The Law of Closed Doors

When we walked to the Peabody Hotel,

you said:

The infeasible thought—

horror of the forest in the subtle pages

silent thunder muffled in the foliage

muttering a description

liberated from a fistful of dust.

That volatile dispersion of words

hurt me. It fell like a cast iron web

the rusted and heavy 
filigree of architectures collapsing.

The sound was horrendous

the clangs and the crashes.

I said:

You have no idea what you are saying.

You said:

The pure work of art demands

the death of the poet who must yield

initiative to words

set in motion by the clash 
of their inequalities.

I said:

So our love's a consecrated fiction?

Only desiccated diction?

I said that leaves us no way out

but the way we came in, not the fact 

but the lie of the language that speaks us.

You said:

We are where we do not speak

searching for the name of the missing thing.

I said:

What's the name of the missing thing?

You said:

The unexpected precipitation 
of an unexpected meaning—

twin doors of urinary segregation.

And we walked to the Peabody Hotel

to see the ducks.

Coming Night

We went into the kitchen,
got ourselves another
"kulcher," what we call
another mother.

We struck so hard,
so hard, until we sparked.

We said: Hey, hey, hey,
come away with us tonight.

Come halfway to tomorrow.

So won't we
render that kiss?

We said: Won't we
never start loving if we turn?

Wake up with the rain
kissing a face?

Oh, we went into the kitchen
to catch the rain
falling like such small hands
waving from such great heights.

Everything looks this perfect,
we said, from so far away.

The persistent call of crows
came down now. Everything
fell down now,

is what we told night.

Oh, woe, woe, woe.
Woe is weak, is what we said tonight.

There's a shadow, we said.
We can't see these eyes.

There's a shadow,
the graffiti of night, we said.
a shadow we can't see.

We never thought
before we said:
You're the only reason
we keep on coming home.

That's what we
never thought we
love you.

Walk Away

I know what you said.

Your father saw that fox

Again; that white dog

Crossed the road,

And he swerved.

He looked the other way

And swerved.

I know what you said.

It was always the end,

Always over with me and you,

Like a pop song from 1982.

Now you’re just somebody that

I used to know, that

I used to know.

You never cut me.

You didn’t have to cut me

So clean and deep.

I know what you said.

Sing that old song

We used to sing.

Sing that old song

Your mother never sang.

Admit that I am wrong

And go home, Girl.

I know what you said.

You showed me what I was

Running from, and I sang

Like Mumford & Sons,

Sang like Arcade Fire.

I sang like day forgot night

And foreswore dawn.

I sang like you

Forgot the way your father wrote 

Your mother’s name

With a Fourth-of-July sparkler 

At the virgin face of night.

I sang as if you knew your mother’s eyes,

As if you knew your father 
Never did a goddamn thing

Worth writing in a history book.

Oh, your folks were worth all

The candles you

Lit for them.

I know what you said:

Charlie Boy, don’t go to war.

Don’t go to war, My Boy.

You said, Don’t hang your head.

I know you said I wore a uniform and played

A bugle, that I raised my hand

And held a flag, but you didn’t say

The news was bad, My Boy—You didn’t say

You knew I tossed my rifle down and ran.

I know you said

That I didn't fall,

That nobody falls.

You said that we all run a trail

Like a beagle runs a rabbit in a wide,

Wide arc back home again.

You said: 

Don't let anybody say

That you can't go home again.

Home is where you take it, 

And it goes where you go. 

Home has to go with you

Because it owns you. 

Home's tied to your hide, 

And it weighs you down 

As you circle back,

Trying to get away from home again.

I said:

Go home, Girl.

Tell your folks

That I love them

Even less

Than I love you.

What She Said to Me

She said:

The line
breaks make
all the fucking difference.

She said:

I'm so sick of poets
extolled for standing still
or doing nothing
with such great skill.

She said:

Don't worry 'bout me,
baby.

I got nothing to give.

She said:

This ain't no down
the throat drink
I'm asking for.

She said:

Merry Christmas,
bitch.

Buy This Rare Edition of THE BATTLEFIELD WHERE THE MOON SAYS I LOVE YOU

Seattle, WA & Fayetteville, Arkansas: Mill Mountain Press / Lost Roads, No. 7-12, 1977.  First Edition. Softcover.  Very Good +.

First Printing. A Very Good+ 
copy of Stanford's magnum opus,

published the year before he committed suicide.

A 542-page stream-of-consciousness poem,

written in one sentence. This copy has a section

torn from the half-title page, as if to write a note

to Stanford himself! But it is gently read.

(Oh, that all our spines would be

gently read as this copy of Stanford's magnum opus!)

The spine has vertical creases and there is something crossed

out in marker on the inside rear cover,

but overall (and despite the flaws)

the book is in very clean, collectible condition.

A cult

favorite

among poets and slowly

gaining broader recognition after the 2000 reprinting.

This book is quite scarce and rarely comes

(or stays)

on the market.

Additional photos available upon request.