THE DAMNED BLESS US WITH THEIR PRESENCE

featured in the poetry forum September 26, 2016  :: 0 comments

(on reading Muriel Rukeyser’s poem, Seventh Avenue)

After dark,
the damned bless us with their presence.

The city
opens up like the maw of the fire-breathing Chimera

&
they come forth

frozen freaks thawing in the sizzling night.

They come forth
fallen creatures of obscurity

&
roam freely through our streets, the dazzling dreamy

labyrinths
of New York City,

illuminating
our glittering avenues with their bestial darkness.

After
shedding the skin of invisibility,

they come forth & bless us with their presence.

Yet
we rush away from the damned

until
they dissolve & vanish in the shadows.

On sultry summer nights in the cauldron of the seething city,
I catch a glimpse of the damned in the corner of my left eye

&
in a furious flash, the pariah-beasts of New York force-feed me

apocalyptic news
of sin & suffering

in the city that shrieks the crimson blues

&
gazing into & through their bruised barren eyes,

wounded windows
of Hell-on-earth,

I
see the ominous everlasting wasteland they see

&
ineffable evil

slices
my thick swirl of boyish innocence

&
my everflowing river of faith

with
a chasm of doubt

&
a heavy shroud of anguish covers me crushes my spirit

&
I too vanish in the shadows until a beautiful alchemy transforms me

if it does
&
my trinity of-

knowledge pain & will

becomes
the light buried in the pitch-black abyss

if I accept the Holy 3

&
I grow into a transcendence

if I grow
&

this is the blessing bestowed by the damned
if I receive it

WHO ARE WE
but fugitives from the silent blessings & secret divinity of the damned?

WHO ARE WE
if we don’t face the evil we see?

WHO ARE WE
if we do not receive the blessings of the damned?

WHO ARE WE
if we don’t ask why?

editors note:

Without mirrors, what can we really see? (Read another of Mel’s missives on his page, a tribute to 9/11 and Marcy Border – check it out.) – mh clay

OUR DUST LADY OF 9/11

September 26, 2016  :: 0 comments

Our
Dust Lady of 9/11,

you
look out at us

&
we look in

until
we look away, perhaps,

but say,
we shall remember, shall not forget.

&
we live our lives, I imagine,

&
move on through discarded news/throw-away sorrow

&
buried in daily despair

we
cross Shakespeare’s tomorrow and tomorrow

&
creep & crawl through the chaos & cacophony of our days.

Such things I ponder.
Can’t really speak for us, I confess.
Our human ways are diverse,
though I believe we are one, linked by cosmic love-threads.

Our voices say,
we shall remember, shall nor forget.

Yet all I really know
is this-

in
the deep snow of my wounded love, I cover you – Dust Lady

with
my prayers bless & cover you then fall into the chasm of my private pain

only
to return to you from time to time

Last night,
I watched the crimson sun dissolve & the swirling darkness spiral into the deep silence

of
my divinity & at dawn, I witnessed the glorious star rise again resurrected in a swirl

of
gold & in the haunting hour of rebirth,

I
found you again – rediscovered you in an old pile of wounded worn dusty papers.

There you were – /captured inside/the iconic photo/

our
Dust Lady of 9/11

anointed
with a flood of unholy dust

covered
& caked in destiny & death

born
Marcy Borders

trapped
in a toxic downpour
&
transmogrified into a haunting horrific symbol

Marcy Borders
fleeing Hell rushing slowly through death-saturated streets

as
the south tower imploded plummeted

Marcy Borders
trapped in a vast terror-cage of dust

but now,
you are forever ordained by ferocious fate – forever our Dust Lady, perennial icon of 9/11,

now
deceased at 42
cause of death – stomach cancer

&
a 9/11 homicide victim?
a 9/11 homicide victim?
a 9/11 homicide victim?

Rest in peace, Dust Lady,

this is my memorial prayer

my holy poem

my sacred hymn for you.

Lie serenely inside these words.

Be Heaven-bound & free.

