the muse apprentice guild
--expanding the canon into the 21st century




10 WORKS
BY CHRIS ROBIDEAUX

THAT ART IS ONE WAY OUT

That art is one way out
Is nothing new -
Dried fish have found their way
Into a Picasso with
A bearded shrew.

That art is one way out
Seems bolder than a head of state
Smiting evil, though he sums
Our deaths -
And the glass ceiling is prettier
A sight than all the stained glass
Prisms of blood
Gathered by the wicked bishopric

& failing our tepid shores
who, but all who ask shall
trip into their graves, a salt-lick
for lichens?

The man in Provence,
With the paint on his lips
Danced further with God
Than the mitered hunchback -
And that is the secret
Which they have spirited away,
But only for a terminal season…

================

AGAINST THE THEFT OF SWANS

Utter jackknifing ignorance!
Backfiring indolence!
You lent a pet, God, a petulant son
Or mob in the pond-center of one
Northern burg, busy with its
Latest animal crime

Eraser, O great and wide
Possessor, dispossess them
And dunk your furtive thieves
Until their lungs are raw with
The waters of wingless karma!

This is a call
To the frail, white cygnet's restoration.
For Manitou is the animal-spirit
Manifestation.
If a soul exists for them,
(and a not-so-dumb-fish-eye-of-faith),
then perhaps bend the human arms
of theft back at their tops as we wait,
And place her back in her queenly pond.

Relieve my headache from the local news
Sound-byte: "Newest hands taken swan,
The state of our nation." What brains spawn
The hands that make this news sensation?
What offspring steals the wings
Of elegance it cannot form?
What utter failure to thrive
Halts the graceful bird's home?
I must ferret the answers, prior to the tome.

What lurkers in the swan-fables,
Complicit messengers, pitter-pats?
Feeders and swan-neck stealers
And bastard red-handers?
Wearing they spoilage's newest hat?

O why? What hand?
We are not a civilization anymore.
We are an "I can out-devil you,
Temporal friend, just wait and see"
Mob. We are sick children stealing beauty
Of varied forms, accomplished slobs.
O write this not into the final test,
Hand of largesse in our pleading best!

Calmer now, she's still a missing swan report.
But my guilt as a fellow species
Floating the ponds not enough a retort!
We're responsible, all, for the hands that resort
To spiriting away the rarities that sway
In our present field of too little art!
So, let the denunciation come screaming out!

================

PITY NOT THE DEAD

Pity not the dead -
For they have their soul's new toy,
For they have no more razor-wire,
And they breathe the one sound upsworn -
For they fight no more the girl-boy war,
And they no longer wear the long coats of toil -

No, pity not the dead.

Pity not the dead, my dear,
For they hold a whole cosmos now -
And they flip the flag of the eternal spring,
Leapt up as they are away from now,
Brought to bloom and a broken chain,
Done with the recess of a misfit brain,

No, pity not the dead.

We do not pity the season when it dies,
Nor wear we black when the rose curls,
Likewise hold we no solemn for the moon's last phase,
Or burn we incense when the old self turns,
Nor bow we our heads when the night dies to sun,
When we know at last the light that's to come,

No, pity not the dead!

So, when you see your dearest go down,
And bewildered family together wilts,
Wear the vest, but hold you fair fast,
Thoughts of that one now on soul stilts
        And high and far and gone beyond
To clearer life, given before the guilt
Caused us worry at every breath,
No, wear the countenance of a dear one changing,

But - Pity not the dead!

Pity not the dead; They pity you!
Ignorant becomer! Who's not passed through!
Hid by false word, and bought-in,
The dead are free of queries and clues
The toil, howevermuch, done, done, done!
Only silverflight to the upper worlds
Free of death's evilest tongue
Pity not, dear souls, what's done, and -

Pity not the dead - They've won.

================

IT

What does it do, in the blood, but burn?
Laughing doses, slow
When thoughts are inurned -
Save me a conversation
When water is scarce
I'll need something more
When I've lost all my cares.

What does it do, in the blood, but burn?
All meanderings dumbfounded,
And uneasily earned,
Saving this rage up for nights
When love's defiled,
Is the cop dusting his hands off
When one criminal is whiled.

What does it do, in the blood, but burn?
Sacerdotal signifier choking,
On his own words?
Millenium fevers riding right up, like snakes
Lolling around with their new, human brains -
My specter then comes, puts an end to all reigns.

What can it do, in the blood, but know?
That freedom itself is the banner of birds?
Who flirt with generational doors, hiding herds?
Grant me prayers, all, so knowing's a full moon.
Above cities usurped by the agonizing swoon…

What can it do, in the blood, but know?
Grim secrets are causing
Or anger, and slow -
Forgive me, the child, who forgiveless now goes.
And make me a field, young and free of woes.

