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Poems

by Mat Austin Tarbox

THE PATIENCE OF A

WHISPER

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The Patience of a Whisper

Poems by Mat Austin Tarbox

Published in Hozomeen Press publications,

including Masons Stoup magazine, from 1990 to 1998.

front image: Two People/The Solitary Onesby Edvard Munch, 1895.

A TARBOX DESIGN 1998

a thanks to Richard Martin, Richard Freitas, and latenight port grooksters everywhere

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Rhabdomancy

one.

the loafers and dreamers

of smokelung antiquitybottlecan the damnationsand asunder the sacrosanct

visions of a portersville1

mystic (a teenage bacchanalwas how it was reported)

so praise be to the loafersand dreamersof a smokelung antiquity

and to the rimesters of a failed visionand to the beergoggled taste

of the tagalong

because divinity always requiresa little humiliationto keep it saintly, you know

two.

the recommendationsof past prophetsand the overearsof young men:

with atavistic accentswe dismantle the doorknobsand mutter the antique prayersof a new england,and neverthe Illinois2 of what is expected.

three.

the wallowingof a stumbled youthand the realizationof the thus decadence

awakens the temperanceof a drawback sobrietyand the divinationof things to come.

1. the name of a tranquil and historic seaport village at the west side of the Mystic River in Connecticut.2. a song by the Mystic, Connecticut musical group 17 Relics. The chorus line, words pass the time, exemplifies thetheme of the song, that our social conversations are often inane and diversionary.

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ceremony.

unnerved again:another mistake.

i have misplaced the vision

in bottom of bottle, andforgot even

where that is.all the bottles

look the samein this hour.

my room is all scatteredandthere is static on my radio,the stench of stale beer,

and the pale wreakof midnight guest's

smoking

when i am thisgoneshe is never hereto disbelieve meand she will not returnuntil morning.i hate for her to see methis way, anywayher eyeswould

drop.

i know that by sunrisei shall be tired andthe nausea

of me awake, overawarewill ache my skeleton,and thoughts oftragic,

everywherei will see only the stumblingsthe dropping of spoonsand lovers argue

shall the sun be overcastor brilliantand if so,for how long?if only my ceremonywas of songand not in uncorking,perhaps, perchancea joy here you'd find,foreverin motion transcendent.

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the sphere endless.

...is a feelingsaid she,

poetic or not. And who

anyway(...blooms the sweet rush of male candor

in sweetest equinox,filling sphere and flow of time,

hence burstedto tell each the madness of the golden eternity,

when womb spreads her fingertips, then...)

would thetender, of touch

touch?or is feelonly parenthetical

(an intrusion),only a coldest saccharine illusion?for love...

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Rhabdomancy (1991 remix edits)

i.

The river berth is wide as womb

when merriment spill forth the dream

In a basement trance of smokelungwhen bottle in hand and pen upon the wallwe sat and Sunwarmed3 in the television glow

- a nightlong of Thursday Afternoon4 -When with a portsong for abandonmentand an eyeless stare to the bottom

we reached for another.

We descended to the dark ciccone5 beatand found ourselves an abstraction,

a whirl of dj vu faces- in our end of night resurrectionand our starry eye revelation -

The Heartbeat Sun6

where in the coalesce of the dreamthe myth was freed from the doubt

and we each awoke from a deep slumber,this subterranean allegory.

On Friday morning we were late to awakeand found the mess of bottlecan upon his table,our own faces hung low in the mirror

and the soundtrack begun

in this dim hum of television static.

v.

shadows are cast from the tressle in a neon red glow as train passes,the single forelight a razor to cut the evening - with a beam ofindustrial incandescence/ the blow of amtrak horn and rush of trackfrom boston-providence distance is a long line of urban transit,crossing river at the spiderworks of the bridge as she turns and awaitsthe rattle/ i sit upon fort rachel granite perch with vouvray in handand am missing the reading at the inn but can hear the occasional clapor doorclosing/ i turn to ellis and suggestion, and confront the moon:a sickly pallor of interstate halogen, the glow of urban asphyxiation

like dirty flourescent subway tubes/i am reduced to telegraph sentences and single shotgun thoughts andremember how far these tracks go... and all the places where i have not

yet been/ the deathrattle of the train across bridge and the overwhelmof the stark machine blindbeam casts shadows across america and palesthe moon/ and my eyes are empty./i've gotta get out of this town, but i don't know where.

3. a song by the Mystic band 17 Relics, steeped in themes of lazy contentment.4. a song by the Mystic music project A Thursday Afternoon, focused upon unrequited love.5. a reference to the dark beats of the band Ciccone Youth, aka Sonic Youth.6. Richard Freitas book of poetry published by Hozomeen Press, This Sun. Centered about themes of transcendental

romanticism and distances between lovers, terra, and sol.

