for Jess, mou padika
Like jeweled fruit
your plum and my
green grapes
hang in the same
deep space, like
the seven planets
hitched up
and comingling
in a sack of
Kashmiri silk.
We stroke the design
of well-drawn
flowers there
below and go
cheek-to-cheek
with no thought of
mechanics, but
engagement of skins
and the perfect
sweetness of our
combined sweat:
For hot oil, there is
pork with soy,
spattered with dots
of crushed
jalapeno, dried
tomato and cilantro:
Lick my lips:
I need to open
my face: Blue sky
window nights of
pelt and sniff
packed with
numerology:
For we are seven,
your foursquare
stabilimentum of
four cardinal
directions plus
the four-chambered
heart that holds
the stride of
my own three steps
that from inside
make your fibers
hum and sing:
Tell me your story:
I need your
tail to guide my
cutting prow:
Pride comes
home as humility
exploding a double
fountain whose
geysers mirror
one to the other,
as earthly life does
heaven's: Two trees,
of knowledge
and of life: We have
twenty fingers:
Let us share the
patterns swirling
at their tips: Stroke
my palm, hold my
hand and let
your tongue slip
through my lips:
A star burns out
every time we say
the word for love.
That is love: Not
the word for it.
For there is no word
that does it
justice. Only
the jackel fur
of your pubis
against my hard
fingers strikes
sparks that can
stay the dark: Yes,
we love the dark:
It has black slits
that see, when
brilliant fingers
enter them:
When the cosmetics
of desire wear off,
we'll remember
the real thing:
That every tree
has a thousand
fruits, and in every
fruit, there's
another tree:
Squint, and try
to block it out:
You cannot: No one
can measure their
full extent: No
action can be
weighed. Love
is not an act, but
act's source
in the present:
Please, be present,
incomparable,
and well manifested:
Rock me full
in every place:
Show me the difference
between doer, deed
and what is done.
Give me back
my name in yours.
*
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Hybrid Positions
for Jess
1
That you face
north by northwest
on all fours,
kissing spring furrows
that walk with sun
and moonlight, is
of the essence,
that the honey
from your gash
run straight into
the sweet south of
my mouth, as you
lick the pale
vellum of the sky
before you, to twirl
bright cotton candy
of Aurora Borealis
in your mouth
to sweeten your
moans, as you
peer back to see
who's stroking your slit.
2
You are the Corn Goddess
ballsy and bright
who planted by day
and fucked all night
and lived in the radiance
her face lit: You
are the corn cobs
gone up your quim
whose sperm drops
have shattered
and gone farther in
who live in the house
your clit built: It
is drenched by
sperm drops from Oz
that pump themselves
up into a poetic clause
that shimmers in the lake
of your quim light:
The moon is a disk
at risk in your slit:
I will lick it
and trope it
a safe way home.
3
Rub a stalk
of last year's
crop lightly
across your puss,
crush your fanny
in clover shrieks
and smoke
in the morning sun:
How pale, how gold
how radiant
your face: Accept
in faith the punkling
squarks of
my aptitude for you:
It is spring. I plant
my hands on
your hips and run
two fingers
of moon and sun
along the puff
that swells each lip:
We open like
two rosebuds:
Your nipples
blossom under
tongue, and breasts
and belly heave
when handled by
a hot, wet hand:
Bend over
and make a wet
inverted V tip
at the top of
your legs: A whole
season
is about to be
moved
through you:
In 90 days,
the whole
crop
will drop.
4
For you
the globe of
my clover fire
explodes:
Its fingers
have been rooted
in you
for months.
For you
I will lick
dirt furrows
alive
all the rest
of my days.
My ventricles
are blue
flowers: All of them
are yours.
*
1
That you face
north by northwest
on all fours,
kissing spring furrows
that walk with sun
and moonlight, is
of the essence,
that the honey
from your gash
run straight into
the sweet south of
my mouth, as you
lick the pale
vellum of the sky
before you, to twirl
bright cotton candy
of Aurora Borealis
in your mouth
to sweeten your
moans, as you
peer back to see
who's stroking your slit.
2
You are the Corn Goddess
ballsy and bright
who planted by day
and fucked all night
and lived in the radiance
her face lit: You
are the corn cobs
gone up your quim
whose sperm drops
have shattered
and gone farther in
who live in the house
your clit built: It
is drenched by
sperm drops from Oz
that pump themselves
up into a poetic clause
that shimmers in the lake
of your quim light:
The moon is a disk
at risk in your slit:
I will lick it
and trope it
a safe way home.
3
Rub a stalk
of last year's
crop lightly
across your puss,
crush your fanny
in clover shrieks
and smoke
in the morning sun:
How pale, how gold
how radiant
your face: Accept
in faith the punkling
squarks of
my aptitude for you:
It is spring. I plant
my hands on
your hips and run
two fingers
of moon and sun
along the puff
that swells each lip:
We open like
two rosebuds:
Your nipples
blossom under
tongue, and breasts
and belly heave
when handled by
a hot, wet hand:
Bend over
and make a wet
inverted V tip
at the top of
your legs: A whole
season
is about to be
moved
through you:
In 90 days,
the whole
crop
will drop.
4
For you
the globe of
my clover fire
explodes:
Its fingers
have been rooted
in you
for months.
For you
I will lick
dirt furrows
alive
all the rest
of my days.
My ventricles
are blue
flowers: All of them
are yours.
*
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Popsicle
for Jess
By day, a flock of
backbirds winging it
out of your throat
and by twilight,
streams of dusky
stars illuminate
the uterine path
to midnight, dreams
immersed behind
eyelids kissed with
lips and pixie dust
that float like red
dots across depths
of feeling night.
Our acts go forth
like alphabets from
birds wings, in
the form of hands
to make clear
how time moves us
who move it
by being moved
within it. Yes:
I love you. These
are things therefrom
to know: What
comes of beforehands
and aftermaths,
prior a meal, what
we are about to do,
what then, too,
after embodied
thunderheads discharge
their collected
lightnings, after
rain blew sideways,
after our hair flew?
What unknown thing
will grow inside to
supplant what before
went empty, or
withered, or gave
full fruit unto
complete exhaustion?
What answers
are there? Do bees
love ants? Or stars,
anteaters? Or anthills,
language? Let's
don't be abstruse
about any of it:
What we love are
the honied fibers of
the body
in perpetually
completing thrill.
But that is just
the first and final
trill that makes
rocks and trees
and waters sing.
To hear these
echoed back, takes
walls of time
and space shored
in upon all that would
go to buoy us. I love
complexity, but
prefer simple
answers, that can
stand in
for the sky
or stand up
like a stick
with honey
at the tip,
walkin' toward
the horizon
like just any
natural man.
*
By day, a flock of
backbirds winging it
out of your throat
and by twilight,
streams of dusky
stars illuminate
the uterine path
to midnight, dreams
immersed behind
eyelids kissed with
lips and pixie dust
that float like red
dots across depths
of feeling night.
Our acts go forth
like alphabets from
birds wings, in
the form of hands
to make clear
how time moves us
who move it
by being moved
within it. Yes:
I love you. These
are things therefrom
to know: What
comes of beforehands
and aftermaths,
prior a meal, what
we are about to do,
what then, too,
after embodied
thunderheads discharge
their collected
lightnings, after
rain blew sideways,
after our hair flew?
What unknown thing
will grow inside to
supplant what before
went empty, or
withered, or gave
full fruit unto
complete exhaustion?
What answers
are there? Do bees
love ants? Or stars,
anteaters? Or anthills,
language? Let's
don't be abstruse
about any of it:
What we love are
the honied fibers of
the body
in perpetually
completing thrill.
But that is just
the first and final
trill that makes
rocks and trees
and waters sing.
To hear these
echoed back, takes
walls of time
and space shored
in upon all that would
go to buoy us. I love
complexity, but
prefer simple
answers, that can
stand in
for the sky
or stand up
like a stick
with honey
at the tip,
walkin' toward
the horizon
like just any
natural man.
*
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Frieze
for Jess
1
out of a field of
white daisies
your ass
keeps rising
into view
like sleek bonita
rising
turbulently
out of the pale
foam of
their depths
as your own
white tail
is illumined
by sun's heat
just as the sweet
quim of a doe
by the lance of
early dawn's
light
that pierces the dream
with all
the energy with which
you press
your moistened pussy
down on my face
2
at the mouth of
the cairn
that marks your
opening
I lie back
and listen to
your fingers
working
the juice of
your bun-squish:
there are
opposite ends
to the river
we lie in
the middle of
but we need not
know
where they are:
let the sound
of your liquid
be the music
by which
the archtecture of
our temple
will be
devised:
Let no
surrounding
silences
or bright
interpretations
attempt to
stop all
that is now
being intervened
upon:
interrogative
moonwater:
this
is the drink
that poets
perfect:
I will lick you
out of rocks
3
out of shower
pores open
breasts heavy
you lean
into the mirror
and press
your cheek
against its glass
too steamed up
to see any
but two dark
slashes for your eyes
your backbone
curved slightly up
to make your slit
available to
fingers pink from heat
and hands that palm
your belly (going
deep) and your ass
to hold you steady:
you have a triangle
where your sex should be
with a point of dew
at its bottom tip
and I have one as well
with a drop of wet
at its upper point:
when we join
three by three
in full array
six is sex
the power alley
is surrounded by
six arms
that dance like Shiva:
so that we come
three times each
to honor the positions
of His moves:
eighteen times full
times two
or thirty-six
as 3 + 6 again
is equal to Apollo's
nine femmes
whose brood includes
aesthetics, music
poetry, art, dance
as well as desire
justice, honestas
and the like:
that you are creature
living within creature
known and unknown:
can what's growing
inside you understand
these words?
and can she take
a little hot sauce too?
4
you sucked my tongue
full blow
up into you:
now it murmurs
in the spaces between
the throb of your vowels
while your consonants
tighten
your uterine path
screams
and we fall ijnto
quivering silence
5
The number of
Victory: Five is
Three sets of lips
And two pair of
Arms between us:
A set of total
Function. Together
We have ten of
Everything. Ten
is the number of
Holes in your body.
I will set something
loose in the heat
Of each and every one.
6
That your name is
engraved in Coptic
in the gold shield of
your moon at dusk:
I rise every hour
to pierce it, simply
to grant you that it is
your welcome.
7
chopped cilantro
fresh and bleeding
rubbed between palms
for fire
then mixed with
what's running out
between your legs:
face full front
and burn my lips
back on my face
with our own
while my hand
slips down
between us
and nipple and tongue
found new rhyme:
tea and sugar with
spring of thyme:
the sleek
post-shower smell
of your naturem runs
counter in my imagination
and packs your menses
in my brainfolds
to smell for later
which, as you've
turned around,
now flowers out
as your pussy does
when il mia pitoni
grows up it
entered from behind:
sea-salt smells
in blue sky
and the sounds of
wet feet on stone:
I hear me murmur
I hear you moan:
fry pepper and cinnamon
for fragrant scent:
see eye-to-eye
and feel tit-to-tit:
when you need
full abandon
send for my body:
it knows
how to keep
your moon in the air
*
1
out of a field of
white daisies
your ass
keeps rising
into view
like sleek bonita
rising
turbulently
out of the pale
foam of
their depths
as your own
white tail
is illumined
by sun's heat
just as the sweet
quim of a doe
by the lance of
early dawn's
light
that pierces the dream
with all
the energy with which
you press
your moistened pussy
down on my face
2
at the mouth of
the cairn
that marks your
opening
I lie back
and listen to
your fingers
working
the juice of
your bun-squish:
there are
opposite ends
to the river
we lie in
the middle of
but we need not
know
where they are:
let the sound
of your liquid
be the music
by which
the archtecture of
our temple
will be
devised:
Let no
surrounding
silences
or bright
interpretations
attempt to
stop all
that is now
being intervened
upon:
interrogative
moonwater:
this
is the drink
that poets
perfect:
I will lick you
out of rocks
3
out of shower
pores open
breasts heavy
you lean
into the mirror
and press
your cheek
against its glass
too steamed up
to see any
but two dark
slashes for your eyes
your backbone
curved slightly up
to make your slit
available to
fingers pink from heat
and hands that palm
your belly (going
deep) and your ass
to hold you steady:
you have a triangle
where your sex should be
with a point of dew
at its bottom tip
and I have one as well
with a drop of wet
at its upper point:
when we join
three by three
in full array
six is sex
the power alley
is surrounded by
six arms
that dance like Shiva:
so that we come
three times each
to honor the positions
of His moves:
eighteen times full
times two
or thirty-six
as 3 + 6 again
is equal to Apollo's
nine femmes
whose brood includes
aesthetics, music
poetry, art, dance
as well as desire
justice, honestas
and the like:
that you are creature
living within creature
known and unknown:
can what's growing
inside you understand
these words?
and can she take
a little hot sauce too?
4
you sucked my tongue
full blow
up into you:
now it murmurs
in the spaces between
the throb of your vowels
while your consonants
tighten
your uterine path
screams
and we fall ijnto
quivering silence
5
The number of
Victory: Five is
Three sets of lips
And two pair of
Arms between us:
A set of total
Function. Together
We have ten of
Everything. Ten
is the number of
Holes in your body.
I will set something
loose in the heat
Of each and every one.
6
That your name is
engraved in Coptic
in the gold shield of
your moon at dusk:
I rise every hour
to pierce it, simply
to grant you that it is
your welcome.
7
chopped cilantro
fresh and bleeding
rubbed between palms
for fire
then mixed with
what's running out
between your legs:
face full front
and burn my lips
back on my face
with our own
while my hand
slips down
between us
and nipple and tongue
found new rhyme:
tea and sugar with
spring of thyme:
the sleek
post-shower smell
of your naturem runs
counter in my imagination
and packs your menses
in my brainfolds
to smell for later
which, as you've
turned around,
now flowers out
as your pussy does
when il mia pitoni
grows up it
entered from behind:
sea-salt smells
in blue sky
and the sounds of
wet feet on stone:
I hear me murmur
I hear you moan:
fry pepper and cinnamon
for fragrant scent:
see eye-to-eye
and feel tit-to-tit:
when you need
full abandon
send for my body:
it knows
how to keep
your moon in the air
*
Monday, July 27, 2009
Get Back
for Jess
Imagining you
on all fours
as the four
chambers of
the heart,
the four cardinal
directions,
is space.
That I am three
steps moving in
combination
with how you are
displayed
is time: Thus
we are seven:
Time and space
annealed in
heat to produce
the seal around
gestation.
Your four
and my five-
pointed star-
fish make
the music of
Apollo's nine,
if my central
mouth is aligned
with your opening
lips: You have
a starfish on your
pussy and wear
pure radiance
on your face:
Kiss me back
and we'll have
ten senses:
Double the number
for one,
as we both breathe
deep in receivership:
My cock in your
mouth, my fingers
feeling your
wet, and my tongue
drawing the best
from your body's
quiver, your sex
derived within
my body that you
roam, foreclosed
yet open enough to
buy a bus ride
that takes us through
creation's venue:
All the way back home.
*
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Solitaire
for Jess
A distant past of
Red Dirt people,
dope arrests, false
prophets and true
passion rewarded
as Robert Mitchum
in Cape Fear, or
the real Johnny
Stompfalano in for
Lana: I will always
stand for you, my own
heart's blood
endeavoring to
spur you to sainthood
in guise of
penetrated maidenhead,
blessed agonistes
and the random
serial numbers of
incorporated genius
emulsified by strict emotion
exploding queenhood
to momentary pleasures
and in sotto voco,
constant revision
at the beach and within
your inner harbors:
I know you understand
my vagabondage, the nib
of my pen and my two
nipples which will
one day
touch yours
on a high, dramatic
note of sighs
and flush pink of
evening skies upon
Manhattan, preserved
as your slickness
across my lips via
agitprop humor
and spectacularity
as Rita's Femme
du Shanghai
in a singular casino
with the Saudi
royal family, JFK
through Hyannis
and Tunis accompanied
by the Aga Khan:
One day, we will
dress the parts.
For now, I simply
want to hear you yip
when my tongue
touches tips of
flesh stretched taut
by wanton fingers.
Love is possibly
a theatrical voyeur
broken by the tragic
tear of a lust
gone satisfied
that fills our air.
*
A distant past of
Red Dirt people,
dope arrests, false
prophets and true
passion rewarded
as Robert Mitchum
in Cape Fear, or
the real Johnny
Stompfalano in for
Lana: I will always
stand for you, my own
heart's blood
endeavoring to
spur you to sainthood
in guise of
penetrated maidenhead,
blessed agonistes
and the random
serial numbers of
incorporated genius
emulsified by strict emotion
exploding queenhood
to momentary pleasures
and in sotto voco,
constant revision
at the beach and within
your inner harbors:
I know you understand
my vagabondage, the nib
of my pen and my two
nipples which will
one day
touch yours
on a high, dramatic
note of sighs
and flush pink of
evening skies upon
Manhattan, preserved
as your slickness
across my lips via
agitprop humor
and spectacularity
as Rita's Femme
du Shanghai
in a singular casino
with the Saudi
royal family, JFK
through Hyannis
and Tunis accompanied
by the Aga Khan:
One day, we will
dress the parts.