The future may step to my ears, though none seen -
Calamitous dowagers of birth never need -
And dangerous suns let legacies wilt to the ground
As we all go careening in the fire that is round.

What does it do, in the blood, but burn?

================

DEEP PARTURES

Truth's curlicue window is queer -
Bath time is like a train departure, my dear.
Each try is a phantom of place, and learns well
To ever exhibit the moles of uncertain hell.
And so, it is here: the comprised, balmy trek.
To destinations of unabashed-freedom's neck.

Depart! O willful sons, depart!
Livelier greens await thee, incomparable stars!
Yards of artful joy, to siren your glee!
Depart your realm's poison nobility
Fashion saves fashion, not Man.
Who weaves his ample masks with rough strands,
In the gardens of heaven's machinery, styled
An unnatural thing took to office, cold and vile.

And here do we believe on the
Profit-prophets' cheap words?
Raking up liars, puppeting heroes
As we lurch?
Toward our bland medicines, our vats
Of convenience and tides,
Tumbling down Titanic's smooth sides,
And saying at last, in the dark,
                "I am lost…I am lost…"
Infathomable cost -
God's bumble is in all that can be seen
So please let me smile, out on
Morning's soft sea…

================

BOXING DAY

I placed Ulysses on the bar
In the "Catacombs," thinking, "Burying
whom, here in the gothic holds of new
establishments?"
'Twas my dark drink told the tale,
amongst the boisterous in space not enough.
The black fellow, friendly, says, "Is that a good book?"
(I am so near the wood fire stove, I too, am getting cooked.)
"I think so," I say, flipping pages, "I've read bits and pieces,
have yet to swallow it whole." "Me too. Bits and pieces.
I like Gatsby more."
And he is away, in a Joycean minute; works there, must attend.
        The post-Christmas crowd loves to try new hats
And places on. From there my efforts turn towards Europa.
Reisling and a dry grin, not the Copa; but full of charm.
Not the only one in or on my own. My antiseptic holiday
Is pregnant with want and hurt, and still the blown, cold
Night asks, "Well?"
                If wanting wins, will God's bad configuration
Repeal and oppose all loss? Philosophical virgins dance
And propose depthless merriment. Choices, mine, are sad
Seedlings now - half-grown, half-groan…
        And what of the tides
        That are solely mine?
Plumbed nights, far too dark to know my inner sun,
Fatten up alleyway devils, and laugh. The collective cough
Of us contains half of this, and more -
The strange world divides again, and scores.
I am a stranger in a stranger's mien.
So, I rove on, and must. This is mine, this night.
Hard rhythms jangle my test, my best. But clench on, I must,
No rust.
        Cleanser of meddles
        In meadows clears the eyeball of faith,
        And flyall, bathers check for snow
        (Chill souls are bound to) And a requiem
        For easy days passed in nonchalance, but -
Now we've a challenge for the ages, and Father Christmas rests.
Joyce, too, as Ulysses in Elysium wanders.
But rest, ye knights. The good hour has come.

================

OHM 7, OR IF NOTHING

Sometimes we must finally die
                        In someone's arms, having waited a lifesong.

Air out all stagnation, the clean snow says.
                        Airs of distinction in the fruitless hills, long.

We left of the garden in the arid loneliness, kill.

        Filial post -
                Choosed you did not,
                Bookworm of death
        & darting pupils in the mad hours -
        but wined, you did, nights when your spirit shook
        & your thrombic meter, cleft,
        bled you in the tubes.

        Star jargon contained
        In the knowing soul is kept
        In the shadowy portions
        Of our forming days…

Another century of cold shoulders!

        A penetrable heart smirked back, wanly,
                        Sure of supercilious ways.

Players of the Moon! Endure!
        Rabid munchion beast c'est perdue.

        Eagle environs cleared of
                                sanctity, the first urge.

Sonmulligan in Ulysses, with "unborn child in [his] brain,"

Something classicallous, way far back in the mien,

                assemblage.

        Pagans on a free tear, blood-signifying,

                "I'm going to hold you to the stars,"

                                etc.
                from manger to cross, that divine ache,

                                etc.
Swarmhouses with no attendees

                        To your death-hunger pedestal,

                                                sap

Spiryllis, sleep, self-activation (open the closed bud)

                Betwixt the leaves a far better -

        -these are the actions
                                (s'il vous plait)

sight of punctilious flowers, et al, in a measureless spring…

- And this is just one of such -

January's cradle/ a thirst/ month of theft

Unclaimed gifts put back & just about this time

                A cloak
                        of freezing rain's sheet.

(This far north the shadows, deeper, hum the lowest -

        I snapped forth from hours of eye-rest to raise
                knife to the day, but, razor it did me -)

Whose insufferable comfort (?)

