Tag Archives: Curtis Emery

My Life is A Blakeian Farce

by Curtis Emery

The devil drinks
Coffee with me
At midnight—
He speaks abstract
Art in
                         And         Shapes

Flooding into
Anger—he resolves
Tension with
An allusion to
The Wasteland
In gentle tones—

he is wholesome,
Not distant like the
Stained glass on Main
Street with its triptych

By twilight
he melts my ceiling
Like Spanish moss—
We laugh about
The President and
Shudder horrific

                                              “I am what
                                              I am, I am

We weep
At sunset watching
Geese like ants
Following the cyclic
Madness of nature
Shifting over the pink
And dark blue of exhausted day—

We are both disengaged,
I am a severed head
Dragging myself over the desert
Hoping for sweet July
And the holy glow
Of satan’s silver tongue—

                                              “I am what
                                              I am, I am


The House on Tanager Way

by Curtis Emery


I cannot sleep tonight
Because they are bombing Boston
Because they are bombing Pakistan
Because they are Bombing Yemen

It is impossible to understand
The majesty of the willow outside
My bedroom window—
The isolation of familiar landscape
Which shatters incomplete next
To some foreign wonder or a
Beautiful face,
Still I hold onto its figure
As I move forward into some oblivion
Knowing I can only take with me what I have
Seen and committed to memory—
That all destruction is a result
Of not understanding your landscape—
Of moving—
Of a different space within a present
and forgetting.

So when I am falling onto the kitchen
Floor in ecstasy, holding on to
Some parchment of experience filtered through
The hallucinations of the day I can feel
Responsible for the destruction of my
Booming voice in the wilderness which is
My head that I have shut off for the time being

I am more powerful than I thought and less—

I break my teeth on a concrete breeze
Flowing stylishly through the willow
Outside my bedroom and there is nothing
Left of my old self which has sacrificed itself
For the cynicism of 22 and it is heavy and it is
I try and imagine the moving on forwardness
Of 23 but remember that with every year becomes more
Destruction and there is no safety in my bedroom
Which is attacked by banks and news and images
Of dismembered children from elsewhere—

Our lives are a living night and there is no escape
Please get on a train. Leave. Drive straight off
Of the opposite coast hoping on something more subtle,

Do not contemplate freedom like the engaged head of
Your neighbor who has already cast his lot,
Save your light for the constellations are burning out
And the endless da da da da of the universal heart beat
Will need us all someday still bright and youthful even
In heavy skin.

Do not underestimate the power of
The single limb which too brings glory in its
Own right under Euripedes’ perfect gaze
And the Anachronism of a piece of trash
Thrown on the pavement,
Which has also been thrown on the earth—
The cycle of a certain eye which calls truth
And value in the eternal contra dance
Of existence only half as powerful as the
Imagination of the neglected that schemes
Doubly as bright as the epicenter of a bundle
Of C-4.

I watch myself in the mirror and
Remember you in Muncie with a
Flighty smile offering alms
In double time—
Beyond reproach

I wonder how this looks
To you, or if it looks like
Anything at all—
The bristling willow,
The smoldering villas of
Dead uncle Julius’ Vietnam dreamscape—
Which is some mental recreation
Of the last apple of October
Slowly shriveling and defying
The bitter cold of end of season
Accepting the (period) courageously.

I agree to smile is
Scratched penny and useless
Old hats drain proficiency,
When nature’s final audit is
Complete there is nothing more
Than a void head made “wise”
By breathing’s glorious illustration—
The overwhelming image of
The heartbeat’s intoxicating

My fiction is daylight,
Which moves headlong to
Chaos, framing everything
In a disposable cup which
Can be replaced and is meant to
Be re-imagined, I cannot mourn the
Finality of a written line any more than
That of a life, both created to end
One exponentially more deceptive than the
Other, each personal and heartfelt as the
Chickadee’s lone song in the middle of
Dark December—

With this in mind I will fall asleep,
Holding on to each breath pulled in
And pushed out recognizing the cooperation
Of being alive, the shared joy of creation and
The communal groan of destruction—
When the purple sky bends down to kiss
The shadowed ground and night becomes
Whole, all shadows cease and light defines
The anomaly of surroundings—

Look to the ocean, there is no stability but chaos.


In The congested dreamscape of
My unconscious eternal light
Bodies sift galaxies collecting
Celestial sparks to build
Fires of Experience for
Unrecognizable, innumerable
Minds below—

Fragmented clouds linger
Weighted over the green border
Of New Hampshire horizon—
The devil sits in robes of white
Materializing statutes on granite
Mountainside, etched commandments
For the revival of spring in
Golden shoots—
Nature’s silver finger tips
Counting seasons in shades
Of light and green.

The devil’s lofty hand
Traces a cage of lighting
Above the tallest pine
Next to a shallow brook—
Which runs through the center
Of my brain pulsating
With the ebb and flow of eternal motion—
White light energy
Trickles to the forest floor,
Resisting the damning Hand of god
Which continually pushes toward the
Core of existence,
which also pulls with the
Strength of mars and overwhelming
Juxtaposition of right and wrong
Transcribed from the pit of
Never ending darkness in the center of
The universe threaded to god’s infallible

I am beside myself within this
Version of the afterlife which exists
Simultaneously with the Body,

Flowing through the membrane
Of light and dark—
Empowering the mythic glow
Of the willow tree outside my bedroom
And keeps my head bright when I am
Longing for pitch comfort

I cannot understand the
Paradox of light, its
Chaos and stability fused into ambiguous
Formlessness validating the impossibility
Of Peace and the eternal chaos that is

And it is in this shadow box
That solace is pulled out of
Holy bankruptcy,
The stasis of the wind
The solidification of the ocean
The heavenly void of
Existence in ultraviolet spilling
Graciously through the bay window
In my living room.

[Wednesday Notation]

by Curtis Emery

There is no blank point
Like the tip of
Arrested endlessness
On edge of the horizon
Which makes me realize I am
Wholly stopped—
Like some creature that
Also has purpose for the trap—
And I know it is doom that
Is my purpose, and the
Purpose of those around me because
We are fearless of nothing
And still fearful of everything—
I remember a party last winter where I
Saw a friend die, although he didn’t,
And in a moment I was overcome with happiness
Because I believed I saw the fulfillment of DOOM
And it was not me—
And in that moment
I was the most me—
I felt free
Free of fear because chaos had
Chosen some other skeleton to
Possess (I do not mean this in a supernatural
Sense, only alcohol poisoning)
And I was free to fuck on a couch and
Wake up hung over—
Wake up hung frigid with
The crystal snow of New Year’s Day,
Which was sweet in its coldness because I
Could breathe
And bright in its crystal alchemy because I
Could see—
I wish I could watch someone die every
Night and living is suffocating,
I have wasted my life on living
Instead of dying (which is a more
Accurate description of living)—
And the present
And the future
And the past
Which are all transient as in
A millisecond they have all occurred at least