Tag oran
Let’s edge the proscenium further backof where these poems usually begin,the meditative thought streaming intopoetry refinned as prayer: May whatdies here echo back the dead’s night fare —: And let that murmur oar both meansand manner writing dreams, chilled withouta … Continue re... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I do not discover,I remember.She came into thedownstairs bedroomwhere I had gone backto sleep, some moistblue silk liftedfrom my secretsacred history. She might have beenthe Bond girl Ialways wishedfor, a swell bothBarbie Benton andthat girl who satnext to me in … Continue read... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Who knows why this work has become a wellingof the dead. Perhaps that was ever the intentand I’ve only recently come to discern those voicesrising from within as further down the gamosfrom my Now, the I part which cinctures Thou. … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
She sang sadly from her moony lustrechoir, half woman, mostly water, now doused of love entire. You promised reverence for this sanctum’s sound she luned. I gave you sovereignty’s star crown. Nights were raths of rapture, our kisses wavesprawl. We … Continue read... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
She is the dark startleof a dream stainingmy first thoughts today—a drowning swelling darein velvet underwear. A melusine dripping onoffshore my crashing world,she spoke my namewith a kiss. How could I resist the windskeening round her bed,older than the surf … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
There was a wooden brakein a suburb north ofChicago that I wanderedinto never to return. An older girl led meby the hand intothe thicket on a trailshe alone had marked,finding at last a secret clearing whichshe had decoratedas a house, … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The mystery is always bound in history,found under the wreckage of a carwhich ran off its road a century ago.Or maybe that’s just the ghost of a farearlier carriage, maybe even a chariotthat careened off-road centuries,maybe millennia back of dream … Continue re... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
A lost night lately found — like a shell on a beach —when I was dreaming of the sustained soundof a chord woven from three ardors. ShadowMan, Manager Me & the Wise Woman of Seas:these folk arise where daunting things … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
O trope virescent: Thy tropical decreelingers on a towel spread beachwiseto the sea, the scent of fish and cocoa oilbreezing soft and lavish where she breathes.Intent her revolvings on me, or ratherthe witness I provoke and harbor and disease.She wears … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Not the dark lady of languor I liquored for years.Nor her successor, the reflected paramour whoentranced me for decades in a mirroring wood,away from the banalities of a real home’s food.Perhaps there is another door to this romance,a third dancing floor further in round and down.Look: the curtains are milk-woven and yet cloven,silken as sin ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
After she left I found a small white shellupon my pillow, bleached of the seain every way that water swells but her’s.Her single simple step on sand from screeturned my flat nights to wave-mares—a rollicking hooved salt gallop. Daysthen months … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I dreamed a mandala of shellsmounted on a wall across froman executive’s desk, centered bya framed certificate of amends for all the loves I tossed or lostand boss so badly in this house:Writing it as fate’s contingency formen with the burying … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
On the day the Twin Towers fellhe is installing cabinets in a hugehouse out in Windemere, the kitchenitself almost as large as his trailer.The early morning sunlight ofSeptember hasps at his hangoveras he does his job well enough,his hand only … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Unquiet hour, this 5 AM, no one still wakeful, mostvastly asleep (perhaps my wife too though nervousage besets her nights with insomniac throes, angstof the life) the early-bird scribe copying gospels andpsalms of the dark shifting gears, closing the notebookand … Continue re... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The waking share one common world where the sleeping turns aside each maninto a world of his own. — Heraclitus (fr. 89) I’m building my house in Hades, dreamby brickblack dream. The halls swoon backto depths invisible, a harrow indivisible.I say it’s … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
(2003, revised and first posted July 2025) Dear Satan, you who delight so in awriter’s inability to describe or inform —watch me tear a few terrible leavesfrom my book of the damned. — Rimbaud Marge and marginalia complete all I … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Funny who shows up when you’ve beendisinterring past encounters to makelatter amends, lifting old forbidden stones& crooning the floozies, tramps and cronesrouted and blackouted in the boozy jonesfor erotic quench in long lost homes.Complete the night that drench sangin my … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
We need the coldness of death to see clearly.Life wants to live and to die, to begin and to end. — Carl Jung, The Red Book You were carved by greater tidesthan I have eyes to see.Greater thighs than I … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
“The Gulf Stream” by Winslow Homer (1899) Sometimes late afternoons the summer liftsa brilliant seaward cross where my workand its failure hang over rough waters.My purpose dismasted and adrift whilethe hungry sea rolls and heaves and sharksare just the first … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Dreams teem my old night friends,erotic soundings of deep dead endsgoing all the way down and roundtucked in beds of ghost houses I oncewith the Other slept. Play-acting theold drama with Mama, She Who Birthsand Forbids, sorceress of desire’s tenthousand … Continue readin... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The Great Flood became ahistory of fresh-sinned worlds,the emptied ark a skull forcathedrally lost last words. Judgment now is pounded ona water cross and harrowed byradiant upwellings of the blue.I live where mystery rims the tide with deeper surges thanmere … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
