Sunday, June 15, 2014

Golden Flies by Kurt Cline

Golden flies
spill thru my eyes.
I’ve been looking for you
a long, long time

been searchin’
in the tall grass,
goin’ back into the past,
movin’ mighty fast--

a penny a poodle, a dime a patch!
Fondling medieval girdles
a shadow jumps of me
a-hangin’ from a tree

even farther away
really quite beautiful
the calico chambermaid
has never done this sort of thing before

in a maw of crows
a pit of sky
spiraling palaces
the glint of eyes—blue diamonds.

Under a cloud
of insecticide
valuable commas
lace the night

headlight beams
play across the ceiling
shifting too quickly to assume
any fixed geometrical shape.

Now I’m squashin’ out my cigarette butt,
feelin’ kinda generally fucked-up—
my reflection in the fun-house mirror
of a man who’s fought with phantoms far too long

neither gettin’ off   nor gettin’ it on
standing alone on the blue glass lawn
among the steaming masses
where the airliner crashes

golden flies
rise up & they arise
in aquamarine eyes                                                                  
all there is or ought to be.

Solitude dissolved the universe
on a park bench
& only the stars
to share the instigation.

It may as well have been
the day after tomorrow--
slices a shadow in half
formed in the foaming

empty & empty & empty some more
true dissolution
gathering materials
before we depart

everybody gettin’ by
everybody ‘bout to cry
& I know someday I’ll die
but it won’t be tonight

the lie lifts the truth
out of the sky
& the night
fills up with golden flies.

I cower under crumpled
newspaper headlines   imagine other “i’s”
while the haystack steadily diminishes
under agitated skies

in the fantasy
in the factory
in the trajectory
slightly mistold

sacramental cowries
& mistletoe   time bubbles
in the ruins of the fortifications,
in the sun on the lawn on which the children play:

settle me with a promise
& give it to your favorite charity:
I’m just yr Christmas clown,
yr 4th of July scarecrow

with a fire-cracker crown.
I’ve been all over this god-damned town.                              
Stupid Helen screaming at the seashore                     
kicking at a pile of dust.  Me?—

I’m sitting in a hotel lobby
wondering who I can trust.
Her ships are sleeping in the harbor;
her cavalier is turning into rust.  Me?—

I don’t do things because I want to
but because I must.  Crazy Mary weeps
a spunky river, zigags across the desert plain.
Someday, somebody who reads this will know what happened to me. 

The panther paws the cagefloor;
inside, out-of-tune plays the “Masquerade Waltz”
a little something I composed for a film
went around in circles & tilted to a halt.

It’s a little bit sketchy
between this & that  living-dying
breathing expiring spiral dance becoming being
cataclysm but emerges all right in the end

from the occasion,
identity’s disappearing act
sandwiched between the pages.

Author bio: 

Kurt Cline has been a poet and performance artist for the past thirty years. His poems have won awards and appeared in numerous small-press magazines in America, Europe and Asia, and his performances have garnered media attention and many positive reviews. His full length poetry collection Voyage to the Sun: Poetry and Translations was published by Boston Poet Press in 2008. Cline’s folk-punk CD, Alien Shoe came out from 12 Studio in Taiwan in 2013.  He is currently Associate Professor of English and Comparative Literature at National Taipei University of Technology.  Scholarly articles have appeared in Anthropology of Consciousness;Tamkang Review, Glimpse: Phenomenology and Media; Cuadrante andCommunication, Comparative Civilizations and Cultures: Journal of the Jean Gebser Society.

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