faith_in_a_starry_night
lycanthrope The night swirls,
stars emanate, and hang
in hard histories poses,
as if off of strings,
a panorama-
and a thick wooden squirming
to become darkness-
quits at the stars,
is the first steeple-
as the second...smooth finessed
deep blue like the sky,
reconciles the garish embrace
of thorns,
and the near and far lights,
reflected, dying, shot
blindly off away,
creating dark blue chasms
and pale yellow legions, lesions,
rendering the sky and marking
a small collection of houses
and people creaking in their dreams
as a village.

Each light is more than it was
for the darkness,
each sound echoes infinitely
for the silence.
Many houses are closed under
the stars,
under a boiling moon
which is not still
but froths and tumults
and then stays intensely-
it is the houses which are still.
even those with lights left on-
this house, that house,
a late dinner, a family talks
of where they stand;
a son eats his meal in silence,
another family drinks wine
and laughs;
a girl looks concertedly
inconspiciously away
from the laughter from time to time,
with a besieged smile,
to a house that can only be
around
the corner.
The sky with its stars all in order
compassionately
give the thick cloudy appearance
of narrative
the answer to prayers-
Two lovers
seated
under stars and steeple
are receptacles of a clinched
balmy night and its cool
floating wind.
They exchange
a familiar
now heightened knowing
invitation-
she whispers, smiling sadly-
"it wounds my heart
with monotonous langour"
and he closes his eyes
sublimely and his senses
return alive to everything.
There is mourning at the fringes
of other hills.
And in the house farthest
from the steeple,
a decidedly young man dances
with his daughter
to an old
song he sings-
repeating over and over airily
the one word she knows,
requests to have sung again
and again,
sings to herself,
clings to,
when she is awake.
But she is sleeping now,
he is careful not to wake her,
not to wake the entire village.
And he is weeping and spinning,
spinning less and less,
her head on his shoulder,
his hand on her hair.
And he must go to war soon.
His wife walks in,
and he is slowly embarassed.
She has never seen him cry,
and never will again.

The sky rolls over in a swell
and cloisters and encloses them,
erasing mountains and families
far away.
And then a moment of respite
and finally stillness,
in the moon.
The scene is not provincial France-
it is a meager village in Vietnam
in the late sixties.
Van Gogh didn't know that.
It didn't matter.
The music played, and he painted,
just as the stars shone.
020912
...
stork daddy this painting is far too popular. 020912
...
jane the_wind_blew_the_stars_away 021006
...
falling_alone lost in chaos
brightly shining
040303
...
brain stew you have taken away the
already tremulous scaffolding
that held our future together. and
yet my eyelashes flutter shut under your
cheek. there are stars above the volleyball flying across the net, from
under the treeleaves i can see
stars. this is goodbye and yet-
your arm is around my shoulder, your
warmth warms me, your chest rises with mine. and they
say this is life.
040304
...
p2 i remain
faithless
and
starless
040304
what's it to you?
who go
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