Other Poems by:

Lamont Palmer


It wells up, strewn pieces of moon.
Outward, the parts spilt benignly,

sky, wind, flesh, debris, the skin of rocks
floating, in unison, with the asteroid belt.

Look up to see the image. Striking, in its sharpness,
known vistas tremble - there is a lone glow
reaching a thousand eyes in a thousand nights.

Lamont Palmer

A Field Of Corn

It wells up, strewn pieces of moon.
Outward, the parts spilt benignly,

sky, wind, flesh, debris, the skin of rocks
floating, in unison, with the asteroid belt.

Look up to see the image. Striking, in its sharpness,
known vistas tremble - there is a lone glow
reaching a thousand eyes in a thousand nights.

Lamont Palmer

Riding Without Radio

     Let's ignore man's music, artificial beats
on fresher mornings continuing into air.
 Instead we'll listen to yawning birds and music borne of beaks.
The lady who runs the fruitstand on Cape Horn Road
is pale among the colors of fruit; her skin,
falling to the skin of apples, red in the sun,
the uniformity of brilliance, deep in stacked fruit.
Crates spew color, a primary force
to pass, as we speed by, penetrating morning.
The audio element is earth itself,
rushing, rushing by the open ear,
rushing, and internally removing the silence.
All that we hear is what we hear, whipping wind
injurious of actual drums; man's drums;
Like his percussion could ever compete?
All we hear is the 'why' of how we hear,
implicit within ripe movement, ripe wind,
and fulvous fruit left silently; left in sound.
Lamont Palmer


Each channel is busy with thievery.
Note the passion that it takes from the body,
like a machine drawing every vital drop 
of interest, of affinity, of power in the eyes.
Note the light which is the most dangerous
light on the earth. It leaves corpses on the couch.
The droning noise is untraceable. Left alone
in the dwelling sought out by one who seeks to merge,
the radiation is warm but its own, dead enemy,
its own dream of brightness and digital doom. 
Dawn fidgets away into the space over our heads.
Distractions have immersed beneath the skin,
the shimmer of fantasy, the fake light of fake worlds,
the banishment of touch to a touchless Siberia,
cold in the places where we choose to sleep.

A Field Of Corn

Green is gold to some.
Flawed yet perfect hands
bring to the surface, the life of green,
the husks which strain to bind with sky.

Row and rows are mathematically sound,
like Silver Queen armies, fresh with serenity,
and even more fresh in its alignment,
to come, standing in fields, like a force for tender bellies.

Acres of it; the result of work, of a tractor's movement,
and perhaps there is still no satisfaction,
as poverty is deep as the earth is deep; with stalks buried in it.
But from where I am, there are only rows of beauty; no stories.

Pier Pressure On The Eastern Shore of Maryland

Consign to the wind what you will, or might have;
if you stand on the pier, looking out, you have consigned
the essense of it; and the wind knows.

It is a trifecta: water, wind, you. Emitting from the three is my needfulness.
I gamble on the blending of it, standing on the edge,
spotting trash strewn nearby, tossed by a lazy one. But nothing is ruined by the debris.

I looked out over the calmess of the blue. I used to think it was beautiful.
I still do but I am not assimilating as I did before.
One can be the same, yet different. Small waves make an eventful, lapping sound;

the event is the notion of standing here, the notion and the physicality,
the realization of being partly here, of being partly everything, only a half.
I am as still as the boats docked here; waiting discontentedly to be propelled.

For Rent

In the winter the living room is cold.
They stuff a rolled up scatter rug at the front door

to seal in the elusive warmth, a simple unadorned warmth,
like yesterdays happiness,
invisible. Without the rug, air slipped in, allowing the room a chilled, outdoorsy embrace.

Lisa, the landlord, or awful lordess, refused them a storm door...the sly mouthed whore!!
so winter nearly creates showy white breath in the house.

Rhapsody engaged,
spilling coldly, inhumanly.

Early Februrary drives them together.
Landlord apathy is useful here.

Every thirty days, they put that rent check in her mailbox, fattening her, diminishing them;
it is the American way, devouring itself month by month. 

But they have to live somewhere in the world. It is a new, disbanded world for them;
even with landlords hell-bent on purchasing propoerty in hell; Satan, the realtor awaits the slumlords.

Towtruck Driver

His life was in the lines of his face,
each line a highway to a pointed travail,
leading to nowhere, like his life, a bright nowhere.
Nor was I going anywhere on tires of dead, flaccid rubber.

I gave him some extra money, and he said his name
like naming a cloud before clouds had names; he said,
Jesse Haney, like it was all he had, on a winter morning
where the sky was an iced over ocean, where the cold
resembled a white chilled moment, an inner moment, frozen, below 32.

His face was lined, as travail lines human flesh--street faces.
And he said his name like there was nothing else,
nothing as supreme as a given name, on a winter morning
almost whited out, almost frozen in a charitable moment.

Slow Dance Before Closing Time

Night as empty as a drunken man;
Days that come as emergency vehicles come.

I am lost in what smells like Red Door;
the flashing lights have spoken, in a silence I now miss.

Early Possibilities At Morning

Dawn reaches from salvation:
a de facto swimming mist,
hiding houses, hiding a homey valley,
hiding Hampstead with a voluminous mist.
White dawn, dark trees, scarcely wooden,
scarcely brown, scarcely here
beside a milkiness;

April, coy and mild, continues on as casual color.
The beginning is not warm. The end precludes a outdoors fire.
To be at a window, now, is to be wholly loved,
standing there; breathing in a life-formed hue;
the hue of a extremely winsome time. 
Birds are heard, too, but their bodies are lost;
the mist is a friend, a protector, a chilled way of being lost.

Remembering 1979

Again I sat as sad zombies sit,
listening to musical moments a waning life
can do nothing about. I remember when my limbs
were not wooden branches. I remember when age
was not an enemy lying in wait in the surrounding shrubs.
I remember when my yearnings were silky and fine to the touch,
like a woman glowing in youth.
I remember when disco was like blood.

This is a stage. I put the trash out at night,
getting rid of, at night, what is needless any hour.
The moon above me was drunk in its whiteness,
looking at me as if I might be there someday
hanging beside him; me, another heavenly body.
Nothing is as it was.
Damn it, can I not say this in a stern, calm voice?
My tremulous voice is the tongue of the past,
when I remember legs, arms, and futures in youthful, hopeful motion,
and when it comes back to me--the dancing, dancing, the careless exhaustion,
the days when Donna was the most intense Summer. Remember when 
orgasms were set to music?
O remember the days when disco was like blood; the days when life was 
dancing too.

The Effect You Have

First it was your essense,
stealing my resolve,
turning my desire into physical fire.
Then it was the voice,
the tones of exuberance and joy,
the tones of alluring creativity,
a voice of original dance and human music.
Then it was my heart,
the way it melted into a warm substance,
the veins, the capillaries all bursting, flourishing
like flowers living in the chest.
Even before the sight of you, the touching of flesh,
there is a dream-like state,
the dream is a hope for a life in your eyes and memory,
a life in the valid, lasting parts of you.

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