Robert Creely – To And

Martin Adan – Sea and Shell

A woman and a ball: out of a sudden agreement
the world forms, in its inane rotation.
It begins with the fish, which inhabits the wasteland.

A curve sighs. Nothing swells immediately.
A mathematical point: the sphere,
void, terrestrial, a cloud of breath.

If the chimera doesn’t declare itself
in service and pure verse,
it will wail its words of truth.

The world revolves in an animal rush.
The most humble fish, of all the mud,
mired in the eye, bearing the colure.

A leg, or terror, arises, expands:
the air is the passion of the bather:
light, in recess, flashes and dies out.

A woman and a ball drop from a bristle,
a thin line of ice in which everything concludes,
matter the hand raises into view.

World in the air, simple being and aspect:
algae rising boldly within the descent.
A fish that bites its own tail bleeds mud.

Fabio, this passage and flow and writhing I’m thinking of
is the world: element, eruption: everything, nothing,
in the immense power.

From the rhythm: figures and the first creed,
and happiness, a lesson for the universe as it rolls
into time, pulling along its shell and ancient verse.

translated by Katie Silver and Rick London

99% fractured glass

letterman taught liberal arts

bukowski master of the open portal

that caught flies and dirty blondes ,

there where no country estates

or manicured ladies in crinolene,

too much hubbub

and relentless spiral of those

who live in such an octopus town,

that solar flares light the street

and guide those whose frail stories

stumble over awkward words

and metaphor,

master of bliss

with shimmering teeth

and boiling stench caught on

warmer breeze

vigilant for kisses and erotic

composure,

severed happiness from tears

and kept each separate,

behind the doors of our octopus

town the withered languish

robbed of enchanted loins

and their tears now crystallized

as rings for deaths fingers,

clotted souls clogged

as choked diaphragms coughed and

hacked sluices of phlegm,

the doors opened for a moment each day

quick enough for a shadow to be

flung out,

madness was a bomb on every street corner,

diffused as she appeared,

her deceit to entice

and enchant,

womb of silken flotsam

carried nothing hopeful,

yet her heart once orphaned

brought a rising sun

that closed the portal

to bukowski’s dismay

letterman fell aside victim

to iron skies and sanities rent,

heal deep she called

finding it broken

and lambs put together the pieces

with a well chewed glue

Stones Thrown as the Crow Flies

midnight had crawled

out of his head leaving the

early hours to do their work,

fingers manipulate

keyboard screen aglow

in transcript of the mind,

his patience a short tether

to the excitement of creation,

as if dawn light brought revelation

a first fledged sun of

the day,

radiated warmth

mist lifting,

stimulants left aside

progressing in a way he knew best,

hunching slightly,

a splinter of memory

curdled color at the corner

of his eye,

tear appeared,

but only of tiredness,

not happiness

love remorse or regret

compacting much of the mind

this way and ball it up

upon a printed page

gave it a name,

then abandon it

let it become a piece thrown aside,

to be read again one

future day,

at completion a certain smile

pleasure heightened

few could ever see,

it was written

it was done,

exhale pull away

tremors in the arms

till the next moment.