.

 
CLARITIES

Clarities carve way the real,
Leave scraps  and sawdust,
Destroy the origin of what started
The discourse toward  truth.
I must be cautious when I attempt
Clear communication.  Only  obscurities,
The hermetic, and solipsistic
Speak the specks and chitchat  of truth.
I've spent my life among
Wooden horses and bibelots
And wore  a blindfold.
Now, I ripped off the black cloth
Tied around my eyes and  look
For the tree that is you, Daphne.
I must find something real before I  die.
Daphne, your defiance of Apollo,
Turned you into a  reality.   

POÉTE MAUDIT   

Daphne, I'm really what would be
Called in  the nineteenth century,
An accursed poet, a poéte  maudit,
Baudelaire's Albatross, awkward
In agoras, but assured among  pumpkins
But Daphne, I am confident
That I can love you more than anyone  can.
I repeat, Daphne, no one can
Love you more than I do.
But can I  ever find the tree that is you, Daphne.   

REMBRANT TULIPS     

Once, Daphne, I planted Rembrant Tulips
In Tampa, where is said by all the experts
It is impossible to get  Rembrant Tulips
To bloom.  The climate is too and hostile.
I planted  the tulips and the tulips bloomed.
I gazed upon the beauty of what was  said
To be impossible.  It is also said
That it is impossible to find  you, Daphne.
I watched the beauty of the tulips alone.
I wished you were  there to watch the tulips bloom,
For then I would not have been the loneliest  man
In the world. Without you, Daphne, I'll always be lonely.
Where  is the tree that is you, Daphne?   

FUNGI AND MUSHROOMS  

Blue-winged, black crows came out from  behind
Italian flesh-colored clouds, looked like
Black books flapping open  their black pages.
Beneath this spotted sky, the furrows of ploughed  fields
Twisted towards a dark forest. 
I walked the field of scattered  rocks,
Colored pink like the pink Boucher painted nude girls.
But among  the trees stippled by lichen,
Surrounded by thistles, I did not find you,  Daphne.
I beheld beauty, but I was forlorn,
Sad here in Italy among fungi  and mushrooms.   

A DARK-SKINNED WEED  

Lightning flashes above, illuminates the  gold
Of gold leaves on blonde barked trees.
At base of freckled bark, a  dark-skinned weed.
The weed flickers as if a black, flickering flame;
The weed as sinuous and  ribbonlike as an El Greco mystic.
I pursue Daphne,  pausing before each tree.
From one singular tree hangs moss with golden  twists,
One branch has five twig fingers,
From the five fingers hang five  gourd vines.
But this beautiful tree is not beautifu Daphne.