From the sciolist

Fool Afternoons

sciowithbrio — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 06:48:45 +0000

He courts silence as a fallen brother
toying with succor, hiding gewgaws
behind his back;
a long-lost little one capsizing to nature
lodestone biting into earth.
From the nether, soulless eyes
stare down
Gods of mute glamor
who
weakened for a moment
had looked upon the Fool with favor.
The absent mermaid-

her stomach turns at the smell of love.

feet wake spirals of dust that turn loose

errant butterflies in the unguent universe

she looks after-
sews sinew and sea and stars
wave upon wave leading no outbursts
no peace of becoming, no smiles winning
peace for the Fool.

Feints

sciowithbrio — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 08:59:23 +0000

There is carping forever and one in this
my heart of hearts. As if
the honing of uplifted taboo
would leave no stone unturned
break open black beak of despair
and quickly, poisonously
moved to silence by an abhorrent speck
in digression,
blast the red tongue with pepper
and ice.

I ambush her, middle of night
my long-legged Bellona.
Her voice sounds tired
at the other end of the line.
Now who else to tell her
stories, tell her who cares.

A few half-hearted poems

sciowithbrio — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 11:30:18 +0000

Rabbit

Shyness is shyness remembered with a grin
with half a shrug
before hate devours shyness
middle of the night.
Prometheus from long-gone tipple
with black wings, growing pains
(skull blasted with invidious fancy)
snuffs the sallow cheeks, wilting skin of his son.
Bleakness is bleakness called back.
Snacking is an experience remembered;
bastard litter of desire
curling up like whiskers
before the fire.

Kingdom Come

Eyeless has his own sorrows
Bowed in front of the glib mirror
it is observed.
Laughter cramped with sand
blade balanced on flat head
intestines overturned.
When the wan uprising
when the bile from closeness faucet
lives and breathes on the mirror-
Eyeless describes himself.

The Hungry Ghosts Realm

The world remembers me
much later.
Little joy
pitting hungry ghosts
against each other
dead of night.
Little joy waiting on
the passing of darkness into
darkness made light of;
burnt hand
dipped in earth
chiding Lazarus.

Padmasana

I cycle slowly
to where the sand
raises storms
and chides dead flies.

The day takes me gently
in it’s mouth;
paddles into the water.
Dives.

Tempest

sciowithbrio — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 13:28:02 +0000

“I boarded the king’s ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flamed amazement: sometime I’ld divide,
And burn in many places; on the topmast, “

-The Tempest

The Fool is a creature of cold comfort, rough edges
racing with great loneliness.
That madness, thriving on cures
flowering proudly on the ocean floor,
weighs him, buoys him, drives him away.
Rainbows caught in wood,
the wick and the flame
feast and famish
give up playing for good.
And so the Fool burns while his love
sidles closer to the Saint’s fire.

The litany of the mermaid

sciowithbrio — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 13:01:05 +0000

The Fool’s speech is strangely slurred, soil with water.
Had this mermaid a heart once, an eye for devotion
she has paid the mage his dues, he concludes.
Knees drawn up, rocked by the turtle days
never seeing eye to eye
bleary, falling in and out of favors in the far sky
at night,
the Fool dreams.

Beelzebub, bearded with comets, brings
the heartless and the disheartened, together,
making merry one at the expense of the other.
So like death itself, envious of what it misses, he spins
his own web of nakedness.
Heed him, learn and desire
O my friend.
So the mermaid says.

Purchase

sciowithbrio — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 15:16:55 +0000

Her name was a rhyme that played
on a mind struck by an ill-wind
jangled letting it be known
that the eyeless expect no more sleep
if only spend happy afternoons
reek of unwashed rain on their necks
let hands fall through sand, roots, follicles.
Her hair flies against my face
the lines around her beauty-mouth
made as if impatiently pulling out
the unruly tangle
though
if truth be told,
violence once impatiently sprawled her
that was before my time.

The Fool eagerly greets the warm sun.
You that draw a line and smile back
and are dried so that
the scales
finally fall from your eyes,
swim back into the water
till the time is ripe and the waters
again lose their Apollonian tint
and the Fool drifts and wanders-
Charon’s coin
depressing tongue and thought.

I had flipped through my old books
thinking I had forgotten their say.
In matters between heaven and earth
the flesh rises slowly like good froth
and the blood runs scared between the legs.
The taste of fruit, the smell of fruit,
ah sour fruit; my eyes glaze over.
Charon ponders his next move.
Hands in his pockets
dry bones rattling in the space beneath the stars.

