HEIDEGGER

You, brilliant as lightning flash with respired
madman ego, found your Being and Time
globally admired while your soul fell mired
in Hitler’s fantasy, caught up in crimes
of ethics: squealing on fellow teachers,
brainwashing youth to follow Der Führer.
You should have stayed in bed with Hannah, her
love a rusty clasp despite the furor
over your lies and country-boy hatred
of Jews, Nazi ties till the party’s end.
Strange how Sartre read you in stalag, spread
your thought through his own essay. Let’s pretend
you regretted your Rektoratsrede lies,
though we never heard you apologize.

Roger Armbrust
March 30, 2008

STARS

Bat, mother of cosmos, loved the shy, dark
Apep--always afraid to show his face,
the frigid night sky, so black and pockmarked.
As young Apep slept, Bat, with soft-hoofed grace,
rose from Sashesh, hovered above her knight,
pressed her large breasts, pouring milk in small streams
over his deep, creviced cheeks, leaving white
myriad pools. They froze as Apep dreamed,
seen by distant Ra, frost reflecting bright
glow, twinkling dark heaven. Earthlings saw this,
sending love songs soaring toward jeweled sky,
awakening the youth, who blew a kiss
to those below, then saw his face reply
from ocean surface, smiled at his image,
now drawing love’s gaze from each human age.

Roger Armbrust
March 27, 2008

Word

Most times I want to write lines or phrases
to create image, share experience,
but being servant here, sometimes phases
sweep in like locusts on wheat, resistance
only a shiver, then surrendering
to muse or cerebral projectionist,
whoever decides all focus bearing
on just one word…like…Word. Engrained like cysts
in a dove’s neck, typed letters bleed on page,
abstract pen-and-inks casting viewer’s eye
in solitary confinement. I rage
at W (bones of bird’s wing), I cry
at o (mouth in Munch’s Scream), then chuckle
at r (small scaffold), dodge d (brass knuckle).

Roger Armbrust
March 26, 2008

ARKANSAS LEGISLATIVE MEETING HOUSE, 1835

Slatted wood, two-story, half a block deep,
at least thirty-nine windows and four doors,
three fireplaces lit as river wind creeps
through this winter while white men vote to score
onescore laws controlling slaves: Stripes (lashes)
at court’s discretion when off plantation
sans pass, or spreading seditious speeches;
hanging death for inciting rebellion.
Free blacks or mulattos may keep one gun,
powder and shot if licensed by a judge;
must show papers of emancipation
or face jail till IDs appear; begrudge
their taxes or stay enslaved to sheriff
until their hired labor pays the debt off.
Each eve, job done, lawmakers leave to quaff.

Roger Armbrust
March 24, 2008

GABRIEL AND RAPHAEL

Hint of predawn light glazed ground-level door’s
slender entrance, so they sensed she would come
soon, though long ago they’d agreed: no more
predicting humans’ timing—choice great sum
of their blesséd freedoms. Patience remains
a sign of faith, Michael had told them both,
and they’d an eternity to retain
his words. Then a sudden gasp, breathless oath
at tomb’s door. They saw the widow crying,
shaking, fallen basket, aloes and myrrh
littering her feet. He had been lying
where they both now sat. They rose to greet her,
their heavenly eyes casting off her fear.
Why weep? Gabriel smiled. He is not here.

Roger Armbrust
March 23, 2008

GLENN GOULD RECORDING BACH

Your thumbs and fingers appear to sprout three
inches when you first touch keys with gentle
strokes, then flash left hand in conductor’s spree
near your face, directing your right’s play till
left decides again to join joyous dance.
Were this my first glance, I’d deem you blind, eyes
rolled in trance, or rapt in some mad romance
with your Steinway as your head bows, rises,
bows again, face quivering, lips pleading
with keys and melody not to leave you,
never go, as if internal bleeding
will end all now, lover’s last touch but true...
then like spring rain you halt in mid-refrain—
critique with clearest phrase—begin again...

Roger Armbrust
March 19, 2008

AN ANGEL IS BURNING

for Elizabeth Weber

I see this beyond the cliffs, flames rising
from eternal abyss, a jagged blade
or blazed crown fencing me from surprising
blue (is it sky or smoke or both?) and shade
shaking, bound by fire as dark wings dissolve,
no longer shielding sudden ashen face,
dog (or bat?), charred shock, so lost of resolve
it cannot scream, push away, void of grace
to pray for some narcotic god to save
its flaking remains. I’d swear two shadowed
hands rise above it, one gripping a grave’s
cross, one swinging smoldering sword. I’ve bowed,
bellowed for aid. I never intended
to pass this way. (Has my soul ascended?)

Roger Armbrust
March 18, 2008

MITHRAS AND ATTIS

I have slipped from our tourist caravan
in Ostia, discovered this outskirt
hillside cave, challenge its pitch black entrance,
drawn by horrid cries deep within; convert
my penlight to guide, and follow its shine
over narrow path past curved crystalloid
halls to a sudden spelaean, slate-lined
walls and floor. A strong, howling boy—eyes void
of fear—mounts a great bull, rips its glottis
with short, sharp sword. In the corner, a lad
with like weapon slashes his own testes,
screams, Cybele! Cybele! Both gods, clad
with Phrygian caps, turn toward me and stare.
Knowing them, I drop to knees, rasp a prayer.

