Something, I Know Not WhatBy Ray Corvi
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To fully comprehend
Something, I know not what
One must ante up
Full-fledged
In his destruction
To turn it down,
The fresh-made bed
The sound of voices in one’s head
Do not say, “Something, I know not what”
The sound of ardor
Or the ivy in the wind
Say something, if you must
Before the lamplight spills out of the sunset
& covers us with fire
Say,
“Something, I know not what
Is eating away at you--
I’d like to disabuse you of it”
Wherewith she might respond,
“Don’t worry,
Everybody knows
Gingers have no soul”
Which perforce was why I wept
Against my will
Unlike an actor on a stage
Though it was a bad charade
A mule eating flower blossoms
(The roses that I bought)
It is time now
For the particular
To obliterate the universal
Pierce it through the jowls
So the rest of our lives
May momentarily begin
Cow me with the
Equipage of your laughter
Nothing with extension lacks a color
I am missing my own face
I find it here and there
In the way you scry my glare
Microscopy of form
Telescopy of content
A clinquant paracusia
Palpating the zoetrope
If you see me say hello
Sing the song of a dozen daffodils
But don’t deprive me of disaster
If you must just ask her
If she likes Vincent van Gogh--
Perchance the dreamer slits his wrists
Cutting onions in the kitchen
Like the time you cut yourself
& bled
Raspberry sorbet
Blesséd--
Or the time I went to the hospital bleeding to death
From a self-inflicted flesh wound
& the doctor said,
“It’s psychological”
Now at pains
To be brief
I keep stuttering
Whenever I arrive
Anywhere near
the vital question:
What, forsooth, is of the midnight made?
But say it in a stage whisper
Whose remnant
I cover my face with
Because I yearned
To understand
Something, I know not what--
Like the old castrato
Whispering to himself in a stairwell
With a violin concealed
In his throat
His only weapon against the world
That brought him in
A weapon like a crucifix
As the man that fathered him : Misprision ::
A predilection for drama : The curse of heroica
Keep me away from the mentalist, however--
He too knows failure is not without beauty
The breath of a crow:
Flowers and the harrowing
Innuendo, late--
This rusty birdcage
With its door wide open
My song--
Blessèd?
I don’t believe
In the senile cry of elderly cellos
I believe in little yellow
Birds
That drink the tears
Of broken heroes
I.e.
I believe in you
Just like the olden days
When the void was loud with silence
Not unlike the sea whose violence
Is shriven on its shore
Shattered as the mirror
I broke years ago on stage
Long before you changed
Your gender
Miscreant allegro riparian tactus--
And disappeared for good
Poetry should not be what we say
Instead of what we never say
I want the castrato’s voice
To break
With his mother’s heart
As she hears him sing
You must pay attention
To notice the rose
Edging its way
Out of the bush
Onto the sidewalk
Something, I know not what
One must ante up
Full-fledged
In his destruction
To turn it down,
The fresh-made bed
The sound of voices in one’s head
Do not say, “Something, I know not what”
The sound of ardor
Or the ivy in the wind
Say something, if you must
Before the lamplight spills out of the sunset
& covers us with fire
Say,
“Something, I know not what
Is eating away at you--
I’d like to disabuse you of it”
Wherewith she might respond,
“Don’t worry,
Everybody knows
Gingers have no soul”
Which perforce was why I wept
Against my will
Unlike an actor on a stage
Though it was a bad charade
A mule eating flower blossoms
(The roses that I bought)
It is time now
For the particular
To obliterate the universal
Pierce it through the jowls
So the rest of our lives
May momentarily begin
Cow me with the
Equipage of your laughter
Nothing with extension lacks a color
I am missing my own face
I find it here and there
In the way you scry my glare
Microscopy of form
Telescopy of content
A clinquant paracusia
Palpating the zoetrope
If you see me say hello
Sing the song of a dozen daffodils
But don’t deprive me of disaster
If you must just ask her
If she likes Vincent van Gogh--
Perchance the dreamer slits his wrists
Cutting onions in the kitchen
Like the time you cut yourself
& bled
Raspberry sorbet
Blesséd--
Or the time I went to the hospital bleeding to death
From a self-inflicted flesh wound
& the doctor said,
“It’s psychological”
Now at pains
To be brief
I keep stuttering
Whenever I arrive
Anywhere near
the vital question:
What, forsooth, is of the midnight made?
But say it in a stage whisper
Whose remnant
I cover my face with
Because I yearned
To understand
Something, I know not what--
Like the old castrato
Whispering to himself in a stairwell
With a violin concealed
In his throat
His only weapon against the world
That brought him in
A weapon like a crucifix
As the man that fathered him : Misprision ::
A predilection for drama : The curse of heroica
Keep me away from the mentalist, however--
He too knows failure is not without beauty
The breath of a crow:
Flowers and the harrowing
Innuendo, late--
This rusty birdcage
With its door wide open
My song--
Blessèd?
I don’t believe
In the senile cry of elderly cellos
I believe in little yellow
Birds
That drink the tears
Of broken heroes
I.e.
I believe in you
Just like the olden days
When the void was loud with silence
Not unlike the sea whose violence
Is shriven on its shore
Shattered as the mirror
I broke years ago on stage
Long before you changed
Your gender
Miscreant allegro riparian tactus--
And disappeared for good
Poetry should not be what we say
Instead of what we never say
I want the castrato’s voice
To break
With his mother’s heart
As she hears him sing
You must pay attention
To notice the rose
Edging its way
Out of the bush
Onto the sidewalk
Ray Corvi's work was published or is forthcoming in Brushfire, Chaffin Journal, DASH Literary Journal, Evening Street Review, FRiGG Magazine, Neologism Poetry Journal, OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters, The Penmen Review, Poetry Super Highway, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, The Seattle Star, Sublunary Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Triggerfish Critical Review, Whimperbang, and Whistling Shade. Ray has worked a number of odd jobs, including driving a yellow cab in New York City, and has received a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy.