KYLE HARVEY
from COSMOGRAPHIES
for Neeli Cherkovski
II.
In the beginning
the spiritual absolute
even nothingness was not
but there was
something else, too
some semblance
of sly possibility
the chaos of
attractive truths
a struggle of soul
an assemblage
of spheres
knowledge, moon
precious stones & soon
first light of logic
magic of mind
jewelry of reason
jasper of time
the Jack of Hearts
quartz & quill
wearing white
& laying still
the woolen oak
along the river.
IV.
Can
self-exile heal
that which
language will
be, as
language is?
Never to be-
come a com-
plete nation,
never further
than a woman
can walk
in a day,
unless
governed as such
love will
always come
& go, save for
old, exalted
withdrawal of
Thought. How
we do love
to order all—
the candle
drips
when darkness
falls, plant
seeds in rows
quench thirst
in sips. Poems
come & poems
go, taking
with them only
what we
let go of.
Whole oceans
of meaning
revealed
cannot be
replaced
by that which
you feel.
Don’t ask me
what I mean.
Don’t tell me
what you mean.
Meaning
is the murder
of process.
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*** ** ***
THE ALPHABET’S BOOK OF FIRST FIRE
I.
The magic of all theater gives us a sense of place:
There is a lamp in the desert
gathering light
from pure darkness
It is our job to keep it lit—
I’d like to suggest forever
When I say suggest, I do not mean as an action
& when I say forever, I do not mean as measurement or duration
What I mean to say is:
Is / Just / Be / What if not this
II.
Fever your way into my dream
13,000 years ago the Pleistocene’s final heave:
—it was a particularly dry year—late summer/low waters—
the last obstinacy of antique bison making its way down
from the Uncompahgre to cross the Grande River
Paleolithic Rock Clickers, first peoples of this place, follow
etymologies of their own geographies
wearing heavy wet leathers
carrying whatever they can
first things which might define a world
Upon crossing they walk themselves dry in the last syllables of the sun
& in the first syllables of night
find themselves here
they are right here tending
to their fire
an 800,000 year-old fire
they are clicking their rocks
they are clicking their rocks
they are clicking their rocks
they are singing their song
their deep song
they are singing this song
this deep song
they are gathering light from pure darkness
first things which might define a world
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*** ** ***
WESTERN SUITE FOR DANNY
ON HIS 60TH BIRTHDAY
Grace to be born and live
as variously as possible,
this desert air carries
promise this morning
and beautiful tears
have blossomed in my eyes.
Jack Mueller is dead.
Apollinaire, too,
and Mallarme.
Neeli has asked
that I keep him
alive when he goes.
And so I will.
Grace to be born and live
as variously as possible,
let us rejoice
in the Gathering Light!
And let us rejoice
the supermarket is full
full of peas and full of men
who love peas,
men, who love peas, with guns on their hips!
Ah! I think I’ll let my beard grow!
How strange to be gone
in a minute, how strange indeed.
Grace to be born and live
as variously as possible,
just yesterday I was washed
upon some distant shore
but a chance inside someone else’s dream—
just yesterday I was born
and tonight I will die
in light having traveled
for billions of years
atoms of us
carrying love
this far
only to die
just yesterday, even nothingness was not
and it still is
it only wishes
to convince us
otherwise
Grace to be born and live
as variously as possible,
this knowledge of moon
this magic of mind
this dumb submarine
this quantum cluster
of what the fuck
this Gathering Light
this Vision of Johanna
this reverb oil slick
this peace seed
thumbed in the soil
of wars
this beautiful reminder
of who the fuck cares
this love and that
this love and that
this love and that
this Gathering Light
this beautiful reminder
there are no straight lines
and there are many straight lines
this deep mystery
this wonder of what
this beautiful reminder
this beautiful reminder
of Jack in hospice
kissing my hand
and I kissing his
“You’re a source,”
he said.
Grace to be born and live
as variously as possible,
(from a working translation
of Camino del Ñielol
by Teófilo Cid)
Solitude is a reflection
of the sacred hours
White ribbons
spilling into the deep black
compact mechanism
Memories worn
by pointy shoes
on the cushions
of quiet temples.
Solitude is a pond
filled with animals
of alcohol
Thousands of nicotine tribes
leave on fragile canoes of thirst
under skies of intoxicated clouds.
I am overcome
by the rivers full
of dead leaves
Trees of sugar
flood of Angelica
dried in the sun
My solitude
is an umbrella that breaks
like a piece from my voice
Grace to be born and live
as variously as possible,
Danny turns 60 today
and he has lived
as variously as possible
he has wandered about
and within himself
a cosmos within a cosmos
an ocean full of oceans
it’s 11:17 AM and the sun is shining
no one wants to shoot me today
it’s 11:18 AM and the sun is shining
my coffee is still warm
it’s 11:19 AM and the sun is shining
I am thinking of my beautiful daughter
it’s 11:20 AM and the sun is shining
the Nuggets won last night
and Joker had a triple double
it’s 11:21 AM and the sun is shining
somewhere a woman is forgiving herself
though she has nothing to be sorry for
it’s 11:22 AM and the sun is shining
I know Art Goodtimes!
it’s 11:23 AM and the sun is shining
I feel such great despair, but I’m alive
Grace to be born and live
as variously as possible,
Danny if I go first, hang a rock from every tree in Pollack Canyon.
If you go first, I’ll stack rock upon rock until they reach an agreement.
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KYLE HARVEY
Kyle Harvey is the author of the poetry collection, Hyacinth, a finalist for the Colorado Book Award, and winner of the Mark Fischer Poetry Prize. His work has appeared in American Life in Poetry, Dirty Chai, Dream Pop, Empty Mirror, Entropy, Heavy Feather Review, HOUSEGUEST, Metatron, Pilgrimage, Pith, Poems-For-All, SHAMPOO, Think Journal, The Wallace Stevens Journal, and elsewhere. He has published two serial poems, July and Farewell Materials (Lithic Press), as well as a package of broadsides titled The Alphabet’s Book of Colors (Reality Beach). He is working on a documentary film about Jack Mueller called Portolano, a manuscript titled The Alphabet That Never Recovers, and a translation of Camino del Ñielol by Chilean poet Teófilo Cid. He lives with his wife and children in Fruita, Colorado, where he manages Lithic Bookstore & Gallery and designs books for Lithic Press.
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A Dozen Nothing 