For now, I simply
want to hear you yip
when my tongue
touches tips of
flesh stretched taut
by wanton fingers.
Love is possibly
a theatrical voyeur
broken by the tragic
tear of a lust
gone satisfied
that fills our air.
*
Red Dots
for Jess
Behind your eyes
a black lake
shimmers
and shows forth
as holes
into which all
falls. There is
no question of
depth of
reflection:
Its waters make
a wall in my
syntax that
guides my
fluencies through
its changes
as they are
moved by your
chambers of
alterity: Eyes
that are as black
as the obsidian
the Incas used
as mirrors:
They seem to shine
of their own accord
and need no
secondary
source of light:
They show
full foward
the antediluvian
pools along
whose edge,
first life
boiled out of
sulfur and amino
acid, animated
by starlit messages
from a million miles
away. That you
bear your love
over and over
makes you Aphrodite,
birthing herself
from the sea of
possibility, to
her own sensual
surfaces: Bewitchment
by pain and loss
to rise again to
each occasion of being
further loved, as improbably
as that the glint of
chipped light in
the directness of your
gaze were something
other than your own
beloved and absolute
clairvoyance.
*
Behind your eyes
a black lake
shimmers
and shows forth
as holes
into which all
falls. There is
no question of
depth of
reflection:
Its waters make
a wall in my
syntax that
guides my
fluencies through
its changes
as they are
moved by your
chambers of
alterity: Eyes
that are as black
as the obsidian
the Incas used
as mirrors:
They seem to shine
of their own accord
and need no
secondary
source of light:
They show
full foward
the antediluvian
pools along
whose edge,
first life
boiled out of
sulfur and amino
acid, animated
by starlit messages
from a million miles
away. That you
bear your love
over and over
makes you Aphrodite,
birthing herself
from the sea of
possibility, to
her own sensual
surfaces: Bewitchment
by pain and loss
to rise again to
each occasion of being
further loved, as improbably
as that the glint of
chipped light in
the directness of your
gaze were something
other than your own
beloved and absolute
clairvoyance.
*
Stitches
for Jess
You are built
of prime
numbers,
dressed in
skin that
clings: As you
come around
the corner
at the edges
of my mind,
I feel my heart
collapse
and my
lower gate
open: The cold
system of love
pelts heat
down through
the inversion
of emotion's
sheer substance
and I gush
its silver threads
up in you.
*
You are built
of prime
numbers,
dressed in
skin that
clings: As you
come around
the corner
at the edges
of my mind,
I feel my heart
collapse
and my
lower gate
open: The cold
system of love
pelts heat
down through
the inversion
of emotion's
sheer substance
and I gush
its silver threads
up in you.
*
Across the Boards
for Jess
Lovelier in your
veil of flesh
than when I
saw you
as a distant star,
I prefer to hear
my yearning
given back by
the paradise of
your human
face, for your
voice raises
veil upon veil,
each intensely
closer, and
closer to
the time of
departure
from all
that's thought
to have been
ideal, into
the reality of
my dusky
hands
and tender
ravagement
gone
hard up,
sinking deep
into the undulent
green vistas
of your opening
fields: I want to
know this
place, and hold it
for moments
all my own, pudica,
as you hold me
close as Sweet
William to your
nose: Together
we form
a makeshift
vase from which
cool liquid
overflows
that holds us
in common
stream
to the trust
of seeing
creation go all
loose, by which
we pardon
time's passage
through
accompanied
heartfelt grace
and the rapture
of our
liquid being
waked up and
enjoyed.
*
Lovelier in your
veil of flesh
than when I
saw you
as a distant star,
I prefer to hear
my yearning
given back by
the paradise of
your human
face, for your
voice raises
veil upon veil,
each intensely
closer, and
closer to
the time of
departure
from all
that's thought
to have been
ideal, into
the reality of
my dusky
hands
and tender
ravagement
gone
hard up,
sinking deep
into the undulent
green vistas
of your opening
fields: I want to
know this
place, and hold it
for moments
all my own, pudica,
as you hold me
close as Sweet
William to your
nose: Together
we form
a makeshift
vase from which
cool liquid
overflows
that holds us
in common
stream
to the trust
of seeing
creation go all
loose, by which
we pardon
time's passage
through
accompanied
heartfelt grace
and the rapture
of our
liquid being
waked up and
enjoyed.
*
4 AM
to Jessica
I have
the acerbic
wit of George
Sander's
drama critic in
All About Eve,
the hard kappa
simply
the bones
in my hand
that support
the weight of
your crotch
grinding
against my
touch.
I am equally
Bette Davis'
habit of
smoking:
The baroque
drift of
curls from
her mouth
as my mouth
in poeisis
pressed
against your
mons
veneris
in complete
receivership.
Whatever
I do
I am
touching
you:
Try to
wonder,
will it end,
but I
can't:
Purplish
knobs of
poppy heads
from 1967
shine forth
from my
middle
and I
cry out
to agony
through you
relieved
by way of
what
streams out
from my
petty crown
of incaution:
I have
no brakes
and so
must
milk you
far beyond
interrogation's
pure
dead end:
To wear
the stain of
your juice
assymetrically
on my face:
this is
my sole desire.
*
I have
the acerbic
wit of George
Sander's
drama critic in
All About Eve,
the hard kappa
simply
the bones
in my hand
that support
the weight of
your crotch
grinding
against my
touch.
I am equally
Bette Davis'
habit of
smoking:
The baroque
drift of
curls from
her mouth
as my mouth
in poeisis
pressed
against your
mons
veneris
in complete
receivership.
Whatever
I do
I am
touching
you:
Try to
wonder,
will it end,
but I
can't:
Purplish
knobs of
poppy heads
from 1967
shine forth
from my
middle
and I
cry out
to agony
through you
relieved
by way of
what
streams out
from my
petty crown
of incaution:
I have
no brakes
and so
must
milk you
far beyond
interrogation's
pure
dead end:
To wear
the stain of
your juice
assymetrically
on my face:
this is
my sole desire.
*
Saturday, July 25, 2009
1954
for Jess
Men think
they ruin
their minds
with desire
when it is
the other way
around:
I think I
love you, said
where thought
has neither
dominion
nor domain.
It may be
a trick
done with
mirrors,
as if the dead
spoke only
of death.
No. The dead
hate death
and speak
only of time.
We linger
and lounge with
one another.
Desire is
a beautiful thing
in a woman
or a man
whose ruin
is never complete.
Heat is
perpetually
a lovely
acievement,
its corruption,
a personal
affront
and congradulation:
Let the sun
go down
behind my
liver:
Please, make
my love
rise from
beneath my
bed, up
into the narrow
folds
where you
moult and
conscienciously
flower.
*
Men think
they ruin
their minds
with desire
when it is
the other way
around:
I think I
love you, said
where thought
has neither
dominion
nor domain.
It may be
a trick
done with
mirrors,
as if the dead
spoke only
of death.
No. The dead
hate death
and speak
only of time.
We linger
and lounge with
one another.
Desire is
a beautiful thing
in a woman
or a man
whose ruin
is never complete.
Heat is
perpetually
a lovely
acievement,
its corruption,
a personal
affront
and congradulation:
Let the sun
go down
behind my
liver:
Please, make
my love
rise from
beneath my
bed, up
into the narrow
folds
where you
moult and
conscienciously
flower.
*
The Island of the Sphinx
for Jess
Orson Welles in
The Third Man
with Joseph Cotton:
If only we could be
wrapped, enthralled
and twined beneath
the grey lights of
some antique classic:
but why require
a stand-in for
the moon, when
your decorum apropos
makeshift availability
and my plug nickel
toolbox can start
drums beating in
doorways by 10 AM?
We each know
the answer to that
riddle in a language
the other does not yet
understand, but by
the shared lamp
that burns beneath our
skins to the tune of
a half-a-million shmackers
of purloined gold,
always meant to mediate:
Pure wealth is never
to be spoken, against
my missives, your
message, our
mark through kisses
found in wont
in the sovereign text
of permissive
anatomy, nevertheless
a bitchy doorknob
made of cut diamond
to the hand: There is
pain, to turn cursive
flowers' petals into
the light wind and
graceful curving
boulevards in and about
your shoulders,
clavicles and neck
that desire's lips
wend in ways
that could be Hedy
Lamarr in Ecstasy
from 1936, replete
with flush of cunnilingus
by a swollen riverbed:
Lay back and let
poetry taste the bud
that's been responsible
for my recent stroke
of lightning taken for
a queen of conspiration
from an erupting heart
that creams out of
the moult of language
by way of tender
expression brought
to your sweet south
by the evaginations
of my soul gone
facial at the tip of
my flickering tongue.
*
Orson Welles in
The Third Man
with Joseph Cotton:
If only we could be
wrapped, enthralled
and twined beneath
the grey lights of
some antique classic:
but why require
a stand-in for
the moon, when
your decorum apropos
makeshift availability
and my plug nickel
toolbox can start
drums beating in
doorways by 10 AM?
We each know
the answer to that
riddle in a language
the other does not yet
understand, but by
the shared lamp
that burns beneath our
skins to the tune of
a half-a-million shmackers
of purloined gold,
always meant to mediate:
Pure wealth is never
to be spoken, against
my missives, your
message, our
mark through kisses
found in wont
in the sovereign text
of permissive
anatomy, nevertheless
a bitchy doorknob
made of cut diamond
to the hand: There is
pain, to turn cursive
flowers' petals into
the light wind and
graceful curving
boulevards in and about
your shoulders,
clavicles and neck
that desire's lips
wend in ways
that could be Hedy
Lamarr in Ecstasy
from 1936, replete
with flush of cunnilingus
by a swollen riverbed:
Lay back and let
poetry taste the bud
that's been responsible
for my recent stroke
of lightning taken for
a queen of conspiration
from an erupting heart
that creams out of
the moult of language
by way of tender
expression brought
to your sweet south
by the evaginations
of my soul gone
facial at the tip of
my flickering tongue.
*
Genius
for Jess
From dark rooms
of intimate endeavor
and lust, out into
the brilliant light of
day, and then back
in, the changes
persist: to go from
extreme to
extreme in any
form is beautiful:
Steam is hot
whose thickness
is not dense, but
holds rich light
within and about it,
nothing heavy
but incandescence,
light to light
and as for us, in deep
consideration
from tongue
to tongue, withall
the curve deep under
to a genital scent
among the political
party of the planets:
stars are bright
and the sky is dark,
but that there is no
hell: darkness is
just what puts you
on the page that
reveals me, that we
can have it too: Our
elevated senses
and restless fury,
the literal constellation of
flower, star and tusk:
the integers of perdition
whose sweetness measures
the perjury of affection
and its rage to fully trust.
*
From dark rooms
of intimate endeavor
and lust, out into
the brilliant light of
day, and then back
in, the changes
persist: to go from
extreme to
extreme in any
form is beautiful:
Steam is hot
whose thickness
is not dense, but
holds rich light
within and about it,
nothing heavy
but incandescence,
light to light
and as for us, in deep
consideration
from tongue
to tongue, withall
the curve deep under
to a genital scent
among the political
party of the planets:
stars are bright
and the sky is dark,
but that there is no
hell: darkness is
just what puts you
on the page that
reveals me, that we
can have it too: Our
elevated senses
and restless fury,
the literal constellation of
flower, star and tusk:
the integers of perdition
whose sweetness measures
the perjury of affection
and its rage to fully trust.
*
Love Poem
for Jess
I am enslaved
to eyelids, darkened
by desire: They
bring forth
the foreman of
my quarries,
the intelligible
stone man
who rises through
an alphabet of
flowers and flames
that result of
the heart, melted
into honied fires
of perpetual
spring growth:
His stem is what
opens the folds of
your perfect
flower, to time
and its measured
corruption, shadowed
by bright words
exchanged between us
that make
the phone lines sing:
we step out from
the tombs of our
metabolism, quickened
by the substrate of
sex which forces issue
of earth and time
and gives water
flowing forever here
between us: Air
is everywhere,
and the synapse
that transforms it
when we breathe
presses us together
as if in air, were
no space or distance
but the defining words
of desire and its
acts, come ours. We
require knowledge of
new substances in order
to continue: Sorcery
of touch, profession
of love, prostrate
beneath deepening
skies in acts of
sweet fucking savors
well with gods
but must be
completed forever
after by acceptance
and deliverence
from sensory
apparatus to full
realization of
individuated stance
from which to
further kiss: We
shall never render
one another
to homeless
skeletons of
unrequited affection,
for we can illumine
all those beings
and things we most
admire to purposes
both ours and to their
creative advance
in us: Pause
in life, but for
infinite reflection,
never toward retreat.
Let us have
an abundance of
tranquillity, beauty
and the many
necessary acts
by which we are
connected to them
and each other:
What we dream
continues to exist
outside our minds:
We need only
set keel to ship
and leave
the backdoor loose.
*
I am enslaved
to eyelids, darkened
by desire: They
bring forth
the foreman of
my quarries,
the intelligible
stone man
who rises through
an alphabet of
flowers and flames
that result of
the heart, melted
into honied fires
of perpetual
spring growth:
His stem is what
opens the folds of
your perfect
flower, to time
and its measured
corruption, shadowed
by bright words
exchanged between us
that make
the phone lines sing:
we step out from
the tombs of our
metabolism, quickened
by the substrate of
sex which forces issue
of earth and time
and gives water
flowing forever here
between us: Air
is everywhere,
and the synapse
that transforms it
when we breathe
presses us together
as if in air, were
no space or distance
but the defining words
of desire and its
acts, come ours. We
require knowledge of
new substances in order
to continue: Sorcery
of touch, profession
of love, prostrate
beneath deepening
skies in acts of
sweet fucking savors
well with gods
but must be
completed forever
after by acceptance
and deliverence
from sensory
apparatus to full
realization of
individuated stance
from which to
further kiss: We
shall never render
one another
to homeless
skeletons of
unrequited affection,
for we can illumine
all those beings
and things we most
admire to purposes
both ours and to their
creative advance
in us: Pause
in life, but for
infinite reflection,
never toward retreat.
Let us have
an abundance of
tranquillity, beauty
and the many
necessary acts
by which we are
connected to them
and each other:
What we dream
continues to exist
outside our minds:
We need only
set keel to ship
and leave
the backdoor loose.
*
Archaic Gold to Newest Moon
for Jess
Blown cloud
of your pubic hair
across my face:
come lower
so I can feel
with all my art
your woman as
real as I in her
to be of every
warming swell
and spot with
you: This is sweet:
We are the many
yet singular
growth of one
within and around
the other: My
warm desire by
its tender
intellection wants
naught but to
enter you
as a simple
sparrow enters upon
the air in
deepest joy of flight
across a summer
lawn: Kisses of
dearest union
bring gold flesh
dreams out from
the paradise of
wish, to be made
wet and real by
a body obediant
to nothing more than
providing
a moving container
for heart's care:
Touch me with
your rapture,
the light of
your perpetually
rupturing hands
and let us have
each last mote
of beautifully
living life: You
have slipped
the latch of
night's backdoor
and spread open
to me an inner
heaven that makes me
able of an outward
grace and faithful
condensation of
love's noble fire
spattered endlessly
beneath the crown
of your womb:
Your beloved
pudenda by which to
marvel in all that we
err to think is ours,
for we are but
integers of intensity
whose misunderstandings
still are perfect
and real, as we go
endlessly into
the bodies and discourse
of love, entangled thus
of all the sweet
air we can muster
whose rim we overflow,
like light from stars
just seen, who have
already spent themselves
to project it: Love
is our measure, rising
to the moment
driven up in us
from 10,000 years ago.
*
Blown cloud
of your pubic hair
across my face:
come lower
so I can feel
with all my art
your woman as
real as I in her
to be of every
warming swell
and spot with
you: This is sweet:
We are the many
yet singular
growth of one
within and around
the other: My
warm desire by
its tender
intellection wants
naught but to
enter you
as a simple
sparrow enters upon
the air in
deepest joy of flight
across a summer
lawn: Kisses of
dearest union
bring gold flesh
dreams out from
the paradise of
wish, to be made
wet and real by
a body obediant
to nothing more than
providing
a moving container
for heart's care:
Touch me with
your rapture,
the light of
your perpetually
rupturing hands
and let us have
each last mote
of beautifully
living life: You
have slipped
the latch of
night's backdoor
and spread open
to me an inner
heaven that makes me
able of an outward
grace and faithful
condensation of
love's noble fire
spattered endlessly
beneath the crown
of your womb:
Your beloved
pudenda by which to
marvel in all that we
err to think is ours,
for we are but
integers of intensity
whose misunderstandings
still are perfect
and real, as we go
endlessly into
the bodies and discourse
of love, entangled thus
of all the sweet
air we can muster
whose rim we overflow,
like light from stars
just seen, who have
already spent themselves
to project it: Love
is our measure, rising
to the moment
driven up in us
from 10,000 years ago.
*
Promontory
for Jess
The wet air
feels like
I've just said
yes to your
sex, toward
completion of
heart's full
circuit: silver
swirl in
heavy mist
hanging over
the lake,
while to the east
pure gold,
pink behind
my eyes
and yeah,
baja la musica
impudica, also.
