October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Chandelier startles us with gold, gold as her long, new earrings. The chandelier splits light over the flowers, is a lamp of good and evil. Her hair is dancing over us across the street from 23 Emery under spun-glass and cottonball clouds. Next door, Triple-A Radiator Repair also offers sandblasting and will repair gas tanks. This is an oceanic Thursday, “buoyed on the dense marine,” and here we are, under the “Welcome, Open For Business” sign, where smiles are offered and fresh-squeezed orange juice is available, sunny day, lots of music and Syscoware stainless china presented clean.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
[b]The Moons That Glitter Against The Ageless Canticles[/b]
The moons that glitter against the ageless canticles crack our bones and thunder inside of us, echoing the sun. The engraved quiet has always been the bone of song to scholars asking themselves for their final thoughts of the day. The ashes that are shed out of the thunder, Mr. Hawkins, give common persons a fluorescent light on their beer palms in a white igloo where jets drop turtles on top of our blue reflections, drilling a way into our flaring core of planetarium bark. The wind is an igloo of fits. We must neighbor the stolen igloo’s paisley ammo.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
For we have touched terrible universal waterfalls that mist. We held the scorched or parched flowers that burned our name into old neighborhoods and sainthoods all evening all summer with honied moods at Speaking Mirror Lake knowing its minor key like Villa-Lobos or a Black Forest no longer very living. It is that we have sinned and are crying in the hostile wind of that hostile place we see yearly. But there are better memories, as when I formed true verses under the German portraits or wandering through the radish gardens at Cranbrook where gardeners still trowel around flagstones.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
My strawberry ancient watercolors drip under the black thunder, drip and bleed with the almonds, thorns and winesaps before the green daughters. Here is a Pard, ridden in these ancient watercolors while red wine flows from the harp with its bitter music of stoplight chemicals. Wherefore the peace flower of these poems, as young as art, blows with a witched, regal sound before the wild daughter deeply in her eye, like a hawk over a rouge storm of iridescent theory, those who whisper their dread of red Oxford whips. Observe the gemmed Pard painted there, coracle music of virgin almonds.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
She is spilling the gold dust of dreams into a night too dark. We’re wandering through a forest of stars, looking for her until night breaks. She has turned into music from a very old-fashioned love song. We are ready for the light in her. Her light spills gold breezes into Sunday kisses. She is spilling gold dust of dreams into a night too dark. She is not found crying, like a girl crying in a cherry orchard. Her hands touch casks of old, dark, rich red wine–rare, French and rose-colored, poured in sparkling star-spangled summers.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
All women have suffered the bitter dictations of Harvard poetry in this rain, and now they stand as dismembered webs. It is not just this rain, it is the rain set thinking by musicians. The rape of a dustpan against the wall. All women in their tiredness notice the loose electrical plate. The equality of thunderbirds. Sixty centuries of exploitation is the zucchini of logical astronomy all women have suffered, and all women have suffered the bitter dictations of Harvard poetry in this rain. The macho moon in bits of light. But girls will scratch your heart with grandmother’s citrus.
