Asher Blake’s Vitruvian Architecture


Vitruvian Architecture

When you say bye, honey,
you close the phone,
how you move me in whispers
when you lift your blouse,
I’m off the hook.
No one can imitate your little guttural pauses,
the brooks in your throat,
the goofed up words
and ideas re-sorted
up your body of vertical shelves
like Bukowski the postman was busy –
I am in love with your Ur-umms.

Lifted in his flight,
the center is the navel.
Can you find the place man turns?
The flash inside Vitruvius,
morning star twinkling his wings,
we open close to death.
In this body, this earth,
death. Take no sides, but crucify,
and we will rise
because He rose.
But we in the mirror of lovers
reveal one another palm to palm.


Mankind is stronger than a shaman,
and an oracle is wiser than a wise man.
Every person from every generation,
like clouds drop water,
gives the right sound to things.

Almost anything in us
is elsewhere in nature too.
And reflexive, instinctive working,
our human bodies think
in indescribable sensations.
Look at how muscular Rodin saw a thinker.
And we’re always thinking on classic problems.
Every being is a court with reliable weights,
(factor the difference.)
They are the same,
the same courts He loves.

Consider the universal medium of noise.
Horse hooves ought to sound officious,
with a weighty, clomping clip.
They are fit for authority.
The vicious bark of a brutal dog is catholic.

No one confuses it with a wagging tail.
The poignant falsetto of a whining dog,
who smells a cat,
who wants a scrap to fall,
is a ransom sound at the mercy of the world,
the wind of a high price.

The logos is not our construction.
The Earth was moved with knowledge
and etched in Subterrane,
the study of a skull,
centuries’ acidic drops.
Making breath by loaded water
shifting facial cavities
to the throat, catch of every
problem slid.

All animals keep company
in pretty much the same fung shui.
Or take the bedlam of a hurricane –
before it comes it tells us so.

The ocean is all too human.
We can drown in its noumenal,
sublime Atlantic mouth.
Can we escape by speaking for ourselves?
The water of water
hands you over to the one whose
tongue you truly speak.


Your mother’s hand on your hair,
once a ribbon tied it together,
is now your hand
putting my finger to the scroll
of my fathers’ Torah.

The babies crawling through
the fallopian mothers’-to-be,
were the way we crawled around
in darkness on Earth Day,
drinking from a keg with your friends
to celebrate our engagement.

You once stayed riveted to the built
and unbuilt American cyborg
as trains of human secret keepers
gouged the night with speed
from Portland to Chicago, and heartened
by the wondrous endurance of nature,
you buried your head beneath your wing
and thought of me.

Man Ray Sleeping Woman

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