October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
There is density in my need to express. I wonder how long this will be true, how long it will be before the words might cool down. I wonder if I will see them cool down. I wonder if my eyes will see a panorama before me every day. I would sit with those who have given up everything for their word-jewelry, their word-sunlight. I should write more about the sounds of empire, but we fear empire if we want a human world. We don’t want the chords to break off. A drenching afternoon rain improves the weather.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Cassandra, say what you mean in this cool afternoon, say what you choose, sing the song in every detail until it detonates in the hearer like a hundred angry roses onstage with a lightning unforgettable–we shall listen as though you were singing from the unreal. Such violet achievements resemble words from the Cherokee tongue. I am alone now with the Cherokee word for “tears.” Moisture is invitation to experience the highest love. The heart must be moist if we are to make our researches among tints and clutch the universe to our core. Our future shall be fusion’s power.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Cassandra, say what you mean when those hypnotic ideas come to you. Bring them to life–capture them for the natural world like the paintings on glass that we preserve. Your ideas are the fresh spring water gathered at its source in the forest, a place where I have been. We shall travel there, wandering through the underbrush, for we know it is there. We are there in reality, we are there in the imagination. Morning is best for water-gathering, before the delicate heat comes to root in the electronic petals of afternoon. Music is water from the deep.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Mirth in her eyes in the morning. Her eyes are etched and glittering by the door white-hot from fresh sunlight. Breathe easily, say what you mean. The years are dry leaves now. Summer dust touches the chamber. She found a coin engraved with sheaves of wheat. The oldest shadows hide under the newest. Dark cherries are the design on her personal correspondence, and now she must write a letter. All of her letters are self-portraits, but she has a passion to break through to her reader. She is otherwise imprisoned. Corresponding with a musician, she can be sonorous.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
A tarnished refrigerator–if I close my eyes I can see it again and move about from room to room. It was a family heritage, with a timepiece that chimed all over everyone. There was a sundial there, where the family played checkers and would drink in the lilac. The destination of the young was to be music and the unreal. Conversation resembled the universal stirrings we sought words for. Only the night sky was a solid, the fixed stars like syllables feeding the imagination. When Rebecca arrived, we spent an hour with her, having apples and chocolate that year.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Chords in the blood–listen to their answer at the door to all human beings. The entrance to our nerves breaks with our andiron-black rainstorms. Each bone finds a cauldron to dance in. Each light, each mistress near my face, Polaris in the syllable, voltage in the remembering, giver of passionate breath. I cannot see a Job in the sun. Vanilla moods pass by in a parade–it was a wild self-education. You with solid-colored hair, you, Joseph, deserve the oxidizing thread of goodnights which are four-fifths flame, having several souls storming deep inside of you.
