Marty Matz PIPE DREAM #1
(FOR HERBERT HUNCKE)THERE ARE SACRIFICIAL WHISPERS
TO THE NORTH
BEYOND THE RIVER PING
WHERE ELEPHANT DREAMS
DRESS IN YELLOW LEAVES
AND ANCIENT SPIRITS
WING DOWN THE BARREL OF MY PIPE
THE HILLS ARE DRENCHED
WITH POPPY BLOOD
AND A RED MOON
DROWNS
AT THE EDGE OF MY MOLTEN EYE
THIS IS THE LAND
OF THE RECLINING BUDDHA
THE LITTLE WHEEL
THE WATER BUFFALO'S LAST DANCE
THIS IS THE PLACE
OF GREEN LEGENDS
OF SILK AND TEAK
WHERE INCENSE MINGLES
WITH A COBRA'S BREATH
AND IN THESE HILLS ALONE
THE CHEF
WITH HIS LAMP
IS KING
WHEN BLUES AND HEARTACHES PROSPER
(FOR GEORGE SCRIVANI)LATE NIGHT CITY FACES GLOW
WITH UNREAL NEON COLORS
CARTOONS FROM A MADHOUSE
ON THE CUTTING EDGE
SHADOW TORSOS MOVE ON FEET
GLUED TO TREADMILLS
GOING NOWHERE
TIP TAP CLICK
BOOT SOLES ON THE PAVEMENT
THE URBAN RHYTHM SECTION
KEEPING TIME
FOR DERANGED SOLOS
THAT SHUFFLE DOWN THE ENDLESS STREETS
AND ANIMATE
THE HOURS AFTER MIDNIGHT
WHEN BLUES AND HEARTACHES PROSPER
WHEN AVENUES AND ALLEYWAYS
ARE BRUISED BY LIES
AND MUTTERED OATHS
AND THE ONLY THINGS UP FOR SALE
ARE MEASURED BY THE SPOONFUL
OUR WORLD HAS SHRUNK MY FRIENDS
BECOME HOMOGENIZED
A TRANSITORY WAREHOUSE
WHERE POETRY ALONE
CAN TELL THE TRUTH
BUT ALL WE HEAR
ON EVERY SIDE
IS GROANING KITCHENETTED SOULS
AND INCOHERENT BABBLEWHERE THE JADE TREE SINGS
(FOR AL AND HELAINE GORDON)NEAR THE TEMPLE ON HIGH
WHERE THE JADE TREE SINGS
AND THE FLOWERING QUETZAL SPREADS ITS ROOTS
STANDS A GRAVEYARD OF TOBACCO STAINED WHISPERS
AND RUPTURED DREAMS
WHERE MORIBUND CLOCKS
DECOMPOSE
AS ECSTATIC EPIPHANIES
DANCE
ABOVE VISIONS OF DAWN
TO THE TANGO OF YEARS
WHOSE LUMINOUS CHORDS
RESOUND THROUGH OBSIDIAN MIRRORS
THAT OBSCURE
NOT REFLECT
THE THEN
THAT IS NOW
WHEN THE MOVEMENT STOPS
TIME BECOMES SPACE
ROCKS AND CRYSTALS SPEAK THE LANGUAGE OF ART
AND LIFE UNFOLDS
UNDER A SHADOW OF STRANGLED ECLIPSES
AND MUMMIFIED STARS
BENEATH THE DEEPEST UMBRA
CAST BY DEATH'S UNCHARTERED GEOMETRY
LIES THE WOMB
WHERE MAGIC IS BORN
AND THE WINDS SILVER BONES
EMERGE
TO CARRY THE RINGING VIBRATIONS
THAT ANNOUNCE
TO THE GALAXY'S END
A NEW GENESIS
OF COSMIC ILLUSIONSA FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON MY WAY TO ENLIGHTENMENT I HAVE LOST MY SHADOW
IN A FIELD OF IMPROVISED WHISPERS
FORGOTTEN MY NAME
IN THE FRAGRANCE OF POPPIES
WHERE ORNAMENTAL SKULLS
ERRATICALLY ORBIT
LUMINOUS GARDENS
OF FUGITIVE CLOCKS TICKING UMBER BLOSSOMS
THROUGH SECRET WINTERS THAT BITE
THERE ARE UNSCHEDULED CHIMES ABOVE
A MEADOW WHERE MALIGNANT TOADSTOOLS HIDE
AMONG THE FALSE ECHOES OF ANCIENT INVOCATIONS
AND DISTORTED REFLECTIONS
FROM A RIVER STAINED BY TIME
I HAVE MARCHED DOWN STREETS
OF EMBALMED MOONLIGHT
HOWLING LIKE A MAD DOG
SEEKING SOME BONE OF TRUTH
SOME FINAL CURTAIN
SOME ULTIMATE DESTINATION
FREE FROM THE SYNTHETIC OCTAVE OF DREAMS
AND I HAVE UNRAVELED THE KNITTED MASK OF YEARS
SEARCHING FOR A WAY
TO RETURN TO MY GREEN DRENCHED CHILDHOOD
YET ONLY CAUGHT OCCASIONAL GLIMPSES
OF A PAST GILDED BY
IMAGINATION
IN A FOREST OF ELUSIVE TREES
THE CALENDAR HAS DEVOURED THE DECADES
TURNED BY BEARD SILVER
IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE
AS I PASSED MY LIFE SHOOTING CRAPS WITH DESTINY
IN THE PURSUIT OF WORTHLESS THINGS
YET I HAVE NEVER HESITATED
TO THROW AWAY MY WALLET
TO MAKE ROOM IN MY POCKETS FOR POEMS OR RAINBOWS
WHICH I CARRIED
TILL THE RAINBOWS TURNED
TO TATTERED COLORS
AND THE POEMS
BECAME JUST DUSTI HAVE OPENED A WOUND ON THE SUN
(FOR HOWARD HART)I HAVE OPENED A WOUND ON THE SUN
AND MY DAYS ARE FILLED WITH POLITE HANDSHAKES
DRY SMILES AND STOPLIGHTS
I AM NO LONGER DAZZLED BY THE DEW
AND THE RAINBOW HOLDS NO SURPRISES
YESTERDAY'S PIRATES HAVE FLED ON THE WIND
AND I HAVE FORGOTTEN HOW TO SPEAK
WITH THE SPOKEN GIRAFFE
WHO INHABITS THE UPPER REACHES
OF MY DREAMS
THE CLOCK OF MY LOVE
IS IMPOSSIBLE TO WIND
YET STILL KEEPS BITTER TIME
FOR THINGS THAT NO LONGER MATTER
THE ROACHES IN MY ROOM
REFUSE TO RECOGNIZE
THE KINDNESS OF MY CRUMBS
AND THE UNFORGIVING STONES OF MY GARDEN
DON'T KNOW ME ANYMORE
IF I COULD
I WOULD LOSE MYSELF ON THE FAR SHORES
OF SOME UNCLAWED RIVER
FOR I AM DECOMPOSING IN A SUIT OF BLACK SATIN
AND I HAVE OPENED A WOUND ON THE SUN
I HAVE FORGOTTEN HOW TO SPEAK WITH THE BROKEN GIRAFFE© by Marty Matz Click here for more about Marty Matz' Pipe Dreams. The abstracts on this page are © by Jonathan Kane.
