Sunday, April 12, 2020

Selected Works, D.C. Wojciech

“Frankly, all I can say is
I’ve been to a funny place
inside myself, where simple
answers fall like ashes
through an iron gate.”

- Yusef Komunyakaa


Basquiat asks why yr reality is watered down
Van Gogh listens for another sun rise
while he unwrites the location of secret marigolds
someone always has something to say for the trees
& they balk at the sight of greedy umbrellas—
i remember the first time Chopin heard angels
the whole town buried their gold hoping to escape eternity
Magritte brings flowers
but landfills of history resemble nothing of a seed
& the abyss won't stop shrieking
through hidden corridors of tongues


through wilderness of patience poems come forth
in their rain buckets of sorrow in multitudes of what guides us
from ancient topographies from nascent operettas undulating
brick by brick the drums warm
from the luminous voice between beginnings
this old crow on my shoulder
whose eyes ablaze overthrow the insatiable
lends actualization its crux
the crucible within forecasts of derangement
the time & the time to come
nibbling the fruit of clairvoyance
realization //// sprouts of presence
“Darwin’s foolish ghost in a strait jacket!”
“Kant came to save you all from walking backwards down the plank!”

after Heller Levinson

i can only drink of my own tongue
tie my own shoes
dance, scar rhythm with pride
talk myself too—
moon moon, dumb angel. drunk off the distance between us—
soon this will all be staring back through
the eyes of pufferfish
soon this will all be
carried away
on the wings of hawk eye
pillars of hands
praying hands
 crumbling the walls of yr return
 like a child of yr last breath
 draping the music of centuries
 across the blood of dying stars
 ricocheting hope from tongue to tongue
 filling our cheeks with nectar of forgotten ages
 limping towards the last glowing
 impossible lamps of polarity
 crawling backwards
 through daylight's trap doors

after Lorca

oranges nearly resuscitated
by piercings in warm waves of wind
coming and going like these mountains
immaculate invisible stillness

because the voices of burning books
cannot look past the guilt in yr eyes

is a marigold seed
on the skull's window sill
in the mind's eye

because we are no different from one another
because we are not the same as one another

waiting our turn to dine with the meticulous reaper
like unknowing children...

there is no second floor to this thought—

only the billions of dollars between hand shakes
the rage of bees
the scent of voices in yr blind ears
the on-going slaughter of Mother Earth's light—

in matters of circumstance
, do not (ever) tell yr dreams
to the roaches in the bathroom sink—
territorial & suicidal worms
dance floors of dust
the skull is home to


how can you fear death
when the moon clearly refuses yr advances—

men of industry tried to conquer the planet
but were finally unable
to remove owl's eye from the nest

because scarecrows refuse to duel
with all of her past lives at once

i offer to return every door frame to the forests.
the bark or bite of dream journals.
54 bones in a prayer.
—how many men in how many moons?

the trees are falling.
the leaves staying put.

& the silk worms march
to the moon & back
to keep the diamonds in the Earth.

the lace on her legs or
plethoras hidden within the voice?

tomorrow the gavels strike the usual places.


Two owls perched on two trees near the lake.
One is facing North, one is facing South.

A harsh wind sharpens the mountains' teeth.
The ancients remind us this is a sign of rainfall soon.

These deserts care not whether you live or die.
Swallow you whole & chuck out the bones
'til the spit in yr throat is dust, and coyote
can finally dream in her own images again.

If you keep an eye looking towards the city, and an eye
towards the mountain, it becomes increasingly difficult
to tell the difference between city lights & a flash
of yr life before yr eyes.

If the sky doesn’t take you, Earth certainly will.
What is water?
A silver night washing yr hands.

One is rotating their head the other way.
One has fixed their vision upon me.

I know what they are prepared to do.

How long have human beings been on this Earth? A millisecond.
How long have these two owls been guarding their nest?
Who knows how many mysteries will outlive them—

Building empires is a sordid way of telling the world.