I feel you
move around
the edge of
the bizarre
flowers
whose images
decorate
my bed: I
kiss the center
of each one
and feel
their ache
at my opening
groin and words
spilled from
my mouth
speaking in
martyred
embrace of
your perfect
lunations shown by
the cleansing
fire of our
lust come directly
from the present,
unknown side of
the sun
that produces
between us
a lovely bridge
to the paradise
of renewed
sense, with
activity from
the cellars of
our lighthouse
casting hot
light across
the shoals of
la isla bonita,
all ours: This
energy of
associative
thought
I will project
fearlessly
into the spread
fibers of your
heart, in order
that it be
known
that the sin
of lust is
a perfect lie,
for love's
light rims
the caustic
edge of these
mental geometries
and compounds
our equal
souls into
the painted
deserts
and twilit thickets
come tenderly
out of the broken
sundials of
our moans.
*
The wet air
feels like
I've just said
yes to your
sex, toward
completion of
heart's full
circuit: silver
swirl in
heavy mist
hanging over
the lake,
while to the east
pure gold,
pink behind
my eyes
and yeah,
baja la musica
impudica, also.
I feel you
move around
the edge of
the bizarre
flowers
whose images
decorate
my bed: I
kiss the center
of each one
and feel
their ache
at my opening
groin and words
spilled from
my mouth
speaking in
martyred
embrace of
your perfect
lunations shown by
the cleansing
fire of our
lust come directly
from the present,
unknown side of
the sun
that produces
between us
a lovely bridge
to the paradise
of renewed
sense, with
activity from
the cellars of
our lighthouse
casting hot
light across
the shoals of
la isla bonita,
all ours: This
energy of
associative
thought
I will project
fearlessly
into the spread
fibers of your
heart, in order
that it be
known
that the sin
of lust is
a perfect lie,
for love's
light rims
the caustic
edge of these
mental geometries
and compounds
our equal
souls into
the painted
deserts
and twilit thickets
come tenderly
out of the broken
sundials of
our moans.
*
Friday, July 24, 2009
Nave
for Jess
You are James
Bond: I am
Miss Moneypenny:
I see you
best
when we are
humping: Me
without my glasses.
*
You are James
Bond: I am
Miss Moneypenny:
I see you
best
when we are
humping: Me
without my glasses.
*
Make Me
for Jess
I will make
your thought
a maze
and will cover
our lust
with roads:
the crest of
your breastbone
will be as
blue earth:
the blessed
crown
of your head:
Come kissed.
Fire
keeps it
from ever
being
final. Heat
makes it
before
eyes see
light:
The body is
a cloud
of wet
that believes
and therefore
is
an act:
Take me
where you
come from
so I can
show you
how I grow.
*
I will make
your thought
a maze
and will cover
our lust
with roads:
the crest of
your breastbone
will be as
blue earth:
the blessed
crown
of your head:
Come kissed.
Fire
keeps it
from ever
being
final. Heat
makes it
before
eyes see
light:
The body is
a cloud
of wet
that believes
and therefore
is
an act:
Take me
where you
come from
so I can
show you
how I grow.
*
Louis
for a certain Spanish homosexual
In for dinner at the Sal:
Louis has dyed his
hair straight black!
And is in for black leather
against deep July heat.
He's still angry, but
sweet, and has the same
paralysis of face
that overtakes all addicts:
His pale blue Syrian
eyes tell no truths.
The man has ruthless
style and such grace
that when he turns
toward you in total
blankness, you feel
the intensity of
a perfect thief.
*
In for dinner at the Sal:
Louis has dyed his
hair straight black!
And is in for black leather
against deep July heat.
He's still angry, but
sweet, and has the same
paralysis of face
that overtakes all addicts:
His pale blue Syrian
eyes tell no truths.
The man has ruthless
style and such grace
that when he turns
toward you in total
blankness, you feel
the intensity of
a perfect thief.
*
Stellar Stream
to Jess
1
spread your legs impossibly wide
let my tongue play upon your clit
let your nipples scorch my chest:
lick the veins in my stiffening forearms
and make me come ten times full
in your pussy and in your mouth
2
my mouth against
the softness of your mouth
my finger in
the groove of your lips
3
I'm away, into
the still-dark day,
the flame of your pussy
under my eyelids
and in my mouth,
your cry
in my ears
to guide me.
4
I am marked
by the chance of
your sweet name.
*
1
spread your legs impossibly wide
let my tongue play upon your clit
let your nipples scorch my chest:
lick the veins in my stiffening forearms
and make me come ten times full
in your pussy and in your mouth
2
my mouth against
the softness of your mouth
my finger in
the groove of your lips
3
I'm away, into
the still-dark day,
the flame of your pussy
under my eyelids
and in my mouth,
your cry
in my ears
to guide me.
4
I am marked
by the chance of
your sweet name.
*
Thursday, July 23, 2009
One Two Three
for Jess
Two pairs of eyes
a thousand miles
apart track the same
star across a sky
capable of encompassing
every distance, yet
kept always
open enough to feel
the heat of intimacy.
The telephone was
invented in 1877
to help find the unknown
answer to the question,
are you there?
Or, is it safe
to come home yet?
Or what are your hands
doing right now?
The moving water of
the lake reflects the moving
cloud above: There is
between the reflection
and its source, no sure
confusion or definition
of distance between
any "you" and/or "I" beyond
the fact that we are
different: This would have
been the case, even had
our lips been able to
touch. A kiss is
as real as Eve's apple
shared, for these acts are
of knowledge, not from
life. We are not
removed from one
another's presence
so long as we do not
turn away. Distance
is simply that sense of
measure that human
desire will overcome:
We digest what is not quite
there, in order to help
put it before us, both
in front of, and prior to:
I want you to come
before me, and I will
follow, having helped this
happen in you, there,
where nerve endings
and telephone wires
from the 30s merge
and sing of ancient
angels that make
skins to shimmer
in the foetid heat
of late July locusts
and the smell of damp
and new mown hay:
Yes, I hear you
moan. Your name is
Jess. You possess
in large part
the love that dwells
in poetry's mouth,
this fabric hard to
name that often
makes our flesh to run
with lust. With this
our star becomes complex
in sight, yet burns
with simple truths laid
bare: There in night
where curtains used to
hang and hide: We take
this beautiful ascent
to a lovely ferried
air and height, and see
ourselves consumed.
*
Two pairs of eyes
a thousand miles
apart track the same
star across a sky
capable of encompassing
every distance, yet
kept always
open enough to feel
the heat of intimacy.
The telephone was
invented in 1877
to help find the unknown
answer to the question,
are you there?
Or, is it safe
to come home yet?
Or what are your hands
doing right now?
The moving water of
the lake reflects the moving
cloud above: There is
between the reflection
and its source, no sure
confusion or definition
of distance between
any "you" and/or "I" beyond
the fact that we are
different: This would have
been the case, even had
our lips been able to
touch. A kiss is
as real as Eve's apple
shared, for these acts are
of knowledge, not from
life. We are not
removed from one
another's presence
so long as we do not
turn away. Distance
is simply that sense of
measure that human
desire will overcome:
We digest what is not quite
there, in order to help
put it before us, both
in front of, and prior to:
I want you to come
before me, and I will
follow, having helped this
happen in you, there,
where nerve endings
and telephone wires
from the 30s merge
and sing of ancient
angels that make
skins to shimmer
in the foetid heat
of late July locusts
and the smell of damp
and new mown hay:
Yes, I hear you
moan. Your name is
Jess. You possess
in large part
the love that dwells
in poetry's mouth,
this fabric hard to
name that often
makes our flesh to run
with lust. With this
our star becomes complex
in sight, yet burns
with simple truths laid
bare: There in night
where curtains used to
hang and hide: We take
this beautiful ascent
to a lovely ferried
air and height, and see
ourselves consumed.
*
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Natural
for Jess
Your erect clitoris
looks like the white-
hot head of the comet
we're about to read
Genesis by. Rough
desire is required
if a world is to be
created. It is all
about extension of
limit, the cock
in the pussy's
stretch, it's all
about the tightness
gained in
the expense of
pushing ourselves
one upon and within
the other, but
enough of words:
We have our names
and they will hold us
to ourselves
and each other. Now,
there is a drift of
alphabet letters in
the middle of
my spine: They
coelesce into
the image of your
pale pussy fire
weeping pink
behind my eyes
that when I
close, thrusts
down and outward
into you, my image of
you shoots back
into you, through me:
I am your pussy, you
have my cock
inside you, exploding
with your pussy,
every limit we had
instantly set, made
to be pierced by
a single arrow
drawn on a string
that has two ends,
pulled back by
three fingers: Eros
is more than just
a shooting match:
Multiple vaginae
and penii proliferate
between the two
poles like targets:
harpstrings, delirium
and total trespass:
It is my hand
like a swallow
moving between
your thighs
to get to the home
smell of its moist
nest. Passionate
residue will always
settle into
a random alphabet
whose broken
letters scatter
and drift
in the folds of
the sheets our
minds have made,
and in the sweet
hay in which
our animal bodies
are, and continue
to be conjoined,
beneath the sweet
hum of locusts
and telephone wires:
Lightning strikes
leave marks.
*
Your erect clitoris
looks like the white-
hot head of the comet
we're about to read
Genesis by. Rough
desire is required
if a world is to be
created. It is all
about extension of
limit, the cock
in the pussy's
stretch, it's all
about the tightness
gained in
the expense of
pushing ourselves
one upon and within
the other, but
enough of words:
We have our names
and they will hold us
to ourselves
and each other. Now,
there is a drift of
alphabet letters in
the middle of
my spine: They
coelesce into
the image of your
pale pussy fire
weeping pink
behind my eyes
that when I
close, thrusts
down and outward
into you, my image of
you shoots back
into you, through me:
I am your pussy, you
have my cock
inside you, exploding
with your pussy,
every limit we had
instantly set, made
to be pierced by
a single arrow
drawn on a string
that has two ends,
pulled back by
three fingers: Eros
is more than just
a shooting match:
Multiple vaginae
and penii proliferate
between the two
poles like targets:
harpstrings, delirium
and total trespass:
It is my hand
like a swallow
moving between
your thighs
to get to the home
smell of its moist
nest. Passionate
residue will always
settle into
a random alphabet
whose broken
letters scatter
and drift
in the folds of
the sheets our
minds have made,
and in the sweet
hay in which
our animal bodies
are, and continue
to be conjoined,
beneath the sweet
hum of locusts
and telephone wires:
Lightning strikes
leave marks.
*
Here: You
for Jess
That it went
unmentioned
that I was naked
during our whole
first phone call
says something.
That I was
dreaming of
your pussy, but
not playing with my
cock: Making
an association of
play with mercurial
waves hidden from
the public, and within
the tender fiber of
your voice: Is this
not the thing to be
played, most
significantly: Exchange
of fluencies, and
only later, fluids?
Sex is in the lilt,
the tone and texture:
They simply grew
just as I did, and do.
When I said
"forever"a while ago,
I meant as long as
things can
last. Things
don't last: But
to go against
the common
stream: This
one thing, heard
but that I want
the you that is
You: that is
what the sensual is
for: Our dark
earth and ink:
To fondle and
handle, and bring
through earth, new
life: To compose
of life some
terrestial good:
Touch me there
anywhere
and I will join
to your communion:
I want the want
of seeing you
watching the need
that drives me
to thrust high up
inside of you:
The very definition
of time,
and the only one
that lasts.
*
That it went
unmentioned
that I was naked
during our whole
first phone call
says something.
That I was
dreaming of
your pussy, but
not playing with my
cock: Making
an association of
play with mercurial
waves hidden from
the public, and within
the tender fiber of
your voice: Is this
not the thing to be
played, most
significantly: Exchange
of fluencies, and
only later, fluids?
Sex is in the lilt,
the tone and texture:
They simply grew
just as I did, and do.
When I said
"forever"a while ago,
I meant as long as
things can
last. Things
don't last: But
to go against
the common
stream: This
one thing, heard
but that I want
the you that is
You: that is
what the sensual is
for: Our dark
earth and ink:
To fondle and
handle, and bring
through earth, new
life: To compose
of life some
terrestial good:
Touch me there
anywhere
and I will join
to your communion:
I want the want
of seeing you
watching the need
that drives me
to thrust high up
inside of you:
The very definition
of time,
and the only one
that lasts.
*
Monday, July 20, 2009
Moondance
for Jess
Visual order obeys
your gravid plum:
Look at me while I
suck you off, we can
take turns 'til
shimmering substance
cognates to more
that mortal pleasure,
that will hold radiance,
express abundance,
attract mysterious
forces from which to
draw life, and breathe.
Isn't that the point?
Discipline is to be
joined at the crotch,
and (1) beautify all
namely objects, (2)
perform renditions of
perfect balance
and movement, and
(3) transform everything
by fire. This should be
a simple thing
to accomplish from
the inherited guidance
of a kind girl's residence,
that sense of home
that you do call your own:
The perfect, blown
shape of my mouth
among the petal tones
of your uncontrolled
nerves. With the spanked
passions of my
newly stolen truths
to push our vision's stream,
and availing ourselves of
an ability to return to
the source, and first
places of former lives,
we should get along just fine.
*
Visual order obeys
your gravid plum:
Look at me while I
suck you off, we can
take turns 'til
shimmering substance
cognates to more
that mortal pleasure,
that will hold radiance,
express abundance,
attract mysterious
forces from which to
draw life, and breathe.
Isn't that the point?
Discipline is to be
joined at the crotch,
and (1) beautify all
namely objects, (2)
perform renditions of
perfect balance
and movement, and
(3) transform everything
by fire. This should be
a simple thing
to accomplish from
the inherited guidance
of a kind girl's residence,
that sense of home
that you do call your own:
The perfect, blown
shape of my mouth
among the petal tones
of your uncontrolled
nerves. With the spanked
passions of my
newly stolen truths
to push our vision's stream,
and availing ourselves of
an ability to return to
the source, and first
places of former lives,
we should get along just fine.
*
Menthol
for Jessica
I dreamed I blew
a hot wind up
your pussy that made
your womb glow
like molten glass:
Morning and evening
horizons have always
moved me, and this
interior one even
more. Where are you
tonight? I want to
blow you into several
different shapes
with any number of
openings, some handy,
some difficult, but
all come beautifully
together. My tongue is
as delicate as the gauze
globe of a gas lantern
and burns equally as
hot as the crest of earth
where the sun also
rises or my scorched
face searing your gash
close in with sweet
licks: You happy, me
happy, please me: Happy,
please be: Happy, you be
happy along the tortuous
route of making joyous
openings wetter than they
have to be: Kiss me, lick
me, finger me, suck me,
tease me, please me,
fuck me, all that can be
said, is said, and all
that's said remains
completed yet undone:
Please, come undone,
please come, please come
undo me, I want to be done
to, please come to me
and do me, that I might be
undone, and rise to
the task of pleasure,
let me blow you, blow
in you, up you, deep
in you, all the way:
I want you to
glow like glass gone
molten, so I can feel you stiffen
and begin to quiver,
as when the glass is
shattered and cool
liquid starts to come.
*
I dreamed I blew
a hot wind up
your pussy that made
your womb glow
like molten glass:
Morning and evening
horizons have always
moved me, and this
interior one even
more. Where are you
tonight? I want to
blow you into several
different shapes
with any number of
openings, some handy,
some difficult, but
all come beautifully
together. My tongue is
as delicate as the gauze
globe of a gas lantern
and burns equally as
hot as the crest of earth
where the sun also
rises or my scorched
face searing your gash
close in with sweet
licks: You happy, me
happy, please me: Happy,
please be: Happy, you be
happy along the tortuous
route of making joyous
openings wetter than they
have to be: Kiss me, lick
me, finger me, suck me,
tease me, please me,
fuck me, all that can be
said, is said, and all
that's said remains
completed yet undone:
Please, come undone,
please come, please come
undo me, I want to be done
to, please come to me
and do me, that I might be
undone, and rise to
the task of pleasure,
let me blow you, blow
in you, up you, deep
in you, all the way:
I want you to
glow like glass gone
molten, so I can feel you stiffen
and begin to quiver,
as when the glass is
shattered and cool
liquid starts to come.
