Hail to thee oh unseen things.  Hail
stellar contraction shaping dust into a sun,
atoms waiting in darkness to begin
their fusion blooming solar fire,
electricity chewing across the wires in the wall,
neuron signal causing the heart to beat,
hormonal impulse causing pubic hair to grow,
synaptic exchange causing the mind to change.
I cannot see any of you, but I know you are there.

Hail oh ovum tumbling out of the fallopian waiting room,
into the clean blood darkness, alone,
waiting for brother sperm.
Oh seed generated from testicular emptiness,
looting and rioting in the vaginal night,
I salute all you unseen makers.

Oh Heartbeat, accelerated
by smell of a shampoo
that reminds of Jr. High School French kissing,
first touching vagina, exciting stink, who knew
it would smell like that?

Oh Sorrow held in chest cavity
upon the smell of incense
that parents burned to create atmosphere
during their alcoholic stupors, apartments of black out rage
with Charlie Parker’s Tunisian horn
blowing holes into the night.

Oh Rain of tenderness falling on face,
brought on by memory of candle making
with mother on the porch of the apartment,
colored wax dripped into shapes carved in sand,
Hail to all of you, the invisible evokers of time past
and the things that happened and shouldn’t have
and should have, and had to, but  what do I know?

Oh Wind keeping seagulls aloft, squawking and hovering
over mine and my daughters’ Hot Dogs down at Santa Monica Pier.

Oh Gravity that holds the trees up and my bones together,
web of sun’s stellar radiance that wraps this earth,
sphere of mud and bones, in perfect location
for the growing of our brains and other cosmic windows.

Oh Sunlight, tinkerer of soul and mind,
creating my waking and seeing with your clear yellow light,
waking me with your rising, pulling me to sleep when you go,
my body like the oceans in their tides. 
I am you, all of me, I believe.

Oh Sorrow, endless holes in the sky and in the heart,
you are there again, purple thing, river-like, deliverer,
brokenly smiling the way to light.

Oh Silence, kindest hush of mind and time,
loving terminus of all, the sky of purest now.
Silence, holding and blooming sounds
of airplanes passing through clouds,7th graders
whispering in the back row, heart beats
like bubbles coming to the surface of the water,
all rising from silence, all stone and gaseous
vapor and vision laying upon silence.
Love laying upon the silence, sunrise
out of silence.

Oh Hail, Hail
invisible things.



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STEVE ABEE was born in Santa Monica, California and began writing after high school when he held a job as an orderly at St. John’s Hospital. His mind started to unfold itself and he thought if he was going to save it, he had better start writing things down. Abee recalls, “I saw the fragility and blessedness of lives and started to come apart in the wonderment of it all.”

Abee writes in the American lyric tradition of Whitman and Kerouac yet as numerous fans remark, experiencing Abee perform his work in person is like attending a university lecture if Iggy Pop was the professor! Suffice it to say, Abee is his own kind of American Literary experience. His work seeks the ecstatic universal in the common grains of the day. Beck Hansen has called Abee "the love-powered bull horn blasting down from the altitudes," and Lydia Lunch has remarked that his "savage poetry demands the reader to devour passage after passage, only to be left soul seared and simultaneously re-invigorated."

He holds a MFA in Fiction and Poetry from Antioch University, Los Angeles and just released a new poetry collection, Great Balls of Flowers on Write Bloody books. Also his novel, Johnny Future, is coming out with MacAdam/Cage in the Fall of 2010; Other titles include The Bus: Cosmic Ejaculations of the Daily Mind in Transit (Phony Lid Books), and King Planet (Incommunicado), a collection of short stories and poems.

He lives and teaches in Los Angeles.

3 responses to “Hail to the Things I Cannot See”

  1. I have three words to say about this poem, Steve:

    Great, great, great.

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