Roger Armbrust
March 15, 2008

THE NEARNESS OF YOU

The Internet. Fred Hersch’s piano
caresses an Amsterdam audience
with The Nearness of You, his crescendo
lifting me along the flowing Oude Schauns,
its shore lights flickering fairies mirrored
in twilight current like silent fireworks.
Do I see Rembrandt there, daring record
Montelbaanstoren’s glowing clock at dark?
I’d like to rib him about The Polish
Rider. “Hey, Remmie, did the Frick blow it?”
And red-lighted De Wallen just southish
of the church Oude Kerk. “Did you go at it
there, unbeknownst to your lovely Saskia?
Hey, don’t get mad. I just thought I’d ask ya.”

Roger Armbrust
March 14, 2008

SCRABBLE ENDGAME II (28)

To stalk the noble tusk wearing toupee.
To quip, to rob, and not care once who raged.
To poach jaws from one’s cousin in the spree
and next day appear mild amid the crazed
vets who flash steel throughout the dom, stand heel
to heel on their yachts shouting ashore, “You!
Ahoy! Forty ivory trophies! Feel
you know who’d steal ‘em!?!” To stand by a yew,
picking aril from its stalk, posing smile
of infant, innocent wave, hold up six
fingers like an imbecile. When they’re miles
off, I’ll nibble greens, give the dirty pricks
a vengeful “Ha!” Weld songs of six pet larks
into a medley, singing through the park.

Roger Armbrust
March 14, 2008

SCRABBLE ENDGAME (31)

My quill reins in what seems a needless code.
I clasp left hand to my rib, for I feel
quite potent acids become my sad load,
hint of run through my kazoo. A jade seal
on my moody face shakes up my new mate,
makes her hie like a hare, deep fear of harm
sending arms and legs swarming like some great
flustered fowl too heavy for flight. I'm charmed
by her oval rear end, feel her ire since
she knows it. She threatens even to call
me "ex" after only a week; shakes tense
fist at my green skin. I lob a kiss, stall
her with a fractured tale: how I've now learned
to avoid units where ants all eat ferns.

Roger Armbrust
March 13, 2007

OUR PATRIOTIC ROOSTER

This only happens during elections:
At dawn each morning, Feathers (the kids named
him) morphs shrill crowing for lucky ol' sun
from cock-a-doodle-doo to Cohan’s famed
Yankee Doodle Dandy. A Rhode Island
Red, his gait even alters from thoughtful
march to running, a salute he portends
for those manic presidential hopefuls
in their greedy pursuit of power. This
all started during ol’ Bill’s first campaign.
By rights, our cock should have croaked before his
second term ended. Maybe he’s remained
to share in ol’ Hillary’s dash. Or then
again, maybe he’s a leap-year chicken.

Roger Armbrust
March 11, 2008

SPRING TIDE

Sometimes you are sun, and so I circle
you in psychic pirouette, warmed by your glow
yet distant from explosion, miracle
in space and time. Sometimes you are moon, show
grace as you circle me, soft shadows of
your body impressing every seeing
eye’s imagination, gazing above
at you reflecting your other being.
Sometimes you are both, aligning with me
in syzygy, your tidal forces, bold
as storms, igniting me, and my tides leap
up toward stars, toward dreams as constant and old
as Hipparchus who, from Rhodes’ acropolis
smiled, first to predict our solar eclipses.

Roger Armbrust
March 11, 2008

NAPOLEON HOUSE, VIEUX CARRÉ

This happened long ago: My old friend Gene
and I relax at the café’s table,
our Pimm’s Cups caressing thick- lacquered sheen
of tan checkerboard surface. “You cable
mystery with your smile,” he prods. I lean
close. “I am Girod, and you the town’s chief
inspector,” I plot. “It’s 1819.
Your eyes search mine as though you’ve caught a thief,
I tell you. Your keen gaze circles ceiling
of dark wood. You squint, listen for footsteps
from above. Your knuckles, like bowed, kneeling
altar boys, press the table; tongue’s forceps
grasp for confession: He’s upstairs. I’m sure.
I lean back. Smile. Sip wine. Ask, Who, monsieur?”

Roger Armbrust
March 9, 2008

THE RESPONSIBILITY OF FEELING

For years I ran from it, not so sly fox
scurrying through gnarled forests, tainted lairs
housing lethal smiles, always fearing clocks,
their hackings timing my demise, those stares
from loved ones final as planets flooded
and lifeless there in clearings I shunned as
bats retreat from light, my scarred face hooded
from sight, till running fell to crawl, my last
gasp a kneeling rasp for help. I can't swear
just what happened next. I'm told how I slept
under a willow tree for days, nightmares
hurling howls from my parched mouth. Someone kept
feeding me sips of water. I awoke.
She smiled at me, then left. We never spoke.


Roger Armbrust
March 7, 2008