*
Sunday, July 19, 2009
High Road
to the two names inscribed in the new cement bridge abutment, Denise and Renee, who must be great, to've made it this far
the earliest ascent ever
begins in predawn
twilit 4:30 AM
the air
color and texture of
whirling milk
as I begin
through pale atmosphere
and pastured dew
*
the trail signs
at the fork
must be read
by Braille
for I cannot see
but in hearing
the canopy of green
darkness is alive
with the fierce singing
of unseen birds
*
I carry
in the curls of my hair
secrets of the Zohar
up the ascending
granitite shelves
as if the mountain
where an abdomen
upper organs divided from lower
with woman adding
a third chamber, deeply
buried but rising to
the sperm that covers
the northern climes
that rains down
when hearts melt
eyes tear
and blood drains
up into the kosmos
to lock the seals
on poeisis now growing
deep beneath her nave
in the green regions
of the sweet south
seen now before me
in the genital flow
gone down to the blue
orgone lake below:
the summit is
close at hand
ranged by the singing
of my pen and these
forever present birds
plus one horned toad
at 2500 feet
*
the chill is brisk
warm-blooded
I still must move on
toward my prey:
the return to where
I once began
to begin again again
*
the Wampahoofus trial
brings me close to home:
rock formations
you actually have to
get down on all fours
to climb, water
over everything
spruce gum spearmint
blue sky it's a
tie dye kind of day
with spotty cloud
and sunlight on land
way off to the west
and through thin spruce
down in the slope
of a long, wide valley
there is the mutant
triangle of green
I needed to see
the whole of, from above
as harmless and quick
as a blinking eye
imagine, after all that
could it be so easy
just to let things go?
I have no further need
of summit or summary
I'm not interested in being
challenged for its own sake:
it is time to leave
this place
take part of it with me
and leave the rest to dross
will I ever cross myself
out again for some sake
I can't but guess?
Forego the easy answers
as well as those others
more comfortably complex
Just come down
out of your high tower, Jim
and slide down rocks
on skateboard shoes
until your ass is totally wet:
everything you need to heal
is already on the earth
is already of it: here
everything is present
except what you will do with it
everything is present
but what you are about to do
*
the earliest ascent ever
begins in predawn
twilit 4:30 AM
the air
color and texture of
whirling milk
as I begin
through pale atmosphere
and pastured dew
*
the trail signs
at the fork
must be read
by Braille
for I cannot see
but in hearing
the canopy of green
darkness is alive
with the fierce singing
of unseen birds
*
I carry
in the curls of my hair
secrets of the Zohar
up the ascending
granitite shelves
as if the mountain
where an abdomen
upper organs divided from lower
with woman adding
a third chamber, deeply
buried but rising to
the sperm that covers
the northern climes
that rains down
when hearts melt
eyes tear
and blood drains
up into the kosmos
to lock the seals
on poeisis now growing
deep beneath her nave
in the green regions
of the sweet south
seen now before me
in the genital flow
gone down to the blue
orgone lake below:
the summit is
close at hand
ranged by the singing
of my pen and these
forever present birds
plus one horned toad
at 2500 feet
*
the chill is brisk
warm-blooded
I still must move on
toward my prey:
the return to where
I once began
to begin again again
*
the Wampahoofus trial
brings me close to home:
rock formations
you actually have to
get down on all fours
to climb, water
over everything
spruce gum spearmint
blue sky it's a
tie dye kind of day
with spotty cloud
and sunlight on land
way off to the west
and through thin spruce
down in the slope
of a long, wide valley
there is the mutant
triangle of green
I needed to see
the whole of, from above
as harmless and quick
as a blinking eye
imagine, after all that
could it be so easy
just to let things go?
I have no further need
of summit or summary
I'm not interested in being
challenged for its own sake:
it is time to leave
this place
take part of it with me
and leave the rest to dross
will I ever cross myself
out again for some sake
I can't but guess?
Forego the easy answers
as well as those others
more comfortably complex
Just come down
out of your high tower, Jim
and slide down rocks
on skateboard shoes
until your ass is totally wet:
everything you need to heal
is already on the earth
is already of it: here
everything is present
except what you will do with it
everything is present
but what you are about to do
*
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Revelatory Posture
for Jess
To pass day's hours
in the diesel stink
by the ferry dock
thinking of you:
Love is industry's
anarchistic underside,
the leachfield
that greens new grass
and hands, slick with
grease of balljoints
having worked hours
in the raw hairs around
the underparts of
complex English
sentences. I smell
grammar, and my mouth
turns fluid, a young
prince of the UK
gone slightly wild:
I, too, went out of my
way to solicit sweat
out of Harper's Bazaar
as genre de femme
contemplating all that is
excellent in fields
choreographed,
yet mellow and gorgeous:
Though awkward, clumsy
mutated compatability
often resulted from the cognate for
assaulting the maidenhead
of glowing Ishtar, one of
many strong, determined
girls I have long admired.
Singing and dancing
instruction, and perhaps
even a chance at real
love: That is what I fend for
in these belles lettres,
foregoing the disturbed
embers of past years
and sharing a careless
sophisticated sojourn
that brings the present
moment down around
again to your face and
striped headband peering
out of some formerly
achieved self that somehow
snaps me to attention
to this initial abundance of
beauty and tranquility
beyond the clatter of
tourist huts and toy trains
to the rush of witless cloud
grating against the sharp horizon.
*
To pass day's hours
in the diesel stink
by the ferry dock
thinking of you:
Love is industry's
anarchistic underside,
the leachfield
that greens new grass
and hands, slick with
grease of balljoints
having worked hours
in the raw hairs around
the underparts of
complex English
sentences. I smell
grammar, and my mouth
turns fluid, a young
prince of the UK
gone slightly wild:
I, too, went out of my
way to solicit sweat
out of Harper's Bazaar
as genre de femme
contemplating all that is
excellent in fields
choreographed,
yet mellow and gorgeous:
Though awkward, clumsy
mutated compatability
often resulted from the cognate for
assaulting the maidenhead
of glowing Ishtar, one of
many strong, determined
girls I have long admired.
Singing and dancing
instruction, and perhaps
even a chance at real
love: That is what I fend for
in these belles lettres,
foregoing the disturbed
embers of past years
and sharing a careless
sophisticated sojourn
that brings the present
moment down around
again to your face and
striped headband peering
out of some formerly
achieved self that somehow
snaps me to attention
to this initial abundance of
beauty and tranquility
beyond the clatter of
tourist huts and toy trains
to the rush of witless cloud
grating against the sharp horizon.
*
From You: This
for Jessica
In the great
cultural undertow
absence is
paramount
and feeling
understood,
always absent.
One can never be
there, to make
room for
the Ideal.
What is a moral
perception?
There are many
stages of
development:
Flowering
metaphors are
sexual, as is
the potent drive
to cause them:
Fishing involves
tricks toward
the "catch"
someone always
seems to be.
But the practicum is
otherwise,
and the sea is
wet: You ain't been
puttin' no squid
on the table, baby,
and lately
your embraces
don't drown me
like they used to.
Overhearing
is everywhere.
The mistake is
believing
you are a polar
opposite of me:
The polarity
of the world is
in the world
and effects only
that sense of
use that is decided
individually, with
an other, or as
a group. The metabolic
blush of being
in these ways is
a different sort of
intervention.
The question remains:
What do you believe
the world is for,
and how does one
go about being in it
in this way? I prefer
receiving and giving fire
at the beginning of
"time" rather than
waiting for it to rise
from the cold clay of
an earth you took
to be Wonder. Yes:
I stole it: half all
glittering flame
and half all green:
The world, entire:
The whole damn shot.
I am a simple pinecone.
My seeds scatter
in the ecstasy of
having a recipient
who is not a devotee:
I require to see equally,
eye-to-eye, for
this alone makes
the living body of
principle available
for use. Point
your camera at
my hands and try
to get beyond
the blur of their
being in mission
out from grief,
to distinguish
between forms
material and/or
spiritual: Between
the two trees
(knowledge and life)
will you choose
real soma or just more
punk? I can
penetrate the latter
with my tongue
but I require of
necessity to be given
the labor by which
to become as
a drill, to pierce
your heart, not just
your sex (that livid
metaphor) to make
myself mallets
to play across
the hard wood of
your ribcage:
Poetry is this: My own
address to you
and my application
to sexual device
goes toward assimilation
of vital function
in the life process:
not aesthetic, not artistic,
not mental or spiritual
neither having to do
with religion or ultimate
consciousness, but
simply, the reception
of felt thought, not
an imitation of Nature's
images drawn from
memory, but naked
perception is my way:
The pulse of an artery
or lightning flash
or moony evening
firefly, all as well as
one: No two things
are the same, yet we
make in opposition
a resonance
from which we draw
the world apart, like
clothes, or the curtain
of some cosmic theater,
in order to feel
the rush and inclination
to fill the void
created thus, with our own
fulfilling participation.
*
In the great
cultural undertow
absence is
paramount
and feeling
understood,
always absent.
One can never be
there, to make
room for
the Ideal.
What is a moral
perception?
There are many
stages of
development:
Flowering
metaphors are
sexual, as is
the potent drive
to cause them:
Fishing involves
tricks toward
the "catch"
someone always
seems to be.
But the practicum is
otherwise,
and the sea is
wet: You ain't been
puttin' no squid
on the table, baby,
and lately
your embraces
don't drown me
like they used to.
Overhearing
is everywhere.
The mistake is
believing
you are a polar
opposite of me:
The polarity
of the world is
in the world
and effects only
that sense of
use that is decided
individually, with
an other, or as
a group. The metabolic
blush of being
in these ways is
a different sort of
intervention.
The question remains:
What do you believe
the world is for,
and how does one
go about being in it
in this way? I prefer
receiving and giving fire
at the beginning of
"time" rather than
waiting for it to rise
from the cold clay of
an earth you took
to be Wonder. Yes:
I stole it: half all
glittering flame
and half all green:
The world, entire:
The whole damn shot.
I am a simple pinecone.
My seeds scatter
in the ecstasy of
having a recipient
who is not a devotee:
I require to see equally,
eye-to-eye, for
this alone makes
the living body of
principle available
for use. Point
your camera at
my hands and try
to get beyond
the blur of their
being in mission
out from grief,
to distinguish
between forms
material and/or
spiritual: Between
the two trees
(knowledge and life)
will you choose
real soma or just more
punk? I can
penetrate the latter
with my tongue
but I require of
necessity to be given
the labor by which
to become as
a drill, to pierce
your heart, not just
your sex (that livid
metaphor) to make
myself mallets
to play across
the hard wood of
your ribcage:
Poetry is this: My own
address to you
and my application
to sexual device
goes toward assimilation
of vital function
in the life process:
not aesthetic, not artistic,
not mental or spiritual
neither having to do
with religion or ultimate
consciousness, but
simply, the reception
of felt thought, not
an imitation of Nature's
images drawn from
memory, but naked
perception is my way:
The pulse of an artery
or lightning flash
or moony evening
firefly, all as well as
one: No two things
are the same, yet we
make in opposition
a resonance
from which we draw
the world apart, like
clothes, or the curtain
of some cosmic theater,
in order to feel
the rush and inclination
to fill the void
created thus, with our own
fulfilling participation.
*
Friday, July 17, 2009
Raw Sugar
for Jessica
Rose smoke
on sugar cane
and erotic
moon music
within sweet
diadems:
Plan arson
for Beverly
Hills Tuesday
and dress down
for revolutionary
sentiments.
Sex can be
a hard-boiled
swindle, but
fucking is so very
sweet within
beloved's arms
who can say
no? Courtship
is simple
trust, in palms,
along arch of
foot and heritable
moistness
on the surface of
eyes. Your own
dynastic heart
will unfold
downward
and there
labor for beauty
against inflation:
You mosey'd into
my life, and stay
as solid as
oranges on a tree
in beautiful Cadiz.
To think of you
night and day:
These are my
arms, and their
embrace, my hope.
Won't we do
some simple thing,
like sashay beyond
any reduced sense of
destination, to
finally feel
unbelievably
declasse within
the finest rooms,
your own
heart's chambers
receiving from all
directions, magnificant
sex and brains
plus endurance by
moonlight, simply,
whose beams show
the supple
rhythms of your
breath, mine,
in devotion to
the collected
lightnings
moving through
your rooms
that gather up
in the pre-alphabetical
darkness
through inclement
thrust to release
their incandescence
and sweet thunder
deeply there below?
*
Rose smoke
on sugar cane
and erotic
moon music
within sweet
diadems:
Plan arson
for Beverly
Hills Tuesday
and dress down
for revolutionary
sentiments.
Sex can be
a hard-boiled
swindle, but
fucking is so very
sweet within
beloved's arms
who can say
no? Courtship
is simple
trust, in palms,
along arch of
foot and heritable
moistness
on the surface of
eyes. Your own
dynastic heart
will unfold
downward
and there
labor for beauty
against inflation:
You mosey'd into
my life, and stay
as solid as
oranges on a tree
in beautiful Cadiz.
To think of you
night and day:
These are my
arms, and their
embrace, my hope.
Won't we do
some simple thing,
like sashay beyond
any reduced sense of
destination, to
finally feel
unbelievably
declasse within
the finest rooms,
your own
heart's chambers
receiving from all
directions, magnificant
sex and brains
plus endurance by
moonlight, simply,
whose beams show
the supple
rhythms of your
breath, mine,
in devotion to
the collected
lightnings
moving through
your rooms
that gather up
in the pre-alphabetical
darkness
through inclement
thrust to release
their incandescence
and sweet thunder
deeply there below?
*
Mansfield Reverie
on the occasion of a vertical climb over granitite shelves along the Appalachian range, 17 July, 2009.
To make and to think
together
puts the stream
beside my walking
running the other way
in my way
*
TEMPORARY TRAIL RELOCATION
over granitite fragments
trailing roots
and soft forest floor
the toes of my shoes
get wetter
be careful
about being too literal
*
acrid smell of moss
and drenched
canopy of trees
where light streams
into the day
as I climb steadily
into it
to loosen and secure
searching out the first
break in the trees
to catch a primal glimpse
at the initial
gasp of raw land
in the language
the throat opening
for miles west
to the silver slice
of the lake
*
a work crew
is repairing the washed-out
bridge
their hammering
now rendered to
the function of
my inner ear
and hunger?
what are supplies?
I carry no baggage
but a notebook
and a pen
ridgeline of mountains
high up in trees
like the skyline of Prague
a Qabbalistic formula
as we go edge within
edge around edge
*
what happens
when stream and man
become one?
the rocky path
is turning
into pure shelf
and the scent
is spruce
pure and dry
*
the lodge
sits on schists
the way Peter's rock
supports the sky
church of South Hill
the crown land
of my adolescent
pre-territorial free-for-all's
summer hilltop parties
and drunken beaver ponds
and the beauty now
is distant
the lake below
foaming cloud
is a vat of transluscent steam
and the descent
as Jess said, is that
fire equals fire
a final steep slope
and back
upon a gravel road
quartzite and fern-laden
foundational
first and final
limit
*
first, to the right
a restored bridge
curving up
to the former
hilltop summer home
of the wealthiest
banking family in town
for bourbon straights
in the distillant youth
of 1967
as memory lane
now
a pair of ladies shoes
size 8 gone lost
next
the wooded tennis court
and sets with Leelee
in 1966
now semi-permanently
covered
in self-protective decay
held down by car tires
mowed brown stems
of ferns roadside
parched in all this wetness
I smell anise
*
or then I feel
the phantom presence
of Lanny
ditto Dodie
almost as if heard
figures and my own face
gone speechless
in apprehension of
former yet still-present beauty
double-ditto
the daughters of God
who descended into them
and made unto them
shine of eye and in cheek
sheer blush
walking all the way
into the early 70s
with each
through the musky sporeways
of damp fernbeds
deep into river lowlands
and blackberry juice
smeared on buttocks
used as ink to spot my tongue
as blank freckles
licked unto spots for stars
memories of a joyous cosmology
cut with accidence
suicides and drawn-out deaths
I could never believe
yet feel puked back up
for instants into my head
what is a thought?
where do the dead go?
but that they be retrieved
so involuntarily
or rise like the convulsion
that produced
the mountain I just climbed
given up to endless corrosion
*
That there are
such spaces
bordering knowledge
as an encroachment
the dark is upon us
within us
all around us
they go
where we are not
yet by acts of this
negative faith alone
we will follow them
unsentimentally
and with no stoic regard
exfoliating ourselves
in clear beauty
by modest fires
possessed of
uncertain degrees of love
and buried deep
in greenness
in no ultimate fashion
but that we stay
*
To make and to think
together
puts the stream
beside my walking
running the other way
in my way
*
TEMPORARY TRAIL RELOCATION
over granitite fragments
trailing roots
and soft forest floor
the toes of my shoes
get wetter
be careful
about being too literal
*
acrid smell of moss
and drenched
canopy of trees
where light streams
into the day
as I climb steadily
into it
to loosen and secure
searching out the first
break in the trees
to catch a primal glimpse
at the initial
gasp of raw land
in the language
the throat opening
for miles west
to the silver slice
of the lake
*
a work crew
is repairing the washed-out
bridge
their hammering
now rendered to
the function of
my inner ear
and hunger?
what are supplies?
