A barn-boy ate metropolis,
(who told s. francis who then told me)
his stool and hog feed handiwork
by the enterprising gypsy drivers, by the Blue Note
by the mud channel
at the foot of the pump;
staunch, stalk-certain.
Central web transmissions
hummed across a thin bare wire
on this holiest of Fridays-
(an elk-horn trumpet by a silver river
filled to brimming with
water.)
Tight, grey-green eyes
crushed under in the roll
of several astonishing yet unfair Obligations,
and these with which he saw into the seams
- of pre-dawn grain gate hinges
- of a railway station newsstand
papered in his rare, exclusive story:
(these he observed both blind and not hearing.)
also where two inadequate petitions have been nailed
(and suitably endorsed)
onto a leaning fence-post overnight
in a yawning field on the brisk side of Calvary hill.
Neither with the will or strength
to raise defenses from
the slightest pinch of what a barn-boy dreams,
of red delicious
coarse pine cross-walk wheels and baskets,
of bicycles and amulets
(that shimmer in the first appearance of daylight,
just before the milk truck breaks this spell),
and shivering fern and tall grass cutting
air.
Barn-boy and quite certainly Crow
came home delicious
from his nap.
Scared into the house
by a firm shrill caw and cloud formations.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
july
Like plain marigolds-
like mussel beds, flat brackish:
it is an Hol-i-day
for the privilege
to be sitting, resting,
. . rising.
Two roads down
under shade trees
were dogs.
sleep, summer breezes,
sleep . . .
Sleep like the Catskills
slim gelatin cats;
sleep dogs
in the shade on the lawn
by the roadside;
it is a holiday.
Buy yourself enough time
let the history of air
pass through the gate;
sleep a quarter past,
stir
enough to celebrate.
in July
the clouds sneak behind
fat hickory, the sumac
to wash you hair.
And the grass grows.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
like mussel beds, flat brackish:
it is an Hol-i-day
for the privilege
to be sitting, resting,
. . rising.
Two roads down
under shade trees
were dogs.
sleep, summer breezes,
sleep . . .
Sleep like the Catskills
slim gelatin cats;
sleep dogs
in the shade on the lawn
by the roadside;
it is a holiday.
Buy yourself enough time
let the history of air
pass through the gate;
sleep a quarter past,
stir
enough to celebrate.
in July
the clouds sneak behind
fat hickory, the sumac
to wash you hair.
And the grass grows.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
nj postcard
Get in your car and drive sometime up north
and i will meet you with espresso at the molly pitcher toilet-stall and grill
on jersey's 95;
we'll talk . . . . i'll look you eye to eye....
you’ll hear of my fascination with a compound lens;
and i will learn from you
to shoot like Hendrix with my telescope
hanging from a simple string across my back.
from here the puzzle pieces nest like waves
filling pockets in the sand like fingers in a leather glove;
stolen from the eye, like acrobats above the blind astronomer
a moon slides silently across the sun.
I’ll leave unfinished toast and crumbs inside my plate
our conversation half begun;
you again to Florida, me the North Shore Sound
never quite sure by speaking if we dug or filled
or just moved
a hole
© Jeff Thomas 2009
and i will meet you with espresso at the molly pitcher toilet-stall and grill
on jersey's 95;
we'll talk . . . . i'll look you eye to eye....
you’ll hear of my fascination with a compound lens;
and i will learn from you
to shoot like Hendrix with my telescope
hanging from a simple string across my back.
from here the puzzle pieces nest like waves
filling pockets in the sand like fingers in a leather glove;
stolen from the eye, like acrobats above the blind astronomer
a moon slides silently across the sun.
I’ll leave unfinished toast and crumbs inside my plate
our conversation half begun;
you again to Florida, me the North Shore Sound
never quite sure by speaking if we dug or filled
or just moved
a hole
© Jeff Thomas 2009
for bailey
At a time when sound no longer sizzled through the air . .
no smells. . .
when all things swung to the rhythm of shovels, carving holes in the ocean for a dog i once loved;
who slid weightless down inside . . . and for me,
her infinite yellow eyes in only five years passing to forget
how tight the water closed around the sunlight pressing to get thru . . .
in here was a stillness I will never comprehend
without a drink.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
no smells. . .
when all things swung to the rhythm of shovels, carving holes in the ocean for a dog i once loved;
who slid weightless down inside . . . and for me,
her infinite yellow eyes in only five years passing to forget
how tight the water closed around the sunlight pressing to get thru . . .
