Ghazals 1

Doing ghazals now.

Back after a year with a somewhat different bag. No tricks here. Ghazals are too difficult for tricks. I love rhyming now.

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10 Verses ending “nothing at all”

Post-diminution into an echoing nothing-at-all:
apotheosis of a fly, bzzZz, a shiny 
	coin & nothing at all.

Sleepless, thinkless. There can only be so many of these
endless nights, these alone nights, of private 
	joys, of nothing at all.

Glint of a cicada wing against the moon: incessant. A crystal 
	trumpet,
as if these bugs were mystics. Soon a billion will come & 
	anoint: nothing at all.

(Aside, for those with a too caustic sardonic spirit: there’s
a solution for you; it’s only $20! Buy today to 
	foil your “nothing-at-all!”)

Now, try we do—forever this we’re doomed to: trying—yet 
says all the best [ed: ‘impossible’] advice to me, “Only ever 
	enjoin nothing. At all.”

His vision: hell, atrocity landscape & catalog; as his liver gave 
	in, he toiled on, but !
(spoilers/)His hell & death book, life wins it at the buzzer &
	purloins death’s nothing-at-all. (/spoilers)

The little man smoked & smoked outside the car lot. In, the ford 
	salesman
practiced, in khakis, What I hafta do to get ya cruisin today?
	it fired up his 
	groin like nuthin at all.

Lookit, speech!—see it?: fun, wonder, lots to watch said,
plus: fun trickery!, eg “make” any “thing” (from n
	conjoined nothings) at all.

{STANZA IDEA: A DIALOGUE WHERE—RESPONDING TO SOME QUERY
—QUOTH A RESPONDENT, CALLED A STUPID 
	VOICE, “NOTHING AT ALL”}

To wound celestial corpses (boring!) or tear cities’ flesh (shut 
	up!) or crush all with pshit-caked bulging scepter,
& do it like savage Ubu, idiot god, reigning 
	Roi, like nothing at all.

6 verses ending “rhythm”

The crow is, metaphorically. And in the outcropping, in its hands: 
	rhythm.
It’s not a picture one can follow, who doesn’t understand rhythm.

The bird is gone away. I mean, now speaking, literally. And etched
(so soft) in stone shit-dappled beneath is: another’s so aged 
	demand for rhythm,

and for the drum. What Putney spurned and Wadada sought,
the drum—eternity by pattern; time’s spirit diamond, rhythm;

borne of ceaseless labors’ maintenances, a unity supreme; 
	communiques enchained. 
Just think: all this, come from the sky. (Think: of the sun’s 
	rhythm.)

And between beats: rock sits under us. This “stillness” too is 
	moving
dynamical as the corvid taken flight squawks repeated >Undone! in 
	rhythm,

each wing beat, too, in lifeblood’s time. I know I shouldn’t
have left the tribe, how I’m sodden now in inhuman rhythm.