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All Apologies

May 15, 2010

I’m all apologies this afternoon — recently discovered it wasn’t Joss Whedon who put an end to the “Once More with Feeling” sing-a-longs, but 20th Century Fox (via Wikipedia):

“In October 2007, after a dispute with SAG over unpaid residuals, 20th Century Fox pulled the licensing for public screenings of Once More With Feeling, effectively ending official Buffy singalongs. . .”

Ah, nothing like a coterie of old dweebs in expensive suits to ruin a good party.

Well, here’s the fourth of five Spikes:

An image which makes me think of Abney Park’s “Stigmata Martyr” — if you don’t know the song, listen to it there. A steam punk band with a belly dancing member — can’t beat that with a stick.  (what?)

And now for a completely unapologetic poem:

.

In the Garden of Moonflowers

This is the time to linger,
when the heart like an overripe plum
is full to bursting:
twilight in early Spring;
the white flowers in the garden
with their phosphorous radiance,
the warm air lapsing into coolness.
Welcome, fleeting kingdom!  A gentle fiefdom
existing between the reign of the sun
and the domain of the stars.

This, too, is the time
to most dread, the interval
clocks cannot keep;
an intermission in the play
for looking behind
our gilded mirrors.
In this hour I cannot close
the eyes of my soul,
yet I cannot look away.
All things assault the senses;
I cannot bear such sentience:
the coolness of water on my fingertips,
the lilt of birds hidden
in the shadow-laced limbs of trees,
the murderous stab of memory.

I was driven into myself
like a dog beaten into viciousness:
I bared my teeth and raged
at the end of a choking chain
against the towering trompe l’oeil
who wielded the whip.
In my heart I have known his murder,
and the freedom such a death brings;
not for him —
his soul will fall to the frigid depths
and an anchor loosed at sea —
but freedom for the one
who wields the knife: a sigh released
as when a treacherous bridge is crossed,
the rapture as one unearths the ancient
jewel-encrusted dream
of beginning life anew.

But like this lavender twilight,
our dreams are just thus,
and quick to elude us
in noon’s practical light.
In the intimate embrace
of this evening’s air, I’ll wait,
choosing my dream
like a primitive
selecting the slender limb
to shape into the sleekest spear.
I will whittle my reserve
into a most pointed and deadly device;
and when the nightbirds take wing,
I will hurl my well-worked dream
with a savage’s sure aim
into his slumbering, unguarded heart.

This, then, is the time to linger.
The air is most sweet
between breaths.
Consequence
is out of my hands,
like a hawk released from the hunter.
The decision has been made.
Astronomy is a science
of ignorance:
the world turns not
of its own volition,
but under the impetus
of average men
driven to great feats
of madness.
But look —
how the flowers open to the night!

.

(Published in Illumen, Autumn 2009)

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