in here was a stillness I will never comprehend
without a drink.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
a clown
After the face was removed and stretched tight over the cast,
with the eye holes lined up over the finger holes, the nose cut back,
trimmed to a perfect flap
and stitched meticulously with #10 monofiliment,
a hybiscus, dripping with bees stuffed into the mouth;
the bright red swath of glistening muscle staring back,
pulled into a shape where fear and pain replace the peaceful countenance of an unsuspecting individual,
only hours earlier the slave to a 12 inch skillet
and a bustling kitchen of hungry mouthes;
Observed the shadow of a thin white plastic shell
decend into its place,
covering the fiberous tissue with such love
as requires the most exacting attention to detail;
The two holes lined up perfectly over the moist eyes.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
with the eye holes lined up over the finger holes, the nose cut back,
trimmed to a perfect flap
and stitched meticulously with #10 monofiliment,
a hybiscus, dripping with bees stuffed into the mouth;
the bright red swath of glistening muscle staring back,
pulled into a shape where fear and pain replace the peaceful countenance of an unsuspecting individual,
only hours earlier the slave to a 12 inch skillet
and a bustling kitchen of hungry mouthes;
Observed the shadow of a thin white plastic shell
decend into its place,
covering the fiberous tissue with such love
as requires the most exacting attention to detail;
The two holes lined up perfectly over the moist eyes.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
zeno and jay bird
Zeno of Miletus told Jay bird that the only chance to reclaim his shadow was to cross an infinite number of halved distances in a finite period of time.
Jay bird, fresh from all night gaming at CockRobin's
wagered Zeno his Reflection for a chance to throw a shadow once more.
"I'll place your ring inside this vase and wear your velvet shade as a token;
a reminder of how pride is undone by calculation”, saith Zeno
who strode home with JayBird’s Reflection in a sack across his arm, Shade across his broad shoulders.
JayBird beat his arms against the clay and swore that he could prove he was the victim here,
yet skulked away from public view.
“A longer beak and I could trick infinity” he said.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
Jay bird, fresh from all night gaming at CockRobin's
wagered Zeno his Reflection for a chance to throw a shadow once more.
"I'll place your ring inside this vase and wear your velvet shade as a token;
a reminder of how pride is undone by calculation”, saith Zeno
who strode home with JayBird’s Reflection in a sack across his arm, Shade across his broad shoulders.
JayBird beat his arms against the clay and swore that he could prove he was the victim here,
yet skulked away from public view.
“A longer beak and I could trick infinity” he said.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
the ass
Without a point of focus, images that move from reminders of a wasted chance to dominate a sense of impotence into action are secure.
I tossed one afternoon inside the curl of a wave
crossed through with sun;
it was the intersection of her business and my ignorance.
The allegory lives inside these formless planes
of an ass who struck his mistress for a lark
discovering a catechism wherein all but the very least
of artificial reason ebbs.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
I tossed one afternoon inside the curl of a wave
crossed through with sun;
it was the intersection of her business and my ignorance.
The allegory lives inside these formless planes
of an ass who struck his mistress for a lark
discovering a catechism wherein all but the very least
of artificial reason ebbs.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
photo muse
Blue smoke hissed in ribbons off a branded steer;
two glasses and a bottle
sentry on the tablecloth;
a portrait pulled from silver halide pressed into a glass faced frame
dissolves its tannins through the pupil
deep into my wine sopped brain. . .
I used to despise London broil for its toughness.
But by leaning the knife to allow the face of the long carving blade
to slice at an angle roughly 18 to 27 degrees from perpendicular with respect to the top, flat surface of the char-broiled, perfectly blackened face,
the lowering blade,
in long, sensual sweeping motions, could then sever the strong, muscular fibers,
reducing each slice from the roast to a cross section of dissected fiber segments,
joined only by more easily chewed, coagulant tissue.
I now enjoy the London broil.
I have often been fascinated by balls;
“spheres”, to be more formal.
They are the one, single shape on God's stage
whose three dimensional appearance, from any vantage, remains unaltered when translated into two dimensions,
as in a drawing or photograph.
A cube, reproduced on the page will more often reveal itself as three trapezoids,
(or in one singular, isometric circumstance, as two trapezoids and a square.)
A circle or disc, when viewed from the slightest angle
from one’s line of vision perpendicular to its center-point
is transformed to an ellipse.