I carry no baggage
but a notebook
and a pen
ridgeline of mountains
high up in trees
like the skyline of Prague
a Qabbalistic formula
as we go edge within
edge around edge
*
what happens
when stream and man
become one?
the rocky path
is turning
into pure shelf
and the scent
is spruce
pure and dry
*
the lodge
sits on schists
the way Peter's rock
supports the sky
church of South Hill
the crown land
of my adolescent
pre-territorial free-for-all's
summer hilltop parties
and drunken beaver ponds
and the beauty now
is distant
the lake below
foaming cloud
is a vat of transluscent steam
and the descent
as Jess said, is that
fire equals fire
a final steep slope
and back
upon a gravel road
quartzite and fern-laden
foundational
first and final
limit
*
first, to the right
a restored bridge
curving up
to the former
hilltop summer home
of the wealthiest
banking family in town
for bourbon straights
in the distillant youth
of 1967
as memory lane
now
a pair of ladies shoes
size 8 gone lost
next
the wooded tennis court
and sets with Leelee
in 1966
now semi-permanently
covered
in self-protective decay
held down by car tires
mowed brown stems
of ferns roadside
parched in all this wetness
I smell anise
*
or then I feel
the phantom presence
of Lanny
ditto Dodie
almost as if heard
figures and my own face
gone speechless
in apprehension of
former yet still-present beauty
double-ditto
the daughters of God
who descended into them
and made unto them
shine of eye and in cheek
sheer blush
walking all the way
into the early 70s
with each
through the musky sporeways
of damp fernbeds
deep into river lowlands
and blackberry juice
smeared on buttocks
used as ink to spot my tongue
as blank freckles
licked unto spots for stars
memories of a joyous cosmology
cut with accidence
suicides and drawn-out deaths
I could never believe
yet feel puked back up
for instants into my head
what is a thought?
where do the dead go?
but that they be retrieved
so involuntarily
or rise like the convulsion
that produced
the mountain I just climbed
given up to endless corrosion
*
That there are
such spaces
bordering knowledge
as an encroachment
the dark is upon us
within us
all around us
they go
where we are not
yet by acts of this
negative faith alone
we will follow them
unsentimentally
and with no stoic regard
exfoliating ourselves
in clear beauty
by modest fires
possessed of
uncertain degrees of love
and buried deep
in greenness
in no ultimate fashion
but that we stay
*
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Black Velvet Noontides
for Jess
En francais boheme
on a Cleopatran quest
where Creole bands
force my tongue to go
around the world
bardo to bardo
dynasty to dynasty
in your armpit
around your brow
and foot whose bow
and lovely arch
make my mouth to blow
*
En francais boheme
on a Cleopatran quest
where Creole bands
force my tongue to go
around the world
bardo to bardo
dynasty to dynasty
in your armpit
around your brow
and foot whose bow
and lovely arch
make my mouth to blow
*
Corazoncitas I
for Jess
Egyptian mummification
took seventy days
presided over by the star
Sirius, in the Underworld
for the same amount of time.
We unwrap the mummy cloth
of 4000 years to reveal
the blinding incandescence
of its re-emergence, red giant
burning like a kerosene lamp
at horizon's rim. The rhyme
with inhaled light at the edge of
your skin is obvious, yet
requires the insistent
visitation of these words: Why
but why not, rise and savage
the ancient forms in Pucci pajamas
and speak to the simple nest
of complex association that is
your honeycomb, your taste,
spread-eagled on the earth
that I gain entrance to
a millennial kiss, with tenderness
against the pride of preliminary
penetrations come far too soon,
and mind that matters
but much for naught: Abide
solely that which lives in your
heart, and be faithful always to beauty,
love and considerable abundance.
*
Egyptian mummification
took seventy days
presided over by the star
Sirius, in the Underworld
for the same amount of time.
We unwrap the mummy cloth
of 4000 years to reveal
the blinding incandescence
of its re-emergence, red giant
burning like a kerosene lamp
at horizon's rim. The rhyme
with inhaled light at the edge of
your skin is obvious, yet
requires the insistent
visitation of these words: Why
but why not, rise and savage
the ancient forms in Pucci pajamas
and speak to the simple nest
of complex association that is
your honeycomb, your taste,
spread-eagled on the earth
that I gain entrance to
a millennial kiss, with tenderness
against the pride of preliminary
penetrations come far too soon,
and mind that matters
but much for naught: Abide
solely that which lives in your
heart, and be faithful always to beauty,
love and considerable abundance.
*
Lullabye
for Jess
Your body become
a cloud, with lips
that instruct
the coming rain
of dream,
transluscent
and entwined
with fire,
a difficult
combination
only to those
well-applied
and wakeful,
but truly, simplest
domain, to know
post-midnight's
revery, gone
under morning's
first birdcalls
in sweet vision,
pale apple
blossoms
and a bosom
gently breathing
into twilight,
inseminated
totally, by
the solstice
and dark brew
of your budded
lush, the aurora
deep within,
and the lovely,
calm terrain of your
self-respecting
guidance.
*
Your body become
a cloud, with lips
that instruct
the coming rain
of dream,
transluscent
and entwined
with fire,
a difficult
combination
only to those
well-applied
and wakeful,
but truly, simplest
domain, to know
post-midnight's
revery, gone
under morning's
first birdcalls
in sweet vision,
pale apple
blossoms
and a bosom
gently breathing
into twilight,
inseminated
totally, by
the solstice
and dark brew
of your budded
lush, the aurora
deep within,
and the lovely,
calm terrain of your
self-respecting
guidance.
*
Pie
Late night
TV lawyers
who would
rescue us
from IRS
tax burdens
actually
work for
the IRS:
Collecting
negotiated,
reduced
payments
still constitutes
an agency of
collection:
They all
get a cut.
*
TV lawyers
who would
rescue us
from IRS
tax burdens
actually
work for
the IRS:
Collecting
negotiated,
reduced
payments
still constitutes
an agency of
collection:
They all
get a cut.
*
Epiphany
for Jess
Gossamer twilight
and now dark
windows abound,
lit from the dark
hearts of haunted
artists, who peer
outward into night
and touch its
flanks, as you
unraveling
beside me,
whose thickened
petals cream
in triumphant
arch above me,
laid in the light
blue grass of
some future
imagination.
Who's to say
what beauty
and some
handsome
rider will
foretell of
future
opportunities
for wildness?
I love shadow
upon ancient
shadow, old
wisdom, new
thighs spread
to present
calls for
spring tulips,
a blue cock head,
or pale falcon's
dive to prey
whose completion
is wreathed, in
roses and tiger
lilies in unkempt
country gardens,
and sounds of
a tongue, working
the language
which suddenly
“tastes like
pussy”, and blue
horizons: With
pre-eminent
sorrow on the
morn, cut with
espionage,
cajoling voices
of self-importance
and perfumed
stems of native
love, the transient
hardness of their
drive, and visionary
bruise of love's
penetration through
every exhaling
pore, we go against
pestilence,
to manifest
magnificence
and such mysteries
as will open
deep within you,
through me,
locked in
the fullness of
your gravid
movements,
your uncoiling
instant
muscularity
and the golden
tightness
of your encircling
limbs.
*
Gossamer twilight
and now dark
windows abound,
lit from the dark
hearts of haunted
artists, who peer
outward into night
and touch its
flanks, as you
unraveling
beside me,
whose thickened
petals cream
in triumphant
arch above me,
laid in the light
blue grass of
some future
imagination.
Who's to say
what beauty
and some
handsome
rider will
foretell of
future
opportunities
for wildness?
I love shadow
upon ancient
shadow, old
wisdom, new
thighs spread
to present
calls for
spring tulips,
a blue cock head,
or pale falcon's
dive to prey
whose completion
is wreathed, in
roses and tiger
lilies in unkempt
country gardens,
and sounds of
a tongue, working
the language
which suddenly
“tastes like
pussy”, and blue
horizons: With
pre-eminent
sorrow on the
morn, cut with
espionage,
cajoling voices
of self-importance
and perfumed
stems of native
love, the transient
hardness of their
drive, and visionary
bruise of love's
penetration through
every exhaling
pore, we go against
pestilence,
to manifest
magnificence
and such mysteries
as will open
deep within you,
through me,
locked in
the fullness of
your gravid
movements,
your uncoiling
instant
muscularity
and the golden
tightness
of your encircling
limbs.
*
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Angelism
for Jess
1
Cthonian fragrance
of an afternoon
gone as deeply gold
as naked limbs
rising like stems of
wheat, to welcome
whatever comes:
The lovely descent
of sunlight upon
skin, or a weight of
air come 'round
and down upon
my resident
hardness: Let
yourself open to feel
the strident acorn
of my cybernetic
oak dance within your
folds, in preparation
for the 10,000
year traverse of light
across the heavens
from a dying star,
sainted by a radio
and gone hot within
your Magellanic
straits: Ride
my golden boat of
horn, that we might
hear the cries of
indigenous wounds
of desire, act, honesty
and outrageousness
cut into one another.
2
Do we know
what we want to
use each other
for? Elan,
eloquence, or
evanescent
remembrance
reflected upon,
as this afternoon
still glowing
twenty years
hence? Mata
Hari or Hanoi
Hannah, we ought
to know that
peering into desire's
eyes, it's far too
easy to see intent
as Axis Rose staring
blindly back,
as I do, helplessly
thinking of
my hands, secretly
raising the hem
of your dress
way up high.
3
For you, to
soliloquise
and see you into
naked touch:
The woman
I'm not quite
kissing, lives
there, within
the outline of
your form,
as if your name
and location
were a nation
whose raw land
remains divided
from the stakes
and threats
through which
Death darkly
operates, in
old streets' flows
and without
a prospective
mate's pressing
cheek, deep-
thrusting companionship
and the solar alphabet
that will rock your
maiden prayers with
full male throttle.
4
Sooty memories
au naturale
that I burn
for you
to cleanse:
How apt
it would be
to share
mouthsful of
small stones,
precious gems,
raindrops
or corn kernels
from the combined
efforts of
Kansas and Oz.
We are gold,
baby, furtive
perhaps, but
indefinitely as
impudent
as Zelda's
Babylon:
Loving fertility
with helpless
passion
and dark shade
over suddenly
stucco floors.
Do we love
being thus
flawed
in the lightless
assimilation of
pelt and cream?
We shall, together,
decipher our
distress: You
the unconfined,
ancient twilit
vestments
and I, abiding
tarnished angel
come en tu amor.
*
1
Cthonian fragrance
of an afternoon
gone as deeply gold
as naked limbs
rising like stems of
wheat, to welcome
whatever comes:
The lovely descent
of sunlight upon
skin, or a weight of
air come 'round
and down upon
my resident
hardness: Let
yourself open to feel
the strident acorn
of my cybernetic
oak dance within your
folds, in preparation
for the 10,000
year traverse of light
across the heavens
from a dying star,
sainted by a radio
and gone hot within
your Magellanic
straits: Ride
my golden boat of
horn, that we might
hear the cries of
indigenous wounds
of desire, act, honesty
and outrageousness
cut into one another.
2
Do we know
what we want to
use each other
for? Elan,
eloquence, or
evanescent
remembrance
reflected upon,
as this afternoon
still glowing
twenty years
hence? Mata
Hari or Hanoi
Hannah, we ought
to know that
peering into desire's
eyes, it's far too
easy to see intent
as Axis Rose staring
blindly back,
as I do, helplessly
thinking of
my hands, secretly
raising the hem
of your dress
way up high.
3
For you, to
soliloquise
and see you into
naked touch:
The woman
I'm not quite
kissing, lives
there, within
the outline of
your form,
as if your name
and location
were a nation
whose raw land
remains divided
from the stakes
and threats
through which
Death darkly
operates, in
old streets' flows
and without
a prospective
mate's pressing
cheek, deep-
thrusting companionship
and the solar alphabet
that will rock your
maiden prayers with
full male throttle.
4
Sooty memories
au naturale
that I burn
for you
to cleanse:
How apt
it would be
to share
mouthsful of
small stones,
precious gems,
raindrops
or corn kernels
from the combined
efforts of
Kansas and Oz.
We are gold,
baby, furtive
perhaps, but
indefinitely as
impudent
as Zelda's
Babylon:
Loving fertility
with helpless
passion
and dark shade
over suddenly
stucco floors.
Do we love
being thus
flawed
in the lightless
assimilation of
pelt and cream?
We shall, together,
decipher our
distress: You
the unconfined,
ancient twilit
vestments
and I, abiding
tarnished angel
come en tu amor.
*
Simple Obedient Trust
Finity, affinity, infinite
blue, the sapphire air
at the tip of my tongue:
Words are never just
words, but statuesque
fin de siecle. It's a beautiful
day, and an older Robert
Stack has a machine gun.
*
blue, the sapphire air
at the tip of my tongue:
Words are never just
words, but statuesque
fin de siecle. It's a beautiful
day, and an older Robert
Stack has a machine gun.
*
The Dolly Madison Hotel
for Farouk, and Minna
Lectures from a 40s
black-and-white photo
of Miss Tallulah Bankhead:
That we are watched over
by captains who guard
our littorals, their sacred
coasts. Mister Harvey
Keitel? No. It is
Richard Widmark as
an admiral in the U.S,
Navy doubling as
a high-end criminal
conceit in lieu of
human emotion.
You never know
who's who, as
Mother used to say:
Fingertips at
4 AM, dancing in
your labia, turned
palms upon each
hipbone and a face
buried in your crotch
for a fiery facade
by 5. And for breakfast,
rays of sunlight
and a midget thumping
your raised backside.
His cheekbones are
way too high to be
believable, and do I
see an endless series
of cheap suites
and impoverished
suppers within
the glaucoma of his
flirtatious eyes?
Intermittently,
my family and my
past go lost within
my self, yet I retain
supple manners, grace
and a mildly caustic
yet still appreciative
address to the primal
force of love, and my
beautiful incaution,
that it cut me as its
wake. I prefer
trespassed sensuality
to a sandwich. Pale,
pearl eros: Eternally
strange, these droplets
gathered as a brain
with which to watch
the sky deepen
and coelesce. I
will not die loveless.
Yet I know
that with these words
there is nothing
for me to govern.
*
Lectures from a 40s
black-and-white photo
of Miss Tallulah Bankhead:
That we are watched over
by captains who guard
our littorals, their sacred
coasts. Mister Harvey
Keitel? No. It is
Richard Widmark as
an admiral in the U.S,
Navy doubling as
a high-end criminal
conceit in lieu of
human emotion.
You never know
who's who, as
Mother used to say:
Fingertips at
4 AM, dancing in
your labia, turned
palms upon each
hipbone and a face
buried in your crotch
for a fiery facade
by 5. And for breakfast,
rays of sunlight
and a midget thumping
your raised backside.
His cheekbones are
way too high to be
believable, and do I
see an endless series
of cheap suites
and impoverished
suppers within
the glaucoma of his
flirtatious eyes?
Intermittently,
my family and my
past go lost within
my self, yet I retain
supple manners, grace
and a mildly caustic
yet still appreciative
address to the primal
force of love, and my
beautiful incaution,
that it cut me as its
wake. I prefer
trespassed sensuality
to a sandwich. Pale,
pearl eros: Eternally
strange, these droplets
gathered as a brain
with which to watch
the sky deepen
and coelesce. I
will not die loveless.
Yet I know
that with these words
there is nothing
for me to govern.
*
Half-Looped
for Jess
Bell bottoms,
Burma shave
and sugar babies:
These are current
neighbors
out of my own
early morning
underwritten
sweet gash:
Sunlight,
moonlight,
twilight and
beyond, gone
wounded
by pacts of hope
that have
no names.
I write
upsidedown
with a lantern
and burn
my own name
and yours
into these walls
and feel
the measured
fur of night's
drift. What
dazzling purpose
can we put to
truck noise
in an open
window?
I hate
illumination
that needs
a switch.
And now
you populate
disbarred
post-midnight
in place of
phantom love:
You got them
laughing eyes,
a retinue
of haute couture
and an ace
of pentacles.
When I
think of you
I feel
a warm
rush of
pre-dawn
air, whispered
words,
and the perfect
press of
young lips.
*
Bell bottoms,
Burma shave
and sugar babies:
These are current
neighbors
out of my own
early morning
underwritten
sweet gash:
Sunlight,
moonlight,
twilight and
beyond, gone
wounded
by pacts of hope
that have
no names.
I write
upsidedown
with a lantern
and burn
my own name
and yours
into these walls
and feel
the measured
fur of night's
drift. What
dazzling purpose
can we put to
truck noise
in an open
window?
I hate
illumination
that needs
a switch.
And now
you populate
disbarred
post-midnight
in place of
phantom love:
You got them
laughing eyes,
a retinue
of haute couture
and an ace
of pentacles.
When I
think of you
I feel
a warm
rush of
pre-dawn
air, whispered
words,
and the perfect
press of
young lips.
