Hendrik van Meer

poems for your perusal

[h-vanmeer]

178

9:56, ABE: flight in flight, forced to flee the furnace for places fairer to the king— a poised Nefertiti lay prone by his side, face fresh in the temperate breeze brought on by a billion foals. Mother had died the day before, yet the apparition seemed to linger in every doorway like a half stranger known only by sight but not by name— an ache not borne for a minute more. They leave to alleviate their burdened souls, weighed wearily by the birthright bestowed upon them to be stoic and brave, as their behavior obliterates the comforts of constituents and knaves enslaved under their enchantments. Under the shelter of newborn night, the marathon sprint to shifting shores born daily from a distant melt begins, despite dry throats rasping rebuttals aimed at those praying to meddle in the royal affairs, preying on the solemn sensibilities of she—bred not for male fertility, devoid of all fragility for the soiled system of succubi vying for her affections— who would not otherwise be convinced. Her attention was poised for none but the prince, now king, whose desire was beyond all sight— felt ever-present with eyes yet closed, drawn down deep and that swam in the deluge of blood buoying his very being with every whisper uttered from the lips of hers. Blind men knew of this—visible beyond body, beauty, action, and clothes, a bouquet of lilies and roses rising inside with every turn of the tide— though by many names it had become known, only Love would be the most succinct. Countless hours of peregrine precision in observation still, not a single flaw had yet crossed his vision— a true daughter of the gods: brighter than the moon on a still Nile she shown, swifter than the Levantine gales she quipped, sweeter than the ripest fruit that could be known, an earthquake could shake with each sway of her hips. His intention to lap at the sand like the ebbing flow while the divinity in his lap danced a fidgeting step made that his words would not be minced— they would in dusk challenge the chariot to supersede its abilities. The bear-built man and sultry sphinx were at once to leave for the resplendent sea— twice were moved to conceal the chase, for those opposed would roar with glee and call for seats upon rigid thrones— so chances could not dare be jinxed. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

177

I stand in a grand hall peering down its distant ways, remarking on its decadence forged in brutal days where all who labored were belittled, beleaguered, reviled as those of the lower tier, though without whom the masters’ homes would’ve never endeared. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

176

The human experience —the grand tour— feels much like going door to door: a finite number of knocks at the fore of each façade, expecting that by a certain law of averages, a conceivable median of persons will plead and implore that we vacate their porch and their yard; a lesser fraction of which will permit the pitch; the smallest of groups will scratch the itch you’ve painstakingly stitched, allowing you a glimpse at their lowered guard. If in life you complete 1000 knocks, expect that you’ll speak with a special few— surface encounters most, about which and of whom you’ll remark on with such hazy indifference, unclear as to their details but aware of their existence and crystal of their lack of impact on your subconscious. Of these, some may find themselves as third class friends, ones with whom shared experiences took place but beyond this event-based head space no ideological neutrality ever made sense. Sparser still is the second tier, the one whose title might well be ‘peers,’ in whom you trust and share a bond, with whom you share your joys and fears; these know you well, buying and selling information like metadata drawn from the dark and dear of your shared psyche, producing memories loathed and of some you’re fond. Finally, focus on what inhabits songs, what carves the canon and scripts the sitcoms, the evermore friendships that are cast in concrete— the spectrum of the spiritual rainbow, the choice cuts of emotional meat. These are those you’ve loved and have returned the feat. These are those never forgotten. These, irrespective of blood, are family. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

175 // Ginger

Amedeo had her best— vivacious and ripe, still conscious of her form and glow in the face of vice-fueled trysts. Pablo had her next— deep in the throes of midlife strife griping about this and that before choosing to ash as was her half-minute habit. Chaim cared not for looks— booked her for the portrait to drain from her a life of scenes, some splendid, yet most obscene in the presence of artists and their sordid repertoire of wit. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

174

Little blue girl in her flowing dress— at pause, poised, possibly in a state of brief distress, reflecting her pensive position with her rope at rest— poses in judgment opposite him. Little blue boy in his naval cap— relaxed, at play, just at the edge between field and bay, reflecting his precociousness and the hope that they might soon join their paths— poses in preparation of sin. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

173

Sit down—the table— at it, on it, it matters little; or perhaps a chair— it matters not, I do not care. Allow me to stare into the barren depths of the duotone demon stairs to hell hiding behind your eyes— red like a rose held ruggedly by those who had little intention of watching her grow after the pollen had fallen; crimson and monochrome like the poinsettia whose presence is as perplexing as it is pleasant, a paradigm of the interior design tradition— I see their truths. I hear the hollow chimes as their bells toll; I watch as they come to their fruition; I satiate with self-harm through the sting of vermouth; I serve the proclamation from the birch bark scroll. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

172

Sternum skewered by a sultry soliloquy, subject to the sear of suspect skepticism, soaring—see the chemtrails?— a fight for the right not to feel frail, falling for the romance of an out-of-fashion fetishism, the kind that is nothing of the sort. Let’s protect ourselves, let’s build a blanket fort. Let’s practice words— attack, defense, refute, retort— we’ll need to use them on each other soon; if not now, then sometime right after we’ve left this room, though to do so would require transferring fjords. Daydreams dancing under sagittal seams, denouncing the drear of the space between them and us, you and I, me and myself do nothing if little to help or harbor the thirteenth or twelfth temptation to turn to the terminal and pronounce goodbyes. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

