Michael Homolka

Mock columns       illusionistic footing
She could have told him what would help him

This boy of sixteen
several souls and several wills

delicate modeling of light

who preached to the birds
Nothing shall I while sane


Sunshine       dairy
mere decoration

Coins from the time of Cleopatra
Nothing delights

Ask him here
She could have told him

Ask him here
If you get out

Ask him
I'll tell him to go to hell


Fine-tuned bands of color rise
silk fumes       false sky

Shake the flame to fits and lulls
firmament unfolding

Because it was he       because it was I
Nothing shall I while sane


This boy       this still life
hills in the background crowned by smoke

mock columns       shadow of sixteen

He would have missed me
I do not miss him


One preached to the birds       the other
painted them

Tell him       fond friend
who soothes your distress

who helps you to sleep
who dissolves your sorrow

Tell him

whose face blurred before he died


Blue paint       densely packed

Because it was he
Because it was I

a cleft in the rock       light without shade
a band of color rising

She could have told him


Sleep peels off into decoration
a gold border       a grease spot on his vest

Bitter obligation
all he's going to be

a model of light       usurer's empty purse


Star-studded firmament unfolding

fifty years

whose only charm
lies in strangeness


I do not miss him


His hand shot out
the brittle rest of the story

false sky beyond a window
purple cloud       supernatural

It's a fine story and uplifting
but the whole thing

is pure fiction

treeline stripped of essential adornments
mock light       dense blue paint

how much happier
the man who owes nothing


She could have told him what would help

perfect slave
stripped of myth       stripped of pain

assuming an empty tomb
Mock light       my slave got away

No it is I who have gotten away






Evergreen v is the fifth poem in a six-part collage series. In this series I'm attempting to meld many bits of differently-registered language into an aggregate register that (hopefully) stirs something in the reader. The poem seeks to offer a gossamer narrative on which the threads of images only very loosely depend. My main objective at this point is that the poem does not come off as wordy and windingly cylindrical as this abysmal description—yuck! Apologies and the next rounds on me!