Anthropomorphic shapes when rotated require the graphic technique, the algebraic illusion
subsequently termed "foreshortening",
a relatively recent discovery employed by draftsmen
since only the fifteenth century,
(e.g.: “the dead Christ”, A. Mantegna)
to maintain the integrity of information,
by way of relationships,
seemingly available only to the roving human eye in a three dimensional world.
I once worked to free a ball from a box;
and began with the assumption that erasing the areas remaining outside a cylinder
described within the cube;
a cylinder whose four tangent lines,
those contact points where four of the cube’s sides and cylinder wall kiss,
I could begin the process of revealing an accurate portrait
of the one and only sphere
to which this cube could not deny paternity.
By repeating this process twice again,
by arranging two additional cylinders on axes perpendicular to the first
and then to one another,
. .(i.e.: axes “x, y and z”)
I discovered I had identified a shape,
much closer in nature to a sphere,
yet still beholden to the cube.
To conclude this work, I mistakenly believed
the alchemy of my ball's liberation
lay in the removal of all remaining material
not coincident
with the intersection of the cylinders.
I had forgotten, however,
my trigonometry and was finessed by sine,
whose influence stretched all distances, from either tangent to the corner,
outward from the cubic center
up to 1.414 times the same measurement
determined forty-five degrees rotation in either direction on the same plane.
I was and remain to some degree
disheartened.
I believed that I could solve the mystery of Cézanne’s painted oranges;
how they remained grounded in their rightful place on the table.
But so much more was gained.
I now love London broil,
carved properly.
I now know more secrets behind Pi, cubes, spheres and trig relationships
then I would have ever gleaned from books or school.
Which is why I love this wretched photograph;
those eyes, that chin.
Life, when sliced askew,
is how I now measure the true merit of center.
Here, with this fantastic stretch of the lens,
my dear muse, my good doctor
you have reminded me of how gravity assures me a proper place at life’s table;
and for this I thank you.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
two glasses and a bottle
sentry on the tablecloth;
a portrait pulled from silver halide pressed into a glass faced frame
dissolves its tannins through the pupil
deep into my wine sopped brain. . .
I used to despise London broil for its toughness.
But by leaning the knife to allow the face of the long carving blade
to slice at an angle roughly 18 to 27 degrees from perpendicular with respect to the top, flat surface of the char-broiled, perfectly blackened face,
the lowering blade,
in long, sensual sweeping motions, could then sever the strong, muscular fibers,
reducing each slice from the roast to a cross section of dissected fiber segments,
joined only by more easily chewed, coagulant tissue.
I now enjoy the London broil.
I have often been fascinated by balls;
“spheres”, to be more formal.
They are the one, single shape on God's stage
whose three dimensional appearance, from any vantage, remains unaltered when translated into two dimensions,
as in a drawing or photograph.
A cube, reproduced on the page will more often reveal itself as three trapezoids,
(or in one singular, isometric circumstance, as two trapezoids and a square.)
A circle or disc, when viewed from the slightest angle
from one’s line of vision perpendicular to its center-point
is transformed to an ellipse.
Anthropomorphic shapes when rotated require the graphic technique, the algebraic illusion
subsequently termed "foreshortening",
a relatively recent discovery employed by draftsmen
since only the fifteenth century,
(e.g.: “the dead Christ”, A. Mantegna)
to maintain the integrity of information,
by way of relationships,
seemingly available only to the roving human eye in a three dimensional world.
I once worked to free a ball from a box;
and began with the assumption that erasing the areas remaining outside a cylinder
described within the cube;
a cylinder whose four tangent lines,
those contact points where four of the cube’s sides and cylinder wall kiss,
I could begin the process of revealing an accurate portrait
of the one and only sphere
to which this cube could not deny paternity.
By repeating this process twice again,
by arranging two additional cylinders on axes perpendicular to the first
and then to one another,
. .(i.e.: axes “x, y and z”)
I discovered I had identified a shape,
much closer in nature to a sphere,
yet still beholden to the cube.
To conclude this work, I mistakenly believed
the alchemy of my ball's liberation
lay in the removal of all remaining material
not coincident
with the intersection of the cylinders.
I had forgotten, however,
my trigonometry and was finessed by sine,
whose influence stretched all distances, from either tangent to the corner,
outward from the cubic center
up to 1.414 times the same measurement
determined forty-five degrees rotation in either direction on the same plane.
I was and remain to some degree
disheartened.
I believed that I could solve the mystery of Cézanne’s painted oranges;
how they remained grounded in their rightful place on the table.