Mermaid

sciowithbrio — Mon, 26 May 2008 13:47:56 +0000

The Fool observes his sail bent windward

bark of his soul, magnet-brain, essence

blown off from skull and judgement

played dread against end, awful

sorrow upended.

The sea presents a livid face; over the side

a humorous mermaid, three-parts sorrow

of a Fool she searches nevertheless.

Blackened and stiffened, oarless and witless

stars climb up in hordes

wherever water and wherever shore

might interfere there is blindness

till the Fool can countenance

vanity’s direction and gathering the

mermaid in his arms

pass the night quietly.

Ouroboros

sciowithbrio — Mon, 26 May 2008 13:36:53 +0000

Let the Fool some distance make

good his escape into the yawn

of better days or for want

of yarn to shed

of tail to bite

reconcile spite with fiery longing

for a clean break

a broken season long in the coming

a wink of frost between

skin and soil between skin and bone.

Anteros

sciowithbrio — Mon, 26 May 2008 13:32:41 +0000

Here the Fool stands knee-deep; his heart a collapsing quiver.

The sun changes color, sends a message of fear

pull out and see how deep Cupid’s arrows went.

The Fool, on his own remember, for all he can gather

fond words from a beauty-mouth, how little they meant.

Pearls erupt from his skin, the Fool a silver foundling

wave against wave plumbing depths, lungs aching.

The Fool’s clay subdued, there is room enough for sleep

within the natural moat that old stones keep

high on fever, high on hopes, tossed around forever

in the water withal ailing; for the Fool’s heart is slowing

to a wave dripping in closeness faucet and a home

away from home invites the foundling so he might

play in the heart of matters that lend no ears

but gift with silence his ungainly affairs.

The One-Eyed Man

sciowithbrio — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 10:37:07 +0000

A Fool returns

Out of breath the Fool reaches the mountain.

There a continuous breeze ruffles the copious feathers

on the Fool’s head.

His skin falls like snow on the harsh ground.

It is one of the nether months

Camouflaged right and left

Nooks secure saints and candles.

The fire by which the Fool retires

Leaves a redder glow than the sunset

On his cheeks.

He wakes stiff with anger and distaste

his mouth foul with the obsolete swearing

he greets his pains and bitterness with.

Awake

Tipping his hat to the glowering fire in the sky-

it is late morning; in the sands memory is short-

an old man prepares his grub; crow flesh under

soon-burning land. The silent ones have grown

unbecoming, pity Ashtoreth, the Fool groans

with fire in his belly.

Gladness

“I am aging now I know;
That was many years ago,
Yet or I shall rest below
In the grave where none intrude”

-EASTER EVE by Archibald Lampman (1861-99)

“Now this garden was named the Garden of Gladness and therein stood a belvedere hight the Palace of Pleasure.”

-Arabian Nights

Blind in the wake of light, the Fool hurtles

through the land, a rosary of footprints

in the hands of the blind lady of the desert.

The years with their peculiar flavors

waft by him. In a long garden of gladness

he spends his nights where

none might intrude.

The Fool’s Way

It seems not long- a moment’s search
the sands sift again under weary feet.
The long night had brought the seeds-

a different day, another sun
another moon, a longing earth.
His cloth reaching the sand; his hand
clapped to the mouth
tasting the grapes of a land without.

The Fool and the Fishes

Far away two towers.

The Fool shuffles to the fire;

on his wicked brow dances

the ghost of cleaved wood.

Should he look up; stand and deep sigh

the Great Fishes in waters beyond.

The Fool on Yuletide

Yuletide

As good a time as any to make amends

The Fool draws his own blood

forked wood; it speaks

while it snivels in his ears.

From my innermost prejudices, I call you

on my loneliest night I call you

at my meanest I seek you

revel with me my own blood.

Don’t be huddled in a corner

like a demon wassailing torn-heart

pleading for gifts freely given.

Echo

“This said, the weeping youth again return’d
To the clear fountain, where again he burn’d; ”

-Metamorphoses By Ovid

The Fool approaches the man in water with caution.

Frog in the depth of wellness, his sunken eyes

flutter on the Fool’s own. It had been a long day.

The Fool’s sloping shoulders borne the weight

of the world; dying of thirst reached a fountain.

Called out for a hand to pour water where he lay

so his hand may reach the sun; plaything of the living.

“Steady” screams the Fool.

In the back of his mind bringing flint and flint together.