*
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
EPAOIDE, Part IV
Stylus
for Susan Berger-Jones
I don't think Howard could love anything that did not have a motor in it. [Tierney on Hughes]
Here I go again, the luckiest unlucky girl on the planet, out of a basement room carpeted with crumbs and single strip of sunlight after 2 PM, Audrey Hepburn played by Tony Perkins in High Temple lust mode, entering into the naked air of Nakojobad. The North Star Motel is just south of the Tibetan Inn, with a swath of vetch and clover at the front. How to write it is that we write it, and it is written, pierced by the nibs of the world, sunlight, moonlight, the desire in the eyes of others. Polar axes have two ends: When you use just one, it breaks the other: It is necessary to write from the middle, but yes, to say it: What? To be pierced from the middle and feel a double streaming toward either end: This is polarity. To be pierced is to die. Red screams out of a silent picture, hanging on a wall: Four lanterns go for a thousand eyes in a dream of singularity, get me? If a corn of wheat but fall to earth and perish, only then will it bear a world of fruit [John 12:24]. Set high at the apex of paradise, a black orchid reveals by its reflection the entire darkness of the night sky. To be pierced by darkness: This is the polarity that beats death at its own game, and makes human life an overripe nectarine on which we inscibe a few sentences from Dante's Vita Nuova. She's dressed to kill, in blues and tans with spike heels, under a Puerto Rican moon: His eyes are black, and sharp diamond in focus as he smokes a female cigarette and watches the twitching source of a distant star: Sex in ragged silk gone under glass. At the other coast, limbs writhe under an army surplus indian blanket: We are pierced by our ability to design, not by the design we make ourselves capable of: That is the love by which the phantom lover comes into flesh, standing in a spasmodic doorway, pulling the tenuous sinews lining one's inner thighs into music the heart drinks up: Ice water and limes on a beach at Wakiki, an orange robe among debris, living for the instant flash, a black butterfly at dusk that we can swap for essence battling a new manuscript of dulled particulars that cannot be either seen or known. That's the way it is. The soul is a beautiful animal motivated by divine love to unfold in each of us according to our nature. I ought not to walk in glory, but I do. Never sacrifice the practicality of vision, grace and trust to the touch of a landlord, but occupy the solitary throne that alone, can move your pain through you, can move you aching through the world. Get the ball to Suqi. Lose it in the crowd. The deific elemental that guides the heroic principality in the heart is as blind as love is, only if we remain human. To horse it under water is to give black vision new eyes: I said it once, and I'll say it again: Pencils are for writing. After great pain, a formal feeling comes. [Emily Dickinson]: Diana on a red leather couch. Chill air at 5 AM brings sweat along my hairline, but I proceed into perseverence, disavowing the death of the dynamic throne that governs me: A puss in boots in lunar light has driven nails in my hands and feet, and a single one through my heart. She is Aphrodite of the Magic Forest where having lost my way, was led by her to the budded springs of God's dancing horn, whose abyss we redeem by publicly wearing it: At dusk and dawn, I love nothing more than to wipe clean the drinking glass we share, and feel it filling back with a black sea, ten thousand weeds and the clear blue circlet of perfect air.
*
for Susan Berger-Jones
I don't think Howard could love anything that did not have a motor in it. [Tierney on Hughes]
Here I go again, the luckiest unlucky girl on the planet, out of a basement room carpeted with crumbs and single strip of sunlight after 2 PM, Audrey Hepburn played by Tony Perkins in High Temple lust mode, entering into the naked air of Nakojobad. The North Star Motel is just south of the Tibetan Inn, with a swath of vetch and clover at the front. How to write it is that we write it, and it is written, pierced by the nibs of the world, sunlight, moonlight, the desire in the eyes of others. Polar axes have two ends: When you use just one, it breaks the other: It is necessary to write from the middle, but yes, to say it: What? To be pierced from the middle and feel a double streaming toward either end: This is polarity. To be pierced is to die. Red screams out of a silent picture, hanging on a wall: Four lanterns go for a thousand eyes in a dream of singularity, get me? If a corn of wheat but fall to earth and perish, only then will it bear a world of fruit [John 12:24]. Set high at the apex of paradise, a black orchid reveals by its reflection the entire darkness of the night sky. To be pierced by darkness: This is the polarity that beats death at its own game, and makes human life an overripe nectarine on which we inscibe a few sentences from Dante's Vita Nuova. She's dressed to kill, in blues and tans with spike heels, under a Puerto Rican moon: His eyes are black, and sharp diamond in focus as he smokes a female cigarette and watches the twitching source of a distant star: Sex in ragged silk gone under glass. At the other coast, limbs writhe under an army surplus indian blanket: We are pierced by our ability to design, not by the design we make ourselves capable of: That is the love by which the phantom lover comes into flesh, standing in a spasmodic doorway, pulling the tenuous sinews lining one's inner thighs into music the heart drinks up: Ice water and limes on a beach at Wakiki, an orange robe among debris, living for the instant flash, a black butterfly at dusk that we can swap for essence battling a new manuscript of dulled particulars that cannot be either seen or known. That's the way it is. The soul is a beautiful animal motivated by divine love to unfold in each of us according to our nature. I ought not to walk in glory, but I do. Never sacrifice the practicality of vision, grace and trust to the touch of a landlord, but occupy the solitary throne that alone, can move your pain through you, can move you aching through the world. Get the ball to Suqi. Lose it in the crowd. The deific elemental that guides the heroic principality in the heart is as blind as love is, only if we remain human. To horse it under water is to give black vision new eyes: I said it once, and I'll say it again: Pencils are for writing. After great pain, a formal feeling comes. [Emily Dickinson]: Diana on a red leather couch. Chill air at 5 AM brings sweat along my hairline, but I proceed into perseverence, disavowing the death of the dynamic throne that governs me: A puss in boots in lunar light has driven nails in my hands and feet, and a single one through my heart. She is Aphrodite of the Magic Forest where having lost my way, was led by her to the budded springs of God's dancing horn, whose abyss we redeem by publicly wearing it: At dusk and dawn, I love nothing more than to wipe clean the drinking glass we share, and feel it filling back with a black sea, ten thousand weeds and the clear blue circlet of perfect air.
*
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Charge
for Jess
Pores breathe cool
night air. standing
at a hoteleria
window frame,
peering to the south.
The complex
curves of the body
are an image of
totality, just as
the ley lines of
the earth
incline one's
hands to get to
the other side of
all that can be
seen. Is desire
anything but this
graze of hand
sliding back
and under to feel
the dark side of
your moon? The limits
of knowledge
can be known by
going and being
in an impossible
place, full
and stiffening
the surrounding air
with presence.
The ancients
believed that
human love was
a simple horizon,
the curvature of
earth, that we follow it
beyond itself, a test
of faith, to find
whether it, or she, and we
shared its brilliant rim:
that you or we or I,
too, might be a rhondo,
a round of song,
pace and limit of
finding all
that you now are
come under hand,
hop-headed, hedonist
and possessed
of those fire-sticks
made hard in
the flame that flowers
in the soul when
one feels desire,
used to pierce
pore by pore, one
to the other
streaming, tongue
to tongue for
a shared word,
salt by coming salt
by eye, and the heart
drilled by this
tender hardness,
bleeding as stars
bleed light in all
directions, palms
like moonlight on heaving
skin, in the scansion of
sweet fucking,
the clear radials of my
penetration, as
the earth wheels
around its axis, the cosmos
in pure motion,
a mathematic of
call and response
as I too, figure
the curves of this
once and final
activity of love,
exploding outwardly
in all directions
exhaustively, within you.
*
Pores breathe cool
night air. standing
at a hoteleria
window frame,
peering to the south.
The complex
curves of the body
are an image of
totality, just as
the ley lines of
the earth
incline one's
hands to get to
the other side of
all that can be
seen. Is desire
anything but this
graze of hand
sliding back
and under to feel
the dark side of
your moon? The limits
of knowledge
can be known by
going and being
in an impossible
place, full
and stiffening
the surrounding air
with presence.
The ancients
believed that
human love was
a simple horizon,
the curvature of
earth, that we follow it
beyond itself, a test
of faith, to find
whether it, or she, and we
shared its brilliant rim:
that you or we or I,
too, might be a rhondo,
a round of song,
pace and limit of
finding all
that you now are
come under hand,
hop-headed, hedonist
and possessed
of those fire-sticks
made hard in
the flame that flowers
in the soul when
one feels desire,
used to pierce
pore by pore, one
to the other
streaming, tongue
to tongue for
a shared word,
salt by coming salt
by eye, and the heart
drilled by this
tender hardness,
bleeding as stars
bleed light in all
directions, palms
like moonlight on heaving
skin, in the scansion of
sweet fucking,
the clear radials of my
penetration, as
the earth wheels
around its axis, the cosmos
in pure motion,
a mathematic of
call and response
as I too, figure
the curves of this
once and final
activity of love,
exploding outwardly
in all directions
exhaustively, within you.
*
On the Road Again
Blue sky, light
wind upon the air,
traffic noise in
oblong window,
and just west,
the lake flows
south, the lines of
mountains run
right to left,
and there are voices
upstairs
in my head,
and in the Real
"upstairs" that is
up the stairs:
Blood throbs
in my eardrums
and courses
through my veins:
closed systems
are everywhere
present: So what is
all this talk about
an open society?
*
wind upon the air,
traffic noise in
oblong window,
and just west,
the lake flows
south, the lines of
mountains run
right to left,
and there are voices
upstairs
in my head,
and in the Real
"upstairs" that is
up the stairs:
Blood throbs
in my eardrums
and courses
through my veins:
closed systems
are everywhere
present: So what is
all this talk about
an open society?
*
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Murmurs
for Jess
Pores go brilliant
through black-
and-orange dreams,
post-midnight,
interweaving
saliva and starlight
in lieu of you.
Sexuality is
a question only
an act can both
accentuate and
answer, one small
wet piece yet one
holistic blush per
time: "Time" means
all the time, and "all",
the body as
the crimson furrows
of the rose of
a spiritual exercise
stiffened out of
eros into the resident
hardness of who one
loves. To know this
deeply in waves
whose abdomen
undulates under
sensual tongue,
mind gone stiff
to its tip, that reaches
after sweetness in
the salt: This is
our sole erotic
obligation, but not
its sole expression:
How many stars are
in the sky? How much
salt in the sea?
How many feathers
on a falcon's wing?
Appetite is endless
and the body, a forge
that burns the town down
every night. What
planets live beneath
your eyelids? Or name
the wine of love that is
running in your veins:
Raise a cup of it
in offerance, for what
are we but cups?
Like the rose
that is more
than the sum of
its parts, erotica goes
beyond the delicate
lines of trace, beyond
merely human skin,
and sounds the depths
of secret names
we are not capable of
saying. So, hush,
my sweet: Do we even
need to know them?
Only in this way: My
finger to your lips
not just to temporarily
quiet you, so that
we might hear them
as the heartbeats of
a living life now alive
in us, but equally so you can
feel the pattern of
my fingerprint upon your
lips, that I see the rise
of perception in your eyes
given back, as gold as
perfect sunrise.
*
Pores go brilliant
through black-
and-orange dreams,
post-midnight,
interweaving
saliva and starlight
in lieu of you.
Sexuality is
a question only
an act can both
accentuate and
answer, one small
wet piece yet one
holistic blush per
time: "Time" means
all the time, and "all",
the body as
the crimson furrows
of the rose of
a spiritual exercise
stiffened out of
eros into the resident
hardness of who one
loves. To know this
deeply in waves
whose abdomen
undulates under
sensual tongue,
mind gone stiff
to its tip, that reaches
after sweetness in
the salt: This is
our sole erotic
obligation, but not
its sole expression:
How many stars are
in the sky? How much
salt in the sea?
How many feathers
on a falcon's wing?
Appetite is endless
and the body, a forge
that burns the town down
every night. What
planets live beneath
your eyelids? Or name
the wine of love that is
running in your veins:
Raise a cup of it
in offerance, for what
are we but cups?
Like the rose
that is more
than the sum of
its parts, erotica goes
beyond the delicate
lines of trace, beyond
merely human skin,
and sounds the depths
of secret names
we are not capable of
saying. So, hush,
my sweet: Do we even
need to know them?
Only in this way: My
finger to your lips
not just to temporarily
quiet you, so that
we might hear them
as the heartbeats of
a living life now alive
in us, but equally so you can
feel the pattern of
my fingerprint upon your
lips, that I see the rise
of perception in your eyes
given back, as gold as
perfect sunrise.
*
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Local Trade
for Susan Berger-Jones
What do you say
about the most
beautiful face
on the planet,
but that we go
in and out of
doors, talking
all the time?
We have
the secrets of
the pyramids
tucked away
in Ukranian
script: Oh, just
let them try.
Decipherment is
for the birds.
We do better
in full sashay
along avenues
before the polished
marble columns
and doorways
beyond which
the parliament
continues to fail.
Happy we are
with soup de jour,
foreign export
and affadavits
toward freedom
granted by
Bergdoff-Goodman's
lady's sales: What
heartfelt pals,
decked out like
the Four Seasons
in a Lark Street
dinette, as clear
and clean as Bryce's
deconstructive resolve
and sexualistic
color wheels.
Nothing like a Chinese
import item
at cost, if you prefer
a firecracker
New Year over
the twelve Caesars
of common trade:
What a little
moonlight can do!
I'll never be
too tired to feel
your presence,
or go transcendental
enough not to hear
your words. You are
a code amendment
but never
a company job. Forget
the order form: The light
in your eyes is,
how do we say
in your language?
As perfect as holiday pay.
*
What do you say
about the most
beautiful face
on the planet,
but that we go
in and out of
doors, talking
all the time?
We have
the secrets of
the pyramids
tucked away
in Ukranian
script: Oh, just
let them try.
Decipherment is
for the birds.
We do better
in full sashay
along avenues
before the polished
marble columns
and doorways
beyond which
the parliament
continues to fail.
Happy we are
with soup de jour,
foreign export
and affadavits
toward freedom
granted by
Bergdoff-Goodman's
lady's sales: What
heartfelt pals,
decked out like
the Four Seasons
in a Lark Street
dinette, as clear
and clean as Bryce's
deconstructive resolve
and sexualistic
color wheels.
Nothing like a Chinese
import item
at cost, if you prefer
a firecracker
New Year over
the twelve Caesars
of common trade:
What a little
moonlight can do!
I'll never be
too tired to feel
your presence,
or go transcendental
enough not to hear
your words. You are
a code amendment
but never
a company job. Forget
the order form: The light
in your eyes is,
how do we say
in your language?
As perfect as holiday pay.
*
Blue
for Bobby Delmarco
The moon is high
with nearby star.
Were it crescent
we could be in
Ottoman twilight,
but for now
stellar dislocation
and the heavy smell
of dope will have to
do. 2 AM. Where
are our rattling
eucalyptus nights,
our penile, swampy
cypress roots,
the brittle fragrant
leaves of
bay? It's a jungle
out there: Watch me
steal the joy of
blankess from
pale sorrow gone to
deep despair
with the impure
blade of my
jackknife: When
I am fallling free
and water bears
my death,
where semen's torn
and nothing
in wind can be
saved in stone:
there I see
your eyes are snails.
*
The moon is high
with nearby star.
Were it crescent
we could be in
Ottoman twilight,
but for now
stellar dislocation
and the heavy smell
of dope will have to
do. 2 AM. Where
are our rattling
eucalyptus nights,
our penile, swampy
cypress roots,
the brittle fragrant
leaves of
bay? It's a jungle
out there: Watch me
steal the joy of
blankess from
pale sorrow gone to
deep despair
with the impure
blade of my
jackknife: When
I am fallling free
and water bears
my death,
where semen's torn
and nothing
in wind can be
saved in stone:
there I see
your eyes are snails.
*
Friday, July 10, 2009
You
for Jess
Fireflies moon
out of deep
wet grass:
Starlight
from before
the time of
man, stirs
at the surface
of my eye.
Dew is
settling
in my hair:
It would be
nice to have
three fingers
running
through it
too. We can
always dream
and embrace
everything that
runs amok:
Pure, immeasurable
restless
passion. That is
what people
give to each
other: The drive
to go further
but never
to vanish:
The shared
magic of
lipped insanity:
The nonstop
wonder
of exact
deceit.
Is that
what we want?
Words that
strike home
by showing us
the exit?
What you give to
my thoughts
is the closeness
of absence:
What you give
to my heart
is a dog's bark
next door.
We give what is
ours, and steal
what remains,
only to lose that
too: Time oozes
out and covers
our skin: We go outward,
and come undone.
My throat is
a site where I
block out
my voices
and let you be
a You
that thunders with
silence.
*
Fireflies moon
out of deep
wet grass:
Starlight
from before
the time of
man, stirs
at the surface
of my eye.
Dew is
settling
in my hair:
It would be
nice to have
three fingers
running
through it
too. We can
always dream
and embrace
everything that
runs amok:
Pure, immeasurable
restless
passion. That is
what people
give to each
other: The drive
to go further
but never
to vanish:
The shared
magic of
lipped insanity:
The nonstop
wonder
of exact
deceit.
Is that
what we want?
Words that
strike home
by showing us
the exit?
What you give to
my thoughts
is the closeness
of absence:
What you give
to my heart
is a dog's bark
next door.
We give what is
ours, and steal
what remains,
only to lose that
too: Time oozes
out and covers
our skin: We go outward,
and come undone.
My throat is
a site where I
block out
my voices
and let you be
a You
that thunders with
silence.
*
Aeon
for Jess
The wonder is
missing a voice
you've never
heard. Words
come shrouded in
emotion, and possess
the tone of ear
and tongue
combined, for
reception is
a mutual thing,
despite the light
from any distant
star might not be
seen for
10,000 years:
All that matters
is comingling.
Language is far
older than are
we, who believe
we speak it
when in fact
it speaks us
and holds us to
our place
as gracefully as
sinew, nerve
and bone.
