The Sixth Form

The Sixth Form



To breathe auroras


above the mountain


in Thracian meadows


where Orpheus wandered. . .


in the valley of  roses--


& the rose oils that


spring from withered kings . . .




Little eyeball that is tired of songs


roll up your lid


and look around.


It is day again!


the blue is strong


and turns to us


as to one


it has known for  some time


but is not sure
what he will he say or do


still the birds bluster


and the bright wind thrums.



the aureole of silence


is the hum of  penitents


passing through desire


to the font of language. . .




(Painted birds


above the table


dive and approach


the painted vine.)




The leprechaun, dressed in emerald green, danced easily in the circle of lunging snakes. Each time he tapped his cane on the ground, it was exactly the place the next snake would strike. The snake hit the cane and bounced off harmlessly and the little man continued to dance and sing. But the song he sang. . . that was the thing. . . a song I felt to be of Celtic origin. And the more I listened, the more dizzy I became, until I was infused with a  strange, radiant feeling of bliss. In that bliss I knew I was the song he sang. . . the music, the lyric and the voice itself. . . And I woke up with a knowledge words cannot explain, though words are all I have to make it known.



It will not be read. Who will listen? These stories of the dead, more alive than you and I. The world will not listen, and still I will write.

Such writing is for the sky, that has held our sorrows.


To endure the sea stains


and melon-colored lights, the pastels that carry a moral presence, however alien, embedded and untoward.


The darkness in us is very great. Let the guitars play and we will sing. The sea will twinkle and the stars will swim. The land will roll vastly in the dollar's wake.


When the sixth form comes, there will be no interest. Empathy will make it impossible to debate. The end of sophistry. The end of delusion. . . .