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her skeletal hips.

she who rests in trousersunfastened and narcoticwith her pallid fixture

upon a shelf,who has strewnand has shatteredher memories of desirein a broken necklaceupon the floor.

i once slipped beneathyour dusty shroudand held your hipsand whispered.i once felt a pulsein your bonesand we kissed it.i rememberthe lips that you pursedand your rosy-coloredfingertips.and i rememberhow we cameto the endtoo soon.there is blood in my memory.

the cerement has been laid

and the eyelidshave been closedand as i hold her leaden palma pause...for the blood shall flow no more.

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pepper.

princess of Siam,dearest ladyin vestiges of grey:

those mornings, the windowsill meltingand the gentle winter radiancefilteringdownthrough the bare limbsof a decemberfrost,

as you entered,the soft opening

of a door,and you wondered silentacross my floor.

you were here beside me,

and we slept on til noon.

it was christmas,when you spoke to me in the hallof Thai kingsand the revelryof princes in sweaty Bangkokand priests in village temples...

the windows rattledas you sat complacentin the patienceof the endless generations,

the patienceof an egyptian kneelthat you knew...

we saw deep into our eyes there,we talked deep into the night.

we saw beyond the glowof the aurora borealis,

and beyond thehozomeenand what was stiller,we saw.

and today,the earth will take you.today the earthwill take back what it has given.

i will stroke your templesfor the one last time,

and i will scratch your backand smile.

i shall hear your patience rumble.i shall hear your patience rumble.

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disappearer.

sweet desolation,you take my hand again from the victorian table setting,you stand me up and exit me out with your bottle, your grin.

we leave in a fluster of goodbyes.we are alone now, you and i,and what sweet victory,desolation.

it is another radioless evening out here on the pavementwhen out and north i have spent all my moneyon tankfuls of gasoline and a styrofoam cup.all i need is the interstate wind,a chance to be alone and taken.

it is this time of yearwhen the leaves have fallen to slick the asphalt surfaceand the trees have grown bare to admit the halogen glow.it is this time of nightwhen the october rain glistens in the turnand the rearview mirror is dark and empty.i have spent my money on gasoline, desolation.i have spent a lifetime in your avenuesand i am still awaitingthe perfect kiss.

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little spacey.

i am the exile, the dreamer,i am the ghost who blesses the slumber of your sleep.i am the autumnal draft which crosses your pillow in the night.

little spacey, i am the skeleton who sleeps in your closet,i am the turner of the doorknob in the dark.i drift beneath the celestial sphere, and i find you.

we meet there, behind the black of blotchy hole,when eden whispers her sweet mysteriesand the moon droops beneath the stars -we meet behind this balcony to heaven,

deep down inside this dream,deep down inside this mindour spirits dance,

and we are dazzled to love.

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oomingmak.

how to purl these candled vowels,how to cross this space between a mistaken footfall

and the forlorn dream of a bachelor in exile.

how and hence to dip softly into your smile,when this world is no longer watching

and we slip into your drug.

(i croon in the rainy nightand see the reflections of streetlight in the puddles)

how to lean to the inside,how to find myself second to none.

way (too simple)

let whatever may happenshape yr conceptionsand pray for the spirit

to form the connections

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here (for this moment on a planet)

here for thismoment, on a planetfor the answer

to the mindless joke,our endless hope,laughing.

shall we awakenour exaltant end,emptiest of silences.

we glimpse into the apocalypse,what is shattered and now.

it is all in between.

we are all justa moment on the planet.

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percept.

in those basements of smokelung stand the tests of timecollapsed beneath the spent text of unpapered memory,words spoken which somehow linger still these times,

archaic reminders of our mad fortitude and will to remain.mumbled dreams and precious visions from a darker day.

throughout the dustings and drownings of countless nightfall toilshangs our infinite patience to persist against the dreary agitationsof age of age of age

so easy to slip, to tie the noose of drug,and measure in tablespoons the daily tabloid fare.nothing is worse than this suck of modern manand his spiteful talk, when the dreams have slipped on by.got anything hopeful to say with that endless coffee cigarette?

thus some dangle, and some fall,tho blessed the veteran remainsto unite the flicker of our vast insistence,like tinder upon a beachgathered and struck to flame.

and damned you'll piss our fire,damned be they who cannot hope nor love -when lost to the dreams of aged faithlessness,come not to our beach to rot and whither,just cast down your lot as kindle.

towards the heavens, respitefor the dead of this townshall go well into the night -

our bonfires are risen,the pyres have been set,and there is no turning back,no way to extinguish what has been wrought

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calluna vulgaris.

threaded and lilac is this wondrous tapestryof life so sweet glad loved,she's woven gently throughout our scape

and tender to the touch.

she sways and shimmies in the vernal breezewith song and robin choir,the daylight paints her purplish huesand sets my heart afire.

to lie in her bed of lavenderand sing up to the sky,we'll watch the sun cross past azureas choral blossoms smile.

this flower of life is abundantand most beautiful to behold.this flower blooms a passionand me a happy soul.