Wednesday, June 27, 2012

No to Angel by ALICE NOTLEY



I started to dream awake 
It was beautiful—as I 
      began 
to chant an old poem 
on the edge 
      of dream

Slip past the border. I have 
      always been 
this poet. 
                  Night 
gold 
      calling me to know 
multiples of now.

To hurt the political
      Or would you
Come off the 
chair sir. Ask the chairman 
      to come off . . .

You have gone past your 
      dead lover's marker.

He'll 
      stay same

who's sane (same old 
      joke—
ancient Baghdadian pa) . . .

Skimming over dreams. 

Walking the way 
long way to go 
 
                   . . . a lot of things 
I badly wanted not to be 
      like. 

There was an angel I didn't 
      care for . . .
have never 
      trusted angels.

I found one of her white 
cylindrical hairs 
      dyed black

finally knew 
she wasn't relevant. 

Songs and chants by the 
beauty-making 
      ghouls
to us is given a drop of 
      your live beauty, to 
feed us, who are the poetry.

I remember he caught a pigeon 
and stuck it for a few drops of 
blood. To sprinkle on the 
ground, there in that dream. 
      It was 
in another lifetime. 

As beautiful as 
                a raven, a fire, a 
                       fawn
the word 'treason' takes 
      credit for achieving us. 
We have betrayed all your 
      religions 
in order to 
be alive, after our deaths, in 
      this space

      it is lace counter to scheme.
The first thing, in the 
beginning, was the lie. 

The motel for 
      making sense 
is where I 
      go.
Everyone busy with dead 
      hands/ voices/ senses

Dead sense swells.
Whatever you want that 
      isn't a thing, 
you can have.

No god. that's what I want. 

Cloister of pearlized shafts 
      (arrow luster) 
amid a lighter green. 
      Figment 
puts hand center of my chest 
to say, 'there is a formal 
      condition to 
your body. Aren't figment.'
Clustering moments, 
But you know when a 
      moment 
is

Seeing it through.

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