                Interceptor-self does
                Gain twindles, doses, better heaven,

Often, your relentless beard of fantasy…

Triumph totalus?

1. You imbued me
2. softened though your eyes were
needles & needed
3. severed standards all
4. free free free free

walk into the crux w/ me of the whole spiral spirochete assembly.

A whiff of the blue world,
                World soul w/ accent over
Many lives lived, lipped, ancient
                I went out to
        Greet certain days w/ the spin of a
                ((Private scientist)) -

                gravitate.
                meldings.

Queer answer-try, come on, sunshine -
What are the loose templates of madness
                Doing unswept up & misunderstood?

(a Stonehenge in your personal yard, plotless religion?)

5. induce. Cytoclonic afteryears
6. perhaps time-travel back to zero,
hoax a messiah?
        Keep them?

7. ever faithful, working, a need. Needy.
8. frail brain waffled
9. bake them in the mold of

restraint?

        Sisyphean remonstrance,
                                self-policing.

        Article of sky a press to many

                        (Able to deconstruct, detach, w/ momentous bliss.)

        Importance. Now…

                        Ones that know?

        What world think of them spit contemptuous seed,
                                Rulers pick small list for endowments,
                        The rest?

        Puke out.

                        Followers, would you.

        Nose the sun as you go staircase upping -

        Polonius's very last hour of wisdom,
                                Gentlemen. We fade…

        Bombmmbbmmbmobbmmmoobmmobm

                        Children, thinkers, the wide world,

        Followlist-
                        Traveling doubt, plot them carrying,
                                                
                      Staying.
        passed beyond fake "healer" concept, that a good maker
        say he to die. Believe, or burning soul have forever. A god
I want.

        Zizyphean!
                (he bled red dark red too same as any)
        
        say your other rearward

                A doubt in mindlife is a gift from
                Cosmic midwife, in midair, midlife
                Mideast rifleman holyland turn on self
                Last prophesied kingdom
                                Bent from inside.

                An inside job, that's it.

It can't be left to flow goldenly!!!

                Other policemen, bats and cables,
                Brutalnature readified to strike -

Collar round good man's neck?

                A question a rule for every breath
                  Of air a law a fearsome sample of what
                    New cro-mag can do and how and a stricken
                        Bird for every feather, every cell.

Multi-calls in a 6 X 1
                Billion isotopographological insinister
                Radio canister,
                                Filed in line, life needs money.

        -seal that.

                        Done, it's causing the needed entropy,
                        Candleblown freespirit at appropriate
                        Regulational

        Traffic speed, moansmog

                        Good.
        
Control, we've -

                Hike artificial needs up.

                Good.

- We'll be on the moon well in time to see the planet's
Fireworking end….

                        (A W A K E !!!)

================

FUTURE HAIKU

1 boil> wwwwwmmmmmm 01
myth 'o fettle
_---_ safe? nnnnnnnnnnnn (endless enumerative)
zag 1 2 3 5 7 9
zig 1 2 4 6 8 0
go-star,
traffic,
altar.

================

AMERICAN ZIGGURAT

See the zero-justice building

       and its terraces built on sand prefit

The apparatus for our final split.

See them out in Zion's den

       a lion's den,

trade truth for men.

Acting sort of proud
the judge pours a drink,
pulls a shroud
Over all sense of freedom
allowing
       the snake into the chambre
       to spook the lions.

Amerika! Amerika!
vile decrees are lexicon
Amerika! Amerika!
where the many evils are legion...

================

METHODS OF OUTSTRETCHING THE DAY

In the
supple blood
There are holographic horns
waiting to be played by
your fantasies
On a day as grey as any cathedral;

             when choirs were harsh missives,
             now i understand -
             the day was my Pluton,
             as my complaint fell short of the
             forbidden place.
             Say nothing of the Dali-esque afternoon.
             Or was that Fellini?
             A cough returns to unspell me,as the
             v o c a l i s s m us smarts.

The starfire wind not churning these streets, nor sending
beauty's fleets, gets me born back to the aesthetic bed
of fluff, my convalescence instead.

                       each man must skate the perimeter strongly -

Vow to crush underfoot any giveaway smile. All alien mongers
a stare and what of your hair?
In its ignominious curls?
             Hide truth of poisons as well, over a bleak world for sure
pour some relief from your hidden heart to dipsomaniac me.

             fractals, by their name, are broken.

       the universe a broken wheel. W h o might stop to help lift
             superman's car???
       (O, if I only knew where you were!)
             
             The staves go, asking for their music again, always...

       Is fear a flavor of this fraction?
       a cunningly timed distract ion
                    from the true duty unto death?

Awkward beards of formless mass quer aids herald

             the songless bee again.

                                     -30-