Our own triadic
and mortal dance
is made of life,
labor, language
and that which
these three
compose: Love,
the longest lasting
rose that bursts
from the spine
at either end,
and whose silent
E opens lips,
mouth, throat
and the entire
body from one
nature to the next:
ROSE : EROS
or, true attention
to whatever
and sometimes someone.
The Real does not
close. To admit
the possibility of
creating an image of
beauty does not,
in the act, create
the image, but is
itself, creative beauty
gone active, creating
an image of itself
in the context of
having made this
possible. For what is
"not possible?"
What happens
when everything
takes place: Nothing
either contingent
or necessary?
Is this not pure
love: The freedom
to make? Ancient
Egyptians kept adding
further ideas to
old ones without any
concern for integration
and change. Operative
language is
constitutive rather than
expressive: One
in which a self can build
a world in which to
discover a Self: More
stuff. Play
produces in kosmos
the astonishment
that is the very source
of the world in which
we produce both
it, and ourselves:
These winged
and restless messengers,
this fragmentary angelology:
Although we can
never know
where we're going
we must always be
somewhere on our way.
*
The wonder is
missing a voice
you've never
heard. Words
come shrouded in
emotion, and possess
the tone of ear
and tongue
combined, for
reception is
a mutual thing,
despite the light
from any distant
star might not be
seen for
10,000 years:
All that matters
is comingling.
Language is far
older than are
we, who believe
we speak it
when in fact
it speaks us
and holds us to
our place
as gracefully as
sinew, nerve
and bone.
Our own triadic
and mortal dance
is made of life,
labor, language
and that which
these three
compose: Love,
the longest lasting
rose that bursts
from the spine
at either end,
and whose silent
E opens lips,
mouth, throat
and the entire
body from one
nature to the next:
ROSE : EROS
or, true attention
to whatever
and sometimes someone.
The Real does not
close. To admit
the possibility of
creating an image of
beauty does not,
in the act, create
the image, but is
itself, creative beauty
gone active, creating
an image of itself
in the context of
having made this
possible. For what is
"not possible?"
What happens
when everything
takes place: Nothing
either contingent
or necessary?
Is this not pure
love: The freedom
to make? Ancient
Egyptians kept adding
further ideas to
old ones without any
concern for integration
and change. Operative
language is
constitutive rather than
expressive: One
in which a self can build
a world in which to
discover a Self: More
stuff. Play
produces in kosmos
the astonishment
that is the very source
of the world in which
we produce both
it, and ourselves:
These winged
and restless messengers,
this fragmentary angelology:
Although we can
never know
where we're going
we must always be
somewhere on our way.
*
Flag Consciousness
una nebula di colore di fuoco
ego dominus tuus
una cosa, la quale ardesse tutta
vide cor tuum
*
ego dominus tuus
una cosa, la quale ardesse tutta
vide cor tuum
*
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Epistemology
Not even 6 AM
and Cary Grant
has already kissed
Audrey Hepburn
on the neck, two
times: She says,
"I love you, Adam."
And he replies, "You
already said that."
She looks his way
while he picks up
the telephone,
ostensibly to say
something different
to somebody else,
but nobody answers.
He looks her way,
and they both
look toward a door.
How monotheistic
can two pagan
twilights get?
*
and Cary Grant
has already kissed
Audrey Hepburn
on the neck, two
times: She says,
"I love you, Adam."
And he replies, "You
already said that."
She looks his way
while he picks up
the telephone,
ostensibly to say
something different
to somebody else,
but nobody answers.
He looks her way,
and they both
look toward a door.
How monotheistic
can two pagan
twilights get?
*
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Complicity
for Jess
Moonset
into deep
forest. My
favorite stars
are now
under
the earth.
You are
in Miami,
an ancient town
somewhere
on the Adriatic,
right?
Where starlight
rides
incisive
waves
cut sharp
into blocks
of obsidian.
Your eyes
glint.
Now I know
where stars
go, when
they disappear.
What is
the present?
It passes
through me
but
lets me
keep my own
blood, darkly
intact.
But why?
I want to be
torn open
into all
I cannot
know,
so I can
not know it
again
from that
angle, too.
Ask me
no
questions:
just
take me
on down,
light me
up,
and know me
for myself:
Where there's
fire the findings
are mutual
and unable
to be housed
without risk.
To feel this
closes
the gap:
Miami is
the darkness
that inks
the dawn
in the word
that's spoken
here
between us,
no matter
which way
we burn.
*
Moonset
into deep
forest. My
favorite stars
are now
under
the earth.
You are
in Miami,
an ancient town
somewhere
on the Adriatic,
right?
Where starlight
rides
incisive
waves
cut sharp
into blocks
of obsidian.
Your eyes
glint.
Now I know
where stars
go, when
they disappear.
What is
the present?
It passes
through me
but
lets me
keep my own
blood, darkly
intact.
But why?
I want to be
torn open
into all
I cannot
know,
so I can
not know it
again
from that
angle, too.
Ask me
no
questions:
just
take me
on down,
light me
up,
and know me
for myself:
Where there's
fire the findings
are mutual
and unable
to be housed
without risk.
To feel this
closes
the gap:
Miami is
the darkness
that inks
the dawn
in the word
that's spoken
here
between us,
no matter
which way
we burn.
*
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Pearl Rain
for Jess
I wake to
prayerful release,
consciously
close my eyes,
put my hands
together
and immediately feel
the burning
gold presence
of your hips
between my palms,
my face
gone deep
into the perfect
musk that is
the masque of
the present air.
I hook
my tongue
in the horns of
your moon
and feel you
rise
by the intimate
articulation of
your giving
spine, and the soft
metaphors that move
my mouth across
the lips of your
dark sex, together
filling my mouth
when you come
with the fragrance of
your juice
and the pollinating
fallout of
rising night, that
like ink, spatters
the pure blank page
of this perfect act
with foetid joy.
So open your arms
and never close
your lips or legs,
but leave them
listening for me:
I am coming too:
the weather here
is far too hot
to give me
any other choice.
*
I wake to
prayerful release,
consciously
close my eyes,
put my hands
together
and immediately feel
the burning
gold presence
of your hips
between my palms,
my face
gone deep
into the perfect
musk that is
the masque of
the present air.
I hook
my tongue
in the horns of
your moon
and feel you
rise
by the intimate
articulation of
your giving
spine, and the soft
metaphors that move
my mouth across
the lips of your
dark sex, together
filling my mouth
when you come
with the fragrance of
your juice
and the pollinating
fallout of
rising night, that
like ink, spatters
the pure blank page
of this perfect act
with foetid joy.
So open your arms
and never close
your lips or legs,
but leave them
listening for me:
I am coming too:
the weather here
is far too hot
to give me
any other choice.
*
Friday, July 3, 2009
Joy
for Jess
The moon is high
silver in the center
of parting cloud,
a third eye opening
the tantra, or
the milky knob of
a pubis bone in rise
to its occasion.
I am a hole
in a flute that draws
air from everywhere
and whose music is
not my own, yet
to this true elegance
I must dance
to keep myself
from thinking either
good or ill of anyone.
What is love, but
realizing the necessity
of this? Its tune
is from a cosmic world
so pure in its
randonee, we live
as healthy specks of
dirt upon its roots
for sake of
its own nourishment
and our understanding
of how we are
in light of it. The sky
is dark, the window,
black: I do not know
what lies beyond
yet I place my palm
against the glass
as I would across
the skin below your
nave, to feel
your mammal warmth
and the ancient pulse
of starlife deep within.
It is surreal to be
inside the dense desire
to want to be with you
this close: I am the fish
required to complain
about the akwardness of
the camel ride
on its way to visit you:
Somethin' just ain't
right, and I'm feeling
so damned thirsty.
Come close to me
tonight: Giving birth
to suns, holding
gardens upsidedown,
gently shaking
weird animals from
mystic trees into my lap:
Come see! The thing
that's called imagination
simply does not exist.
I reach into my heart
to try to find it,
and thoughtlessly pull
my hands - alive! -
from my own pockets,
and feel them drawn
in your direction
as if you were supple
air and wind
and my fingers
but the wings of
a common bird
in flight. This
elemental buoyancy
is what I've left
my careless wisdom for:
It's not about
the clever knife
I use to whittle
time away to nothing.
It is all about
the night, and you,
and going completely
"around the world" with you,
from Galapagos
to Buenes Aires,
Timbuktu and Cyrene,
to Damascus, Tabriz,
Kabul, Shanghai,
and a further spread across
the whole Pacific rim,
or within our simple
grammar, my tongue
in every nook
between your toes
and hooked in behind
your ears: World
as body is langauge
in cosmos and the whole
thing can never
rock and roll without
the initial impetus
of sex and love,
which paint all acts
the single color of
whatever passion
we might share.
So we sit around
and laugh all day
and listen to
our heartbeats:
you, mine, and me
yours, and say, yes,
we ought to do this
more: This delicious
compassion of
setting aside our
clever instruments,
drowning in
the erroneous truths
we think we know about
each other. I am
the beautiful bag lady
in every city
you've ever been.
Perhaps I am even
Herakles, a captain of
the clouds, or one of
the many useless
lightning bolts of Zeus:
There is reason
not to care. But
about this, say yes:
What young lovers
and old lovers both
wisely will suggest:
Let us try it
from this angle,
23 degrees up
from horizontal,
wearing a blue hat:
do you not think
that seven suns
and four moons
might not roll out of
some sacred closet
our passions have
yet to ignite?
And later, one more
time: swinging on
a rope tied to
the ceiling, this final
longitude, this elegant
penetration will loose
the last speck of divinity
throbbing in a corner
of your heart
that only this last
atheltic devotion can
release. Beautiful
love games must all be
played: I need to know
what names
the fragrance of
your sweat
will give to me.
And I hope
that we might say
"Gee, thanks"
when we begin
throwing cucumbers
at each other:
A lovely free-for-all
and who knows what else:
Each curve of limb,
each elegant
surprising voice,
the infinite shapes of
your intellect,
and the fragrance you can
never help, this
entire combusting
orchestra made
to share, come:
Let us be as one,
two, ten and a hundred
thousand strong!
I vote for you
not to
foresake yourself,
but to know this
by the boundary of
your own skin,
its outline
and pure limit,
alone
in laughing mode,
is sacred, but
its grace can
still be known,
kissed at dawing
light, darkly
and completely in.
*
The moon is high
silver in the center
of parting cloud,
a third eye opening
the tantra, or
the milky knob of
a pubis bone in rise
to its occasion.
I am a hole
in a flute that draws
air from everywhere
and whose music is
not my own, yet
to this true elegance
I must dance
to keep myself
from thinking either
good or ill of anyone.
What is love, but
realizing the necessity
of this? Its tune
is from a cosmic world
so pure in its
randonee, we live
as healthy specks of
dirt upon its roots
for sake of
its own nourishment
and our understanding
of how we are
in light of it. The sky
is dark, the window,
black: I do not know
what lies beyond
yet I place my palm
against the glass
as I would across
the skin below your
nave, to feel
your mammal warmth
and the ancient pulse
of starlife deep within.
It is surreal to be
inside the dense desire
to want to be with you
this close: I am the fish
required to complain
about the akwardness of
the camel ride
on its way to visit you:
Somethin' just ain't
right, and I'm feeling
so damned thirsty.
Come close to me
tonight: Giving birth
to suns, holding
gardens upsidedown,
gently shaking
weird animals from
mystic trees into my lap:
Come see! The thing
that's called imagination
simply does not exist.
I reach into my heart
to try to find it,
and thoughtlessly pull
my hands - alive! -
from my own pockets,
and feel them drawn
in your direction
as if you were supple
air and wind
and my fingers
but the wings of
a common bird
in flight. This
elemental buoyancy
is what I've left
my careless wisdom for:
It's not about
the clever knife
I use to whittle
time away to nothing.
It is all about
the night, and you,
and going completely
"around the world" with you,
from Galapagos
to Buenes Aires,
Timbuktu and Cyrene,
to Damascus, Tabriz,
Kabul, Shanghai,
and a further spread across
the whole Pacific rim,
or within our simple
grammar, my tongue
in every nook
between your toes
and hooked in behind
your ears: World
as body is langauge
in cosmos and the whole
thing can never
rock and roll without
the initial impetus
of sex and love,
which paint all acts
the single color of
whatever passion
we might share.
So we sit around
and laugh all day
and listen to
our heartbeats:
you, mine, and me
yours, and say, yes,
we ought to do this
more: This delicious
compassion of
setting aside our
clever instruments,
drowning in
the erroneous truths
we think we know about
each other. I am
the beautiful bag lady
in every city
you've ever been.
Perhaps I am even
Herakles, a captain of
the clouds, or one of
the many useless
lightning bolts of Zeus:
There is reason
not to care. But
about this, say yes:
What young lovers
and old lovers both
wisely will suggest:
Let us try it
from this angle,
23 degrees up
from horizontal,
wearing a blue hat:
do you not think
that seven suns
and four moons
might not roll out of
some sacred closet
our passions have
yet to ignite?
And later, one more
time: swinging on
a rope tied to
the ceiling, this final
longitude, this elegant
penetration will loose
the last speck of divinity
throbbing in a corner
of your heart
that only this last
atheltic devotion can
release. Beautiful
love games must all be
played: I need to know
what names
the fragrance of
your sweat
will give to me.
And I hope
that we might say
"Gee, thanks"
when we begin
throwing cucumbers
at each other:
A lovely free-for-all
and who knows what else:
Each curve of limb,
each elegant
surprising voice,
the infinite shapes of
your intellect,
and the fragrance you can
never help, this
entire combusting
orchestra made
to share, come:
Let us be as one,
two, ten and a hundred
thousand strong!
I vote for you
not to
foresake yourself,
but to know this
by the boundary of
your own skin,
its outline
and pure limit,
alone
in laughing mode,
is sacred, but
its grace can
still be known,
kissed at dawing
light, darkly
and completely in.
*
Flight Patterns
Kestrel on a back lot
takes wing before
the approach of Man:
The Buddha appears
as sunlight brightening
the flanks of a tiny doe.
*
takes wing before
the approach of Man:
The Buddha appears
as sunlight brightening
the flanks of a tiny doe.
*
Dawn
for Jess, upon an eastern sky at 5 AM
When I wake
to the petal-torrent
of your face,
a flush of nettles
stings my own:
rose fingers rise up
in the windowpane
where my heart is
a coup, the sky
becomes blue
and I ride high up
and hard inside you.
*
When I wake
to the petal-torrent
of your face,
a flush of nettles
stings my own:
rose fingers rise up
in the windowpane
where my heart is
a coup, the sky
becomes blue
and I ride high up
and hard inside you.
*
Polis
2 AM and out the door
a brilliant crush of
sparkling dew: Stars are out.
Remember them?
And we want to be
remembered too.
*
a brilliant crush of
sparkling dew: Stars are out.
Remember them?
And we want to be
remembered too.
*
Rest Your Elaborations
for Jess
To the Nth degree
intensity simply
disappears into
the body
we can never see
complete,
but a dancing flame
we know is
real. Desire
is not something
to sit around
and discuss at length:
The signpainter
sings and his brush
goes crooked.
The body is
a flame that is forever
a sign. It can
never go crooked
because it contains
all crooks.The poem
can end wherever
we please. These words
will not be an extended
lecture. My tone
(and the desire
it carries like a dove)
is meant to please
a part of you
that does not know
it can be.
Who am I, but
an imagined snowflake
from the north
your heart will melt?
When dusk fills the bowl
of sky with black
against which stars
can show,
only then
will your favorite
garment wrap itself
in golden threads
around the burning wick
of my absent sun.
Only then will longing be
a magnificant presence
prone before
our perpetual speaking
but for naught, moving
like Roman lovers
in the seance of
an unmade bed, knowing
just what's pressed against,
the paradox of pairing
come as one, felt as one
apart from one another, yet
doubled and held close
as tone, the skin and bone
of just the two, as done.
*
To the Nth degree
intensity simply
disappears into
the body
we can never see
complete,
but a dancing flame
we know is
real. Desire
is not something
to sit around
and discuss at length:
The signpainter
sings and his brush
goes crooked.
The body is
a flame that is forever
a sign. It can
never go crooked
because it contains
all crooks.The poem
can end wherever
we please. These words
will not be an extended
lecture. My tone
(and the desire
it carries like a dove)
is meant to please
a part of you
that does not know
it can be.
Who am I, but
an imagined snowflake
from the north
your heart will melt?
When dusk fills the bowl
of sky with black
against which stars
can show,
only then
will your favorite
garment wrap itself
in golden threads
around the burning wick
of my absent sun.
Only then will longing be
a magnificant presence
prone before
our perpetual speaking
but for naught, moving
like Roman lovers
in the seance of
an unmade bed, knowing
just what's pressed against,
the paradox of pairing
come as one, felt as one
apart from one another, yet
doubled and held close
as tone, the skin and bone
of just the two, as done.
*
Thursday, July 2, 2009
What Has Happened to My Burden?
for Jess
That this were
the song of
a wanton flame:
How easy it is
having had no
draught of perfect
love, no secret
codes enchanting
dark places of
body, heart, soul
and resistent
mind: where
muscles crimp
like a bottlecap,
children call
a constable
and even your
nose thinks twice
about leading
this person
out again
into the world.
