of this year. In early ...
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Wick Lit: 2005-09-04
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Flickers in a bone scriptorium. Saturday, September 10, 2005. What orients a study of the past but our own? Are there thresholds where one way of thinking passes over into another, an interface where sine becomes wave, a shift of ages where the proportion of a small but waxing lucency then leaps over to an age characterized by waning darkness? It’s not that we were savage and then suddenly civilized, but there came an interim where we were too civilized to be truly savage again. He said, tapping his lapt...
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Wick Lit: 2005-08-14
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Flickers in a bone scriptorium. Saturday, August 20, 2005. I imagine these late August. Days like a shore where. The ocean keeps ebbing. Further back, leaving the. Tinfoil of wet sand to pale. Worldly - a road, perhaps -. Poured by the sky. Alone It's the spaciousness. Of it, pulled back like. Covers of a bed, revealing. Too much of us here. Without a clue what happens. Next How grateful we. Are when dusk shawls. Us back over in a darkling. Wave, providing if not. Comfort at least the. Pulling in our dri...
