spoliations












--by Joel Chace



































snow






was there
a time before
the wind the whiteness
the cold was
there a summit
was there a voice
calling me home was
there a time
before the sled the
runners the long
hill was there
a time when I
wanted
anything else
































upstate






don't kid yourself
purple white graywhite blue
yellow black don't a basketball
that grimes hands and
bounces crazy off every
goddamn gray little black
knob of ice to walk over
the bridge home through purple air
smelling feeling white but
below there's the steady the fast
rumble roar of the river slow
and black don't kid if
any streetlight throws a pool
of yellow white slants across
white swirls flakes down
into slow steady black on the
gray lawns blue
fretful patches cast out
through quivering yellow
glass then sucked back then
thrown flickering again over 
gray different parts but steady gray
don't kid yourself


.


how anyway grimy black crazy
gray little knobs that
bounce it every way but right
but up how can you
play it right but don't
kid yourself rushing black roars
and sucks slants swirls
of white into itself its steady
self it's all happening out
there don't in the purple air
kid not to care that gloveless

hands are stinging grimy ice
the color of backstreet
lawns blue flickering all
over them much
later in the purple hush
streetlight yellow pool only
one leaning shoulder against
pole and not seeing white flaking
slanting but waiting for its
coming through the purple air the
news to be dumped at
his feet early delivery


.


has come and keeps
on coming don't kid
yourself steady coming
goddamnit in with purple
twilight wavering in it cold
mountain knobs not goddamn
majestic but darker
purple but darker yet the bare
black quills of trees all of it
can sting that's no news
especially on the back
streets flickering steady
kid blue all of it can
yellow don't kid yellow
no news isn't
news gray on the










backstreets is no don't
news there yellow
don't yellow comes gray comes
black swirls white flakes white
delivers itself early and late


.


don't delivers us
all kid yourself later
sooner even main with yellow
pools don't is backstreet don't
hands ice crazy taste 
smell the white all the
crazy don't way home bridge over
steady kid over slow rumble
fast below don't kid maybe
the quills quiver the flickering all
over maybe with gray
crazy with grime maybe with
don't yellow gray purple
graywhite with steady
yourself black swallowing
white all over the place all
the time no news don't
maybe maybe kid yourself



















s old






now to cover the old ter
rain again stomping
grounds to dust rumple stilt skin
foot through the floorboard to
death too late for incan
descence nice work if you can get it but
screw it over rated dust
in the moats rain in the memory rage in
the drainspouts death flurrying in the air
this bum sits in the parlor he 
ruined no shoes rode 
no rails to find a place in the sun
too-late-words wet April snow
treacherous macadam sky
meta sta sized
bodi less voices drifting in upper
layers of walled in air all
night they could have
given our names away
dream door that's an
other that will no long
er o pen
terra
in firm a no
dou bt u
sed u
p p
ain stays ma
inly in the p
lain t
the fat lap dog finding no
lap uses sun on the
parlor rug to nap
baby grand ed
dying chipped-ivory melo
dies across his chee
ks stepping through a
ny door way the




qu al ity of a
ir o dor sh
a dow li
ght c hang es
sh if ts a mi
nor th ird or on
ly a ha
lf s
te p
but
that was the o
ld dre am
this bum grew up
in but not a
way
dea
th' s in
th
e du
st mo
t e s
the parlor window bleeds
sunlight through lace
death's all the 
rage
never any people in the old
dreams but they were
always in the shimmerings
and textures of the rooms
in the reign of dust
mote kaleidoscopes those ra
ining columns of light
the wages of
death is
n't
he's the son who
grew up in but
not away from the
sun
wage wage a
gain st the
and that sunlight bled



through lace imitates its
elf acro ss the d
og' s back
the rages 
of
kn
ock knock
he's the son sun
st un ned but
st ill the one who
's cou nt ed
on
come
again some
aren 't you s
up posed to
s ay
no other place
where idleness
is
he's already had the new
dream great fields of
cow-corn advance right
to the doors sway
ag ainst the o
ut er walls
i
t's a
ll th e
w age
place where id
le ne ss is
ca st s o
gently a nd
so dee p
to say wh
o 's there
leaves caress the
attic wind ows and out
there too his gr
and father leans and calls




and the rain it
of death i
sn 't
is my na
me
s o cl
ose bu t
leans and calls for
ever are you there are
you the
re ar e you
d
y ing o
f the w
ight
late-saying so d
raining
e very d
ay
so gently and so
deep































the subject






is I (understood) on the cutting
edge of grammar so much
more personal than the you
(obsolete) version it's the hip
way to tell it all definitely
global most assuredly new
millenium and the story
is this...came home late
from work again...sat
on the patio with grill
and gin...found no
help there...laid the gun's
barrel along the tongue...pulled 
the trigger...felt once more the blast but
no change...figured
out (finally) what
had happened to...





