My little book of wild blue wondersis writing itself down, long after the voyagein which I found You and foundered endlessthrough, my Cape of crashing seas. Back then I was too in thrall with Your feverand fret to do much … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
“Seamen told — and the tale has been preserved in the Odyssey … — that there are two cliffs, one of them of smooth stone and so high that it rises to heaven, and its summit is invisible. In the … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
You sing of loss:I am lament. Try your bluesin my blackthroat, in metersthat have no feetto wind themoody shade. Your songs aresuitors: theylured Persephonefrom her loom,Cerberus bawledfor Mother andeven Lord Hadesshed a singlesaltless tear. But how could I be impressed,so fresh … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I fell in love hard, wild and fastthree times in my 20s, endingthat decade sober and married at last,my initiate madness birthingcore truths which held fast forthe next 40 years. Real love —the kind hearts grow overtime — became possible … Continue reading &#... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Hello Kay, I hope I haven’t disturbed youin the low caul of the ages, dead now perhapsor simply gone from all reference in the tidesof living time. Long time no speak — neversince the September night in 1981 whenyou tore … Continue reading &... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
I’m learning to write the way I alwaysyearned to play piano. Not the upright in the family parlor that I banged on trying to read sheet music for a year. Nor the spinet in a college rehearsalroom when I studied theory. … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
In 1981 when I was 25 a short love affair ended badly.All we had found was the first room of a dream whichwoke us far apart. She walked off in tears & off-key smoke.So what? I could just go back … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
After a brief romance—soaring, desperate, wild—the woman of my dreams said she needed to be free of me or die. Got out of my car and walked into her house without looking back. I shouted her name with loudness … Continue reading →... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
from A Breviary of Guitars, February 2000 Warmer foggy morning here as my wife sleeps upstairs(only the second time she’s been able to since her operation) with Violet ensconced under the coversnext to her belly (V. loves wombing most when … Continue reading &#... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
Jung drew mandalas daily showinghow dark things rise to light; to callit art (as some suggested) was todraw them with pieces missing,that measure of self-delusionwhich calls the work one’s personalmark — dark things I craft smart. To say or believe … Continue read... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
July 5, all so quiet and sleepy-drunk after last night’sboy-pyrotechnicals, the Florida Legislature havinggiven a few years back the sanctified right to scarethe shit out of every living thing with gunpowder blingNew Year’s and Independence Days. Last night thecelebrations were … Conti... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The hero has a shadow who’s troublefor sure conniving and stealing gold’sfabileaux show. My parents both lovedthe story of me at age three, sneaking upbehind my older brother while heair-conducted the Pittsburgh Symphonyon TV, aiming to get my grubby handson … Continue read... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
You have your ways, I have minedelving and delivering hot sensein dead time. You dream of us ina house, you pressing your casecoming in while adream, me adagingthe unders all dusky and seamedlike middle eastern princess regardingthe male gaze from … Continue reading ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
By the time I got out of her trailer it was almost night,dusk slowly gathering enough strength to turn heatinto blacking swoon. She didn’t walk me to the door:just lay there in the sump our long fuck’s swelter,a hand lightly draped across the great wound whichscarred her throat. She lived deep in the Florida woods,part … … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
OK I get it, I’m a dullard down underthinking I know my way in the dark.I’m INF/T-J in the psychological cast,an intuitive whose thinking and feelinghorn together enough to write poemsabout the thing he’s most styled yetmystified by — dark … Continue reading... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
“Bitchin day for sure, delivering all this interofficemail on my own because the other clerks aredead, heading out again and again into thebyzyantine sprawl of this hive of lost purpose,departments on different floors and buildings,all those offices of clerks and … Co... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
When you lie dead, no one will remember youFor you have no share in the Muses’ roses.No, flitting aimlessly about,You will wildly roam,a shade amidst the shadowy dead. — fragment attributed to Sapho I was out walking in the cool … Continue reading ͛... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
When I dip my thought in memory’s wellfor this series, I bucket time in one-night-stand doses, eight or nine beers and a fewshot glasses lubricating my slide into the nextother’s arms, charmed by intoxication’sboundless measure of imagined pleasuresquenching thirst. In … Co... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
The mask I wear writing thesepoems is a literate ploy to singthe mysteries behind one person’shistory. I wear it literally toowhen posting online as Brendan,the narrow harrow-navigator whodomains Oran’s Well. The mask has served its purposings wellenough to make these … ... mehr auf blueoran.wordpress.com
️