But so much more was gained.
I now love London broil,
carved properly.
I now know more secrets behind Pi, cubes, spheres and trig relationships
then I would have ever gleaned from books or school.
Which is why I love this wretched photograph;
those eyes, that chin.
Life, when sliced askew,
is how I now measure the true merit of center.
Here, with this fantastic stretch of the lens,
my dear muse, my good doctor
you have reminded me of how gravity assures me a proper place at life’s table;
and for this I thank you.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
on ice
The hideous nature of the act is irrelevant;
whether we are a society which chooses the the laws of Leviticus and Moses
or argue against them in the spirit of some Sacrament,
individuals today still recline on stainless steel cots in woolen hoods of black;
midnight appointments with a rope,
a needle,
a bullet
or a chair,
count the time with patient confidence and simply wait.
As for the judgement hour, let him recall his view of life, of the world,
twelve years in the re-Making.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
whether we are a society which chooses the the laws of Leviticus and Moses
or argue against them in the spirit of some Sacrament,
individuals today still recline on stainless steel cots in woolen hoods of black;
midnight appointments with a rope,
a needle,
a bullet
or a chair,
count the time with patient confidence and simply wait.
As for the judgement hour, let him recall his view of life, of the world,
twelve years in the re-Making.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
eggs
They stood round the bed and spoke about my body. (i think he should be moved to that coffee shop by the thrift store;)
a cup of weak coffee for him and a jelly packet for her;
where the pressed slacks fold their papers into eighths;
the ring of a tea cup, startled by a spoon
begins another day.
Here Plato waits tables with Hobbes at the sink,it was their contract after all;
all those books and little hooks inside my brain
stretching reason like a tarp against the rain.
like a clock with the back removed, those spiked rings and
springs and clicking clean pressed things;
spinning like swirled eggs in deep brown butter on a boil.. ....
the way a mailman rests your letters softly in a metal box each day at ten;
the way the young drink attention from the not young.
how it was foretold in Leviathan and Walden and the Testaments . . . . .
carved on crystal tablets
now heavy with burned potato, toast and pig.
a simple turn of a simple head on the thin stick of a neck
from table two where Donne traded lamb and quatrains with Dylan,
to six where Veblin passed the sugar to Sartre;
to thirteen where a young woman
pressed a slice of grapefruit to her thin red, drugstore lips
and ruined it all by leaning over me
with a string of ancient beads,
composing a smile.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
a cup of weak coffee for him and a jelly packet for her;
where the pressed slacks fold their papers into eighths;
the ring of a tea cup, startled by a spoon
begins another day.
Here Plato waits tables with Hobbes at the sink,it was their contract after all;
all those books and little hooks inside my brain
stretching reason like a tarp against the rain.
like a clock with the back removed, those spiked rings and
springs and clicking clean pressed things;
spinning like swirled eggs in deep brown butter on a boil.. ....
the way a mailman rests your letters softly in a metal box each day at ten;
the way the young drink attention from the not young.
how it was foretold in Leviathan and Walden and the Testaments . . . . .
carved on crystal tablets
now heavy with burned potato, toast and pig.
a simple turn of a simple head on the thin stick of a neck
from table two where Donne traded lamb and quatrains with Dylan,
to six where Veblin passed the sugar to Sartre;
to thirteen where a young woman
pressed a slice of grapefruit to her thin red, drugstore lips
and ruined it all by leaning over me
with a string of ancient beads,
composing a smile.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
for hank
The poster promised fifteen ports in fourteen days
on turquoise waters north of Egypt.
Touching from the right side on an angle leaned the stones
of Threave tower on the Dee,
mute these seven centuries
in milkweed and flower;
“you leave New York when the ribbon breaks free”
she said while stapling a credit card receipt;
Above her head a wide field split the hills
in Abruzzi grass;
a square of bright Italian light
shone through the hole to form a chapel;
Here the feet are rough; they have no shoes;
this is where i will begin my book.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
on turquoise waters north of Egypt.
Touching from the right side on an angle leaned the stones
of Threave tower on the Dee,
mute these seven centuries
in milkweed and flower;
“you leave New York when the ribbon breaks free”
she said while stapling a credit card receipt;
Above her head a wide field split the hills
in Abruzzi grass;
a square of bright Italian light
shone through the hole to form a chapel;
Here the feet are rough; they have no shoes;
this is where i will begin my book.
© Jeff Thomas 2009
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