A BROOKLYN RENDEZVOUS WITH MYSELF AT LILY POND WHILE SITTING WITH THE BEAT POETS

featured in the poetry forum April 3, 2016  :: 0 comments

(on reading Gregory Corso’s poem – Hello)

And
I return to Lily Pond again

to
meet myself

inside
the oval mirror of my mind

&
say hello

once more
in

a sweet rendezvous
in

the sacred garden
of

&
say hello

&
say hello

by
the soothing waters

&
say hello

to
the familiar stranger

swirling
in

phantasmagoria
&

rushing slowly

in
the mirror of glittering reflections

at
the center of my chimerical omphalos

&
here

inside
the oval mirror

I
return to Lily Pond

&
sit with the Beat Poets

Corso, Kerouac, & Ginsberg,
phantom companions

of
my inner landscape,
a necessary illusion
within

the flowing opalescence
of

my brainwaves
&

suddenly,
the rebel-ghost Corso

rises
&

leaps toward Lily Pond
&

shrieks hello
&

his raw visionary voice
drills

a hole
in

my dream-mind
&

opens
it

to
metaphysical malaise

&
I say hello

inside
the echo chamber of my dreamscape

I
say hello hello hello

&
meet myself again

&
whisper in sweet susurrations –

Who am I?

&
shriek soundlessly –

Who am I?

inside
a dust devil

&
an unholy silence screams –

Who am I?

within
my swirling nowhere –

my everlasting existential question –

Who am I?
Who am I?
Who am I?

unending shadow of a shadow
of

my phantom
soul

that
follows me to Lily Pond

where
the rebel-ghost Corso

peers
at his fathomless fragile self,

a wounded deer,
&

reveals
his trauma his truth a bestial shattering

here
at Lily Pond

on
the Brooklyn College campus

circa
summer 1965

&
I gaze into the mirror of my mind

&
touch the broken glass of

the merciless shattering
of

the self

&
hear shards of my apocalyptic past

exploding
into my mutilated eyes

&
I mourn all I have lost all that is gone

all who have died
I mourn all the death I carry inside

&
I say hello hello hello

at
a Brooklyn rendezvous with myself

at
Lily Pond
while sitting with the Beat Poets
&

I say hello

editors note:

“I don’t know why you say goodbye, I say hello” – mh clay

Inside the House of Conundrums

featured in the poetry forum November 1, 2015  :: 0 comments

I
sit with my puzzles
in
a
womb chair

&
kiss my coconut-scented tome,
a chimerical book of mysticism

&
slow-moving
sweet phantasmagoria – the ethereal Book of Paradoxes,

&
I taste impossibilities
&

swallow a sea of hallucinatory colors falling from the Heavens,
bathed
in lapis lazuli, the deep cobalt blue of the divine that opens the 3rd Eye
&
heals

&
suddenly,

a diamond and pink topaz necklace
sashays
into
my sanctum sanctorum and swirls around me
&
multicolored butterflies follow and encircle me
&

within
the holy ring of whirling butterflies
&

dancing necklace,
I
sit with my puzzles

in
a
womb chair

in
my sacred room
inside
the House of Conundrums
&

watch
the holy flow of butterflies

in
pink and gold and rose, wine red and white

&
the other-worldly sensuous diamond and pink topaz necklace
dancing around my puzzled face
for
eternity

editors note:

From womb to questions, pretty questions, back to womb. (repeat…) – mh clay

THE HOUSE OF NON-EXISTENCE

featured in the poetry forum May 2, 2015  :: 0 comments

The house is.

An ancient house without a name,
do you know who lives there?

The house is not.

A chimerical vision in someone’s
mind, the old house is invisible.

Inside the stranger’s dream,
the house is,

without words,
beyond our world,

&
buried in the deep snow of his brain,

the house comes into being.

Outside,
the house is not.

Who lives there?

the labyrinth of the night whispers
into the shell of my secret haven,

where I hide from the sphere of sadness.

Not I, a voiceless voice ensconced in my
eerie emptiness shrieks,

not in the House of Non-Existence.

Only the dead live there,
I proclaim defiantly in my private wasteland,

a whirligig whirling around nowhere.

Yet perhaps, I protest too much, in my
Shakespearian monologue,

for I hear the howling coming forth from the

maw of the Chimera,
interminable ululations inside the ancient
mansion.