171

Painstaking attempts to fill the gap left by the lull of this flight relapse, imbibing the solution from which judgments lapse; the fluff of dog hair helps little to soften the crash an anxious tide, which on longboards so many would kill to soar though instead kills me— temples unhinge that in pain I clasp. Such are the throes of this pre-board routine— delirium-driven drinks drank in the domain of dawn, paired revoltingly with this drab poutine; not the best recipe for a stomach’s ease or that of the passengers of row 13 who reflect my green like their manicured lawns. Contemplating the importance of contemplative longform— meta in reflection, perennial in content— and seeing the need for balance with vulgar situational work— single instants notwithstanding— observational of self and others, of kin and of neighbor and of unknown brothers, of sisters and fathers and cousins and mothers, for tolerance is only bred from understanding. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

170

We are the masked who uncovered the truth by mistakenly entering the wrong masquerade. We are the all-knowing, unknowingly seeking more knowledge by means of nightly reconnaissance. We are the believers who sought out our peers, and to prove our beliefs conducted a séance. We are the enlightened who dull the dark of others by refocusing their brilliance while letting our own fade. 4700 stone weighs heavy on the dimples of an unscarred humpback— travels in circles between continents through black currents never quite knowing if she ever made it back. 7/16 of a mile is too far to run when all the while never sinking teeth into unborn flesh— retired, chases and catches the sort of wretch that haunted her for years, though upon killing its prey knows not how to live once rid of instinct or guile. 12.5 light minutes is a veritable blink, when after planning and training and funding and fueling and flying and sleeping and autopiloting for months, realizing you forgot something when arriving into orbit and open your eyes blink. A single instant is a lifetime when a heart is in a heap— the pressure tides flux and perceptions shift, but it stops in eternity when I choose to sleep. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

169 // Four

Swan dive into the crevice, relish the chutes— devices devoted to the various vices designed for the most visceral descents; temperaments triaged into temptress trials, seasoned to the taste of my sight and scent. Present the candidates— a coterie of mood-ring phases incarnate, manifestations to aid and satiate the many ids: The enigma, edgy and empowered— the most prevalent of alter egos oozes with dead pan pandering, indulging the outspoken alternative, inviting the plain to gander at our grandiose originality, partially groomed and leather-clad— drips ever faster like molten molasses when lulled into her left ear that she’s been bad. The magisterial muse, meek and mild mannered— she, perilously poised, pining not for the attention of the masses, parades only perfectly planned pontification regarding the most veritable points, otherwise reserving her voice— rather prefers that she anoints me with her siren’s song, masterfully arranged such that at the closing measure she’s melted my joints and I drip willfully toward where she thinks I belong. The blacksmith, brazen and boisterous— wildly forging her mates from the submissive throng, bends all to her will, boldly choosing not between stoicism and criticism for she raises her word over the unheeded hiss of others— wields leathery hands that hide her ability to harness the soft yet betray her penchant for steel, her affinity for the role where her toys are flayed at her own accord, a single harmonic phrase the releasing chord uttered when I no longer drip or feel. The deity, dainty and delectable— idealized, the divine effigy, often seen but never grasped, yet whose ethereal image floats hopefully just before fingertips, a tease designed to prevent the acceptance of her arguably fleeting reality, one I ponder if I’ll ever catch. We, two celestial bodies in orbit, circle each other unclear as to who, in this dance, approaches and who retreats, the perfectly proportioned Olympic biology offering the tastiest of treats of which none but I are worthy in dream— invites the imbibing to sip her aura that drips through the valleys after the springtime sleet. These and other fae maraud the seas, and I, snorkeling in search of unseen species, welcome all to the tidal pools whose ecosystems are stirred by swell and breeze. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

168

Comparisons to the past for validation drain self confidence. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

167

Are predecessors always our inspiration? What of my ideas? •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

166

Contemporaries: who decides when they’re what’s new— is it me or you? •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

165

Trying to find equilibrium, tip-toeing the lines bordering between the arctic and some sanguine calefaction— appeasing all parties, all coteries and factions, closed-nose breaths smelling of human torrefaction, parading through the black pines, sticky with their entrails— I’ll bathe in pools filled in aortic fashion. How can’t you read this plain reaction? Skidding off the rails, an accidental consortium conforms to your wills, wind filling sails against the trending vanes— I must be going insane. Or is it you, misreading the ticking timetable for the one-way train, who decides to go the wrong way— I don’t need your coat, I don’t mind the rain. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

164

Sat behind the sign reading “poetry while you wait,” she’s waving me down; I tempt my fate— Not the usual wanderer or gollum, I see, approaching to solicit a poem from me. Cute enough, I suppose, though not of she— this wretch in worse clothes whose stench just might be visible from orbit— but rather her words, her backhanded wit, wriggling on her milk crate, struggling to sit as I stand over her typewriter, questioning my shirt choice and why me, of all people, she might find fit. •HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

163

Stare at the umpteenth headline about shit that shouldn’t matter; pray you uncover antimatter in the immaterial. Over-value the material over the lamentable latter— a ladder toward temptation making egomania fatter, surreal. Gorge yourself on the gorgeous, then throw yourself off a bridge over an eastern gorge. Bridge the gap between humility and the throes of a world in tatters, in tears.

•HvM•

[h-vanmeer]

162

In search of a form, forgotten figure; barbed wire stem wear rosy plasticine petals, bubble-wrap leaves draped in acid rain dew— not one naïve knave could’ve known that I knew. Go figure. Parading paradigms outlined by Parra and Hughes, a marked man masquerading his mastery of nickels and dimes sleeps in a public park. Listen to the song of the crested lark— red eyes radiating through red pines in the penultimate dark penetrate the passers-by— try not to cry. I still have a hard time. •HvM•