The world burning under the morning sun.

Awake.

Salamander

In the distance of listening

fuelled by the powerful motor of gratitude

the Fool makes good his getaway.

Here he is. He wants to leave.

I will not let him go.

Always on my palm he will wade

till his skin turns salamander waters

inwards to me.

The maiden

High on the towers a face turns to me
Riding on sunlight so many illusions
reach my eyes. Each one waits for the others.
Water dribbles making amends with
puffed tissue.
Unbidden my fancies towards her.
The stream water sparkles and hesitant shows me

and allows me dissolve in happiness.

Light

Eyes in darkness; the Fool knows his way though

through his pickings of the midwife’s brain;

a chart that slips past subtle fingers.

Land into brine. Ahoy! the wave that

explodes; sun on sun; silver foundlings

occupy heaven and earth.

The Fool torn apart; darkness made light.

To the tower

The sun emerges; the Fool rides

a snake of footprints;

cool desert floor that will hurt in a while

to each a grain of pain

the carrion Thought who resides where

she wishes-

each

each burning and burnt; her cool hand

reaches for.

The Fool madder than before.

Oasis

The Fool wakes in the shade; cool evening

sleep and thirst still sing to him; thoughts

buzz and drone. The Fool shaking his head

free of sand. Ripe water of the oasis; the cricket

singing alone.

Tower Birds

Trail of one dry heart, the desert spews

a Fool with longing burnt into him.

Birds circle carefully the fastness, beaks clamped tight

not a man in sight but the fiery Fool.

“Why in dead flesh the love of carrion resides?”

The Fool, softly to himself.

Madness had flown close by in the sand;

it had now a tower built around itself

At the Tower

Dusk without a timely murmur of protest.

The Tower stands gloomy and real

owing to fantastic heights

the Fool scales with wonder.

Or is it not he who stands there

on the rocky shore

and feels the dampness cling to him,

but the worm of the apple of his eye

descending into hints and storms

where his words are last whispered

to his own ears.

Survival

By his feet snails live and die one night

the water leaves him as soon as his touch

glorifies one night; one night fire burns

in the Tower inviting the hostage of warmth.

The Fool needs a magic word; he needs the residents

with their welcoming smiles; one face popping out

from the window above; a few more ushering

him in; arms and legs attached pell-mell

convincingly.

Carelessly the Fool meditates-

“How black her heart is
from her smiling lips her words bring unease.
Rapunzel I bring you fruits of a desert long-hidden
now she has come out of her veil
see her remove its veil
see her remove the veil
of her smile
more than you Rapunzel
you fade
you fade dear
her smile is my mask of death.”

Dry as husk the Fool is.

The Tower is a cool shade in the morning.

Mournfully the Fool walks away.

Confession to the One-Eyed Man

“And that prince who bases his power entirely on…words, finding himself completely without other preparations, comes to ruin;”

— Niccolo Machiavelli

In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.”

– Desiderius Erasmus

“A long way I have come
a long way less
a bag of odds and ends.”
The Fool confides in the one-eyed man
he has met on the Way.

Far be it for the Fool to venerate
this godsend, for times have
jilted him and honor escaped.
The Fool respects nothing but the dead
and obscurity beyond the grave. He says,

“Some friends yes some friends
diluted this wine shared this endless
my black move my white move
a line written a line understood.
Succubus still does visit
endless Succubus the years of pleasure
endless Succubus your birthing lips.

For the eyeless win from each possible view
even when unbeknownst to them
black night thunder comes

a hundred years of toil suddenly virile.

In the seed sleep is becoming

my fingers into a foetus-ball
the salt of anemone stings my eyes, water on water
on the free water
I see my face cowering beyond repair.”

The Fool’s end

The one-eyed man spits noisily on the swollen ground.

Nine humors, nine scarecrows

spring up against the darkness

flowering beneath the Fool’s skin.

They tear him apart, examine the feeder of carrion ages past

old enemy, unsavory sinner.

The Fool is a shade the Fool follows.

The Fool to be born to a womb, helpless.

Homecoming

The water is ailing; old stones arranged
rearranged at the long mouth of the sea.
The days stretch-
crocodiles blue with disease and longing
glazed eyes seeing and unseeing
the unseemly passage.
Water holds my ankle.
“Stay a while”.
I flutter at the beginning of
a thousand stories
look for a place somewhere
in between.
One crouches in the pages of an epic
one smothered in a baby’s cries
one foot follows another
unwary as the crow flies.