The House of Non-Existence is vast,
with room enough for the dead

&
other vanishing beings,

enough for a queue of sufferers spanning the

swirling universe,
&

for me too

editors note:

The house in this invisible vision is not – is. Crazy, Nowhere man! (This one is one-third of a trippin’ triptych. Read the other two to tweak your existence on Dr. Mel’s page – check’em out!) – mh clay

INSIDE THE OVAL MIRROR

May 2, 2015  :: 0 comments

Inside
the oval mirror,
the antediluvian man,

old
&
obsolete,

floats
&
swims

&
flows upstream
in

the River
of
Illusion

in
the Season of Despair
in

search
of
his real self

inside
the oval mirror

where
the water
is

foul
&
ferociously cold

like
the River Styx,
perhaps,

&
the miasma poisons
&

smothers
his shattered spirit
&

suddenly he
plummets
into

the deep
of
the dark ominous sea

destined
to
drown

&
die
an unforgiving death

in
the whirling waters
of

unreality
alone
&

bereft of his real self

but
in
a beautiful transverberation,

he lets go
&
pierces his false self

with
his heart’s yearning
&

a swirling vision
of
ecstasy

in
a
poignant moment of truth

swathed
in
silent shrieks

&
passion
&

love
&
he dies

&
is
reborn

inside
the oval mirror

editors note:

This poem inspired the story which inspired this poem – read its namesake in our Short Story Forum.

THE INVISIBLE MAN’S MOLTEN STATE OF UN-BEING: A JOURNEY TO THE CENTER OF NON-EXISTENCE

May 2, 2015  :: 0 comments

Invisible man
trapped
in
a molten state of un-being,

dissolving
&
melting

on
a
thanatognomonic journey
to
the center
of
non-existence,

who are you
&
why?

&
what is this terrible thing inside you?
My gold eyes
cut
through
your fortress,
a thick halo
of
fog,

&
capture
you,

my moribund creature,
in
your cage of swirling invisibility

&
molten state of un-being,

melting away,
dissolving

&
disintegrating.

&
now,
in
a
poignant moment of intimacy,

I
join
you
on
your perilous journey
to
the
center of non-existence.

Can I save you?
Shall I return from this voyage into the Void?

Shall we?

It’s time
to
enter
this eerie emptiness
&
discover.

It’s time.

Yet time
is
melting

&
so are we.

The Oval Mirror

January 20, 2015  :: 0 comments

On sultry August nights I often close my wet-baked eyes and see the old doc and his oval mirror in my mind’s eye. When I taste the sweat pouring down my olive face and inhale the sweltering heat, I remember how this eerie journey began. I met Dr. Jacob Lightman, the eminent psychiatrist and founder of Mirror Image Therapy more …

JANUS

featured in the poetry forum October 8, 2014  :: 0 comments

On a seething summer night, I sometimes look out my bedroom window and stare at the dark sky.

The emptiness, a void that swallows me, cuts me in half, and I face the swirling future that merges with the broken now, and with a slight turn of my head, I see the monstrous past that melted long ago in the unforgiving heat.

My skull, anointed with existential conundrums, swings back and forth like Poe’s pendulum above the ominous pit and soon, Janus appears, a phantom boy from far away.

“I remember you,” I mutter to the chimerical young man, a flimsy, diaphanous blur I barely recognize.

But I smell his sin, the foul, ferocious odor of boiled flesh, crushed bones, and gushing blood.

His ghostly voice is still soft and silky, and as sweet as Mother’s homemade apple pie with a swirl of whipped cream.

“Mother hasn’t come to see me,” he whispers interminably, oblivious of his angel dust saturated past and a cornucopia of overflowing psychosis.

His melodious voice is as velvety as the psithurism of the leaves.

He sits inside a cell in Bellevue and can’t recall how he hurled boiling water in Mother’s face, battered her head with a killer bat, and flung her out the window.

He waits for Mother in his eternal room of oblivion, while I hold the horrific memories, on a seething summer night like this, when I stare at the dark sky, and taste the toxic emptiness, and plummet into the void.

editors note:

An old end, this night’s beginning; no sleep for those who remember. – mh

The Boy Who Laughed Too Much

August 8, 2014  :: 0 comments

No one really knew him. He was just a 20-year-old kid who sat in a corner and didn’t speak; another mental case and a mute. When he arrived, one of the psychiatric aides introduced him to me. I said hello and forgot about him immediately. Then the rumors spread. I heard three of them. First, the boy swallowed a bottle …