stand up comedy






wanting to know

if there are any real nails



taking its silly webbed feet in there



wanting to

know where the grapes are stored



second language second

sight



is the bartender tender



everything that rolls

off its back



second

day third day



so dimly lit and dangerous



everything that collects in

its silly webbed feet



GOT ANY GRAPES



can't blame wanting

to know if the nails are real



picturing dark

back rooms of the establishment



GOT ANY GRAPES



picturing webbed

feet nailed to the floor



knowing full well where

the grapes are stored


the bartender is certainly

not



GOT ANY GRAPES

large and 

pesky heart of charity



discovering the city's other ponds



darkness insults threats and glares



GOT ANY NAILS



NO



waiting a day but only one



GOT ANY GRAPES



sweet juice spraying against the palate



picturing dazzlement of the dark back rooms



directing again its silly webbed feet



sweet juice for itself


compassionate tender pest



sweet juice for others of its kind



waiting a day but only one



knowing where the grapes are stored



knowing the nails might any day be real
































a decorative hermit






they said not too deep not
too chill after all it's our
will stick burrs in
your hair bare your 
flanks enlighten us
with darkness prick us with
fright-quills remember
whose till it is after
all that's the stuff old
weedy say your lines and
dream on your own 
time for starters pretend
you're a couple of hundred
years old keep in mind
it's our flair for
theater you're banking
on trawl old troll for pro-
fundities chilled like
fruit of the vine we want
runes not moons not ru-
ins you're not paid
to dream


.     .     .


so on my own time I've
dreamed though hired
to hide myself loudly with
wings on my earlobes warts on
my nose I'm their poor
whacked weed out
of mind and barely
out of sight oh their
after-cognac ramblings for-
nication in the arbors yet
the leaves need raking from
the ivy banks oh the rows

of green the broken
garden gate they want
their grapes and to
suck them too oh the patch of
weeds grown specially
for me the oracular tuft where I
park my bought buttocks
and give them runes draped
with ivy blanket-
ed with leaves


.     .     .


they say beware
beware he's somewhere
there he'll swear then
swear we live within
the lair of darkness and
of cold oh do we dare
venture close to that
snare of prophecies


.     .     .



POCKETS FULL OF BLOOD   I call
them   POCKETS FULL OF
BONES   RED IN TEETH
AND FINGERNAILS   RED

FLECKS OF GRAPES
RED TONGUES   TIME 
TO PAY   I say   THE
VIPER   I'M THE WAY
I say   YOUR WORLD
BENDS   UNDER A VEIN
AND A DIMPLE   NOT
WITH A FANG BUT
A PIMPLE   OH YOUR
SUNSET LEISURE-RAMBLES
MY RAVES OF ICE WITH
WINGS ON MY EARLOBES AND
WARTS ON MY NOSE I HIDE
MYSELF LOUDLY WHERE
YOUR NURTURED WEED GROWS


.     .     .



they said I'm
paid not to dream so on
my own time I've dreamed
of the day of the

monster only they
can recognize the night-beast
I've kept at bay


.     .     .



but I've also dreamed that
they will waken the coldest
winter morning and will be
no more afraid they will
walk through the broken
gate glide along the
garden paths find
blank as the moon my
frozen carcass they
will strew it with their
smiles then live forever



























out






so far it's
in so far so
very far
it's very in


          **********


of the shadows
of a dream stepped
so far


          **********


-ward very 
far bound for
glory ward so
very far in
-side the state
-bound


          **********


-doors
of the mouths
-cast doors
will cast the
shadows that swallow
mouths


          **********





for the territory
light light
in the cold
of the blue


          **********


-law
of sight
of mind
-shine the sun


          **********


of sorts
the window
-post so
very far
of danger


          **********


-rageous
-source the source
rage's wellspring
of whack 
of luck
of tune


          **********


of the frying pan
-shine
-cast the fire of
those shunned
-shines the sun
-bound for glory for
beulah land those
-landish bound through
rage's fiery
wellspring


          **********


farther than the
others who have
stepped so far too
far stepped to
the state farther
than the others
so very
in force
-last the others
for the territory
under the stars
light light
of reach


          **********


of uniform
-moded
-foxed
of money
of the limelight
of stock
-worn
of style
of position
of sync
of line
of sequence
-voted
-manned
-gunned



of the loop
-house of history


          **********


-patients of history
farther than all
the others who
have stepped too
to the state the
-patients of history
-come the
-come
of patience the
-come is
-right rage


          **********


-post
in the cold
of joint
of the shell
of the past
of the blue


          **********


-post
the window
-doors of the
-house of history
-flows
of the mouths of
those who are
-casts shadows those



blessed wellsprings
under the stars


          **********


-laws
in the cold
-casts coming
of nowhere
of the blue
of nowhere
of the past of the
-house of history
of time just
in time
just just
in time
of a long dream
just
in time to ward
off to state
of the blue
of their own mouths
-bound just
for the sun
for the air
for glory for
beulah land so
far now it's
in so very
far it's
very in















letter
                      --from & for Ted Enslin






from a locus
which may or may 
not perhaps it's
just an old 
man's something of
value whatever that
may be if some
of our contemporaries
from a mine
maybe Keats
understood
it best in 'the
poetry of earth'
the locus is
of value I
sometimes wonder if
from a mine which
may or may not
turn up something
perhaps it's just 
astigmatism have
forgotten this or
may not turn
up something of
value the locus
is and maybe
Keats from a
mine if some of
our contemporaries have
'is never dead' I
think I try I
sometimes wonder just
an old man's
astigmatism try to
write from a
and maybe Keats
understood whatever
that may be the 'poetry
of earth is
never dead'










Credits






"snow"--originally published in PyroWords.

"upstate"--originally published in Lynx.

"s old"--originally published in Potepoetzineseven.

"the subject"--originally published in Three Candles.

"stand up comedy"--originally published in Pith.

"a decorative hermit"--originally published in Mind Fire Poetry Journal.

"out" & "letter"--originally published in Veer.