Can we call
a conference
in the clouds
to keep
sharp stones of
denial and of
lust from piercing
our daily skin
grown cold?
Of this
there is reason
to doubt.
One tears away
from old regard
but with
the entire help
of the outer
world: What
do you think
the fragments of
these broken
cups are for?
When we have
not been out
drinking deep
of love, we instead
stay in
and weigh
ourselves:
One cold fish,
two small
potatoes
and a dozen
shrivelled beans.
Is there
no marvel more
but that we
starve ourselves?
No ruler
will ever
measure
the beauty of
the heart you once
could trust
no matter
the angle of
the darkness
you might take.
I will tell you
now of
a little conversion:
That the sun is
a golden flower, is
a beautiful
human face,
each pore of which
is a further
flower, and another,
and a further
penetration, more
bright world
expanding
into you through
a series of
increasingly
smaller yet
more open
revelations:
Take it from
a vagabond
that no matter
where you travel,
you can never
let it go:
The dance is
upon you
as a force:
Bring your heart
to the star cup
that shattered
fragments of mind
compose, and stop
hiding your hands
behind
your back.
Do you think
your bondage
to my gaze
is all I ever
care about?
Bring yourself
near to
the sanity that lives
outside of us:
Quench yourself
by spilling light out
from every pore,
for your body
is the wax
that burns with
the brilliant light
that everybody
needs. See yourself
in being seen by
me, so
meaningless
that you must give it
completely back, with no
regrets. But
that I am you, and you,
me? No way
but to feel
at the close of
day on the darkening
horizon, that I
know not
the number of stars,
but by the
overwhelming
power of their
illumination
through me, I may
know when I have
kissed you enough.
So quench
your thirst for
freedom: I have
your secret clauses
safely in my
heart. When you
want them back,
just ask: You think
a crazy man
wants for anything
but the sweetness
of giving love?
Within the circle
of imperfection
there is an intimate
community of light.
So take my wick
and with your hands
set it in
behind my eyes.
*
That this were
the song of
a wanton flame:
How easy it is
having had no
draught of perfect
love, no secret
codes enchanting
dark places of
body, heart, soul
and resistent
mind: where
muscles crimp
like a bottlecap,
children call
a constable
and even your
nose thinks twice
about leading
this person
out again
into the world.
Can we call
a conference
in the clouds
to keep
sharp stones of
denial and of
lust from piercing
our daily skin
grown cold?
Of this
there is reason
to doubt.
One tears away
from old regard
but with
the entire help
of the outer
world: What
do you think
the fragments of
these broken
cups are for?
When we have
not been out
drinking deep
of love, we instead
stay in
and weigh
ourselves:
One cold fish,
two small
potatoes
and a dozen
shrivelled beans.
Is there
no marvel more
but that we
starve ourselves?
No ruler
will ever
measure
the beauty of
the heart you once
could trust
no matter
the angle of
the darkness
you might take.
I will tell you
now of
a little conversion:
That the sun is
a golden flower, is
a beautiful
human face,
each pore of which
is a further
flower, and another,
and a further
penetration, more
bright world
expanding
into you through
a series of
increasingly
smaller yet
more open
revelations:
Take it from
a vagabond
that no matter
where you travel,
you can never
let it go:
The dance is
upon you
as a force:
Bring your heart
to the star cup
that shattered
fragments of mind
compose, and stop
hiding your hands
behind
your back.
Do you think
your bondage
to my gaze
is all I ever
care about?
Bring yourself
near to
the sanity that lives
outside of us:
Quench yourself
by spilling light out
from every pore,
for your body
is the wax
that burns with
the brilliant light
that everybody
needs. See yourself
in being seen by
me, so
meaningless
that you must give it
completely back, with no
regrets. But
that I am you, and you,
me? No way
but to feel
at the close of
day on the darkening
horizon, that I
know not
the number of stars,
but by the
overwhelming
power of their
illumination
through me, I may
know when I have
kissed you enough.
So quench
your thirst for
freedom: I have
your secret clauses
safely in my
heart. When you
want them back,
just ask: You think
a crazy man
wants for anything
but the sweetness
of giving love?
Within the circle
of imperfection
there is an intimate
community of light.
So take my wick
and with your hands
set it in
behind my eyes.
*
Fat Moon
It is all tone,
this cavorting
with the wild
and the weird:
It is all love.
Who would have
employed one
so given to
throwing their loom
into the river
and sleeping
spooned together
with the lawless
and the lewd?
So to become
a poet, why
not this
imperfecting
grace?
I could keep
my pages blank
with a strict
salute from
my pyjamas
and lay back,
listening to
the tree leaves
breathe.
And after
the Beloved came
with her
invisible breeze
to disturb
the record of
my blankness,
people would
stare
in awe of
how I let her
take me
in the open
air of
my emptiness,
grasp my
heart
with her nesting
claws
and make from
my blood
her ink.
To refuse
this wine,
to not do,
and let yourself
be done to,
this perfect
beauty of
the parched
mouth,
and all
that drives us
through
each other,
this is
the only
sin: The lamp
of the human
self
must be
driven
into the heart
of every
aching thing.
Fire possesses
love for itself,
it wants
only
to keep burning.
Throw yourself
into the arms
of the beloved's
life: She will
probably ask you
what took you
so long
and spend
a lifetime
showing you
your death.
How fertile!
How perfect
that things
have an end
and a beginning!
Where can I
meet you?
Isn't that
the point?
*
this cavorting
with the wild
and the weird:
It is all love.
Who would have
employed one
so given to
throwing their loom
into the river
and sleeping
spooned together
with the lawless
and the lewd?
So to become
a poet, why
not this
imperfecting
grace?
I could keep
my pages blank
with a strict
salute from
my pyjamas
and lay back,
listening to
the tree leaves
breathe.
And after
the Beloved came
with her
invisible breeze
to disturb
the record of
my blankness,
people would
stare
in awe of
how I let her
take me
in the open
air of
my emptiness,
grasp my
heart
with her nesting
claws
and make from
my blood
her ink.
To refuse
this wine,
to not do,
and let yourself
be done to,
this perfect
beauty of
the parched
mouth,
and all
that drives us
through
each other,
this is
the only
sin: The lamp
of the human
self
must be
driven
into the heart
of every
aching thing.
Fire possesses
love for itself,
it wants
only
to keep burning.
Throw yourself
into the arms
of the beloved's
life: She will
probably ask you
what took you
so long
and spend
a lifetime
showing you
your death.
How fertile!
How perfect
that things
have an end
and a beginning!
Where can I
meet you?
Isn't that
the point?
*
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
EPAOIDE
for Susan Berger-Jones
Style
Need there be any beyond the order of the stars? The color world of humans and of birds beset by volcanic eruption, geology, the soundings taken and maps drawn up of some beautiful feminine face. How to dress its body: Deep rich taffeta: Crisp black orchids. Some velvety rose petals doubling as dessert spoons to honor the Harmonium: Tuesday life as sharp as any witless urgency wandering the streets on smack. In address are the necessitating bombs of uncertain flowers, indeterminate in difference between yellow and gold. Mine deeper for darker birds: An alphabet is required. Gisele is influenced by Buddhism, and takes place among the pointed needles of Bohemian Grove, its monied opportunity and a chance with Tiffany gold and a Dior bra to cavort in the Prado with Calvin Klein underwear. Lucky us. After midnight and plummeting toward another antiquated dawn, we must have purchase of chase and pursuit, a vintage necklace from Au Vase de Delft, Paris at 33-1-42-60-92-49, plus earrings by Lydia Courteille (Paris) and of course appearing over the horizon at any second, Blunt's special order Armani Prive dress. When you do not know what to do, consult page 107. Check in with a Hebew Hottentot, or the Greek dignity of former friends. You know what they say: A diamond girdle dressed in fruit yields Hapsburg dowagers and an Adam clone through the wedded deaths that Germany forgot: We trade our lives for dirigibles. Forget the meaning, go for the manicure: Burn your bridges with perfect dancing. And to guard your glances like Gustavus Adolphus? You know what the begging bowls at God's door say: Dance on glass in white silk socks. Pulverize walls with your speaking lips. Steal away dreams of my inchoate youth. And start kissing me quick, or else.
*
Substance
I learned Norwegian in a day from five little Chinese guys: Language habits are the cry of triumph. Pottery finds suggest a Libyan presence in Crete as early as 4000 BC, as easily seen as reflective faces in Mother's pearls. Madame Nhu never forgets the stellar position of Shanghai Sue experienced below the belt as a river mirrored in a sword: Ice cuts through water in a way that water never can. Shall we be seen with Valentino Garavani in a Christian LaCroix Haute Couture dress, reading Pravda as a dividend toward a sexy shoal way past midnight's patriotic depths? I would rather be myself, Giselle Bundchen, in my own special-order Dior corset, lined with gold dust and sprouting like an undocumented valise flown illegally into the country, laced with crocus sativas and the clipped vocabulary of a Lycian temple. A suicide attempt is just as easily diagnosed through a Jewish comedian after hours as through an orgiastic goddess thrashing in a three-minute egg: What would you like to do? Carouse all day in the body of a God? Dance with a tick in the center of a star? What will you do when you say the yes that lights the wick of a fire that needs neither oil nor wax to burn you up? Will you ever hear again from any world that is equally known to others? The earth will bury you in splendor when you find the courage to set aside conflict and marry love. Blow out the straps and barrel staves that hold presence and absence together like strips of fat and meat, and let hunger fall on them at will. We abstain from happiness in order to feel good. Give it up: Group colors and numbers and learn how to count. Listen to the local tamboura as impersonating a single line through the hop-headed jack trade of platinum blondes, and edit Dianna Dors as Dina Shore, rendered by Unica Zorn as Danton gone female at the neck: Henna your hair, piece out in Armani black, and wing it.
*
Sustenance
Olulu! Olulu! Lacy trails of slug secretions trace the wolfin path. The day is bright and my vagina is as tight as the surface tension on Little Chicago Lake's placid waters, reflecting back pure gold as sun off an antique brass demon head from Mateson's, Bangalore, at 80 2558 8344, surrounded by miles of draped Kashmiri shawls standing in for the forested regions consciousness used to occupy. I open my arms, spread my legs and offer you the sweet market of my tongue. Where there's fire, the finder always ignites the unfound half: Fuel burns in a path toward total victory and oppression. Let's go to the movies. Things to do on Fantasy Island: Hunt down the notorious diabrotica godmani high in the lush canopy of your proverbial rainforests. Were there not ticks living in my every pore, my body would be invisible: Pain makes presence at one's own expense. Thinking will always guide thoughtlessness, so long as composing disavows neither presence nor absence. Eros is the measure felt by tongue in the opening of each petal's rosy stretch. Knowledge is a production, never a construction. To produce destruction is instructive. A constant companion disintegrates into an endless sequence of messengers, beautiful boys whose cocks you want to hold in your mouth for a full, gold decade each: God life disppears into the mouth that then is able to speak its name, paired with a restless angelology that opens a stream within and a stream beside. The sacral is all that is between things, scores them, scars them, as the life, not about. The act of playing in the Real with language: This alone is Love. Where potentiality and act switch roles and interpenetrate, and "exteriority" means simply at the door.
*
Style
Need there be any beyond the order of the stars? The color world of humans and of birds beset by volcanic eruption, geology, the soundings taken and maps drawn up of some beautiful feminine face. How to dress its body: Deep rich taffeta: Crisp black orchids. Some velvety rose petals doubling as dessert spoons to honor the Harmonium: Tuesday life as sharp as any witless urgency wandering the streets on smack. In address are the necessitating bombs of uncertain flowers, indeterminate in difference between yellow and gold. Mine deeper for darker birds: An alphabet is required. Gisele is influenced by Buddhism, and takes place among the pointed needles of Bohemian Grove, its monied opportunity and a chance with Tiffany gold and a Dior bra to cavort in the Prado with Calvin Klein underwear. Lucky us. After midnight and plummeting toward another antiquated dawn, we must have purchase of chase and pursuit, a vintage necklace from Au Vase de Delft, Paris at 33-1-42-60-92-49, plus earrings by Lydia Courteille (Paris) and of course appearing over the horizon at any second, Blunt's special order Armani Prive dress. When you do not know what to do, consult page 107. Check in with a Hebew Hottentot, or the Greek dignity of former friends. You know what they say: A diamond girdle dressed in fruit yields Hapsburg dowagers and an Adam clone through the wedded deaths that Germany forgot: We trade our lives for dirigibles. Forget the meaning, go for the manicure: Burn your bridges with perfect dancing. And to guard your glances like Gustavus Adolphus? You know what the begging bowls at God's door say: Dance on glass in white silk socks. Pulverize walls with your speaking lips. Steal away dreams of my inchoate youth. And start kissing me quick, or else.
*
Substance
I learned Norwegian in a day from five little Chinese guys: Language habits are the cry of triumph. Pottery finds suggest a Libyan presence in Crete as early as 4000 BC, as easily seen as reflective faces in Mother's pearls. Madame Nhu never forgets the stellar position of Shanghai Sue experienced below the belt as a river mirrored in a sword: Ice cuts through water in a way that water never can. Shall we be seen with Valentino Garavani in a Christian LaCroix Haute Couture dress, reading Pravda as a dividend toward a sexy shoal way past midnight's patriotic depths? I would rather be myself, Giselle Bundchen, in my own special-order Dior corset, lined with gold dust and sprouting like an undocumented valise flown illegally into the country, laced with crocus sativas and the clipped vocabulary of a Lycian temple. A suicide attempt is just as easily diagnosed through a Jewish comedian after hours as through an orgiastic goddess thrashing in a three-minute egg: What would you like to do? Carouse all day in the body of a God? Dance with a tick in the center of a star? What will you do when you say the yes that lights the wick of a fire that needs neither oil nor wax to burn you up? Will you ever hear again from any world that is equally known to others? The earth will bury you in splendor when you find the courage to set aside conflict and marry love. Blow out the straps and barrel staves that hold presence and absence together like strips of fat and meat, and let hunger fall on them at will. We abstain from happiness in order to feel good. Give it up: Group colors and numbers and learn how to count. Listen to the local tamboura as impersonating a single line through the hop-headed jack trade of platinum blondes, and edit Dianna Dors as Dina Shore, rendered by Unica Zorn as Danton gone female at the neck: Henna your hair, piece out in Armani black, and wing it.
*
Sustenance
Olulu! Olulu! Lacy trails of slug secretions trace the wolfin path. The day is bright and my vagina is as tight as the surface tension on Little Chicago Lake's placid waters, reflecting back pure gold as sun off an antique brass demon head from Mateson's, Bangalore, at 80 2558 8344, surrounded by miles of draped Kashmiri shawls standing in for the forested regions consciousness used to occupy. I open my arms, spread my legs and offer you the sweet market of my tongue. Where there's fire, the finder always ignites the unfound half: Fuel burns in a path toward total victory and oppression. Let's go to the movies. Things to do on Fantasy Island: Hunt down the notorious diabrotica godmani high in the lush canopy of your proverbial rainforests. Were there not ticks living in my every pore, my body would be invisible: Pain makes presence at one's own expense. Thinking will always guide thoughtlessness, so long as composing disavows neither presence nor absence. Eros is the measure felt by tongue in the opening of each petal's rosy stretch. Knowledge is a production, never a construction. To produce destruction is instructive. A constant companion disintegrates into an endless sequence of messengers, beautiful boys whose cocks you want to hold in your mouth for a full, gold decade each: God life disppears into the mouth that then is able to speak its name, paired with a restless angelology that opens a stream within and a stream beside. The sacral is all that is between things, scores them, scars them, as the life, not about. The act of playing in the Real with language: This alone is Love. Where potentiality and act switch roles and interpenetrate, and "exteriority" means simply at the door.
*
Post-Toastie
it is a human life
in the end that never is
"an end": internalizing
the outside world,
sloughing off layers of
smegma, to find
the migma is what is,
an end that employs
its own means to find
the inversion of
"self" is all that matters,
as the vaccuum of
vertical exchange draws
up, and is locked
into a porous whole
that shimmers down within,
evidenced only from
outside any evidence
that there is a real
container, or that
there was any actual
commision of either
miracle or crime:
no proof whatever,
but that you feel
the deep and perfect
gravity and blood
that dance in their
disordered devotion to
the pale feats of ghosties
*
in the end that never is
"an end": internalizing
the outside world,
sloughing off layers of
smegma, to find
the migma is what is,
an end that employs
its own means to find
the inversion of
"self" is all that matters,
as the vaccuum of
vertical exchange draws
up, and is locked
into a porous whole
that shimmers down within,
evidenced only from
outside any evidence
that there is a real
container, or that
there was any actual
commision of either
miracle or crime:
no proof whatever,
but that you feel
the deep and perfect
gravity and blood
that dance in their
disordered devotion to
the pale feats of ghosties
*
Rhyme
pen tip
glitters,
like human
hair in deep
pore, black
hole whose end
unseen
arrives as
fingertip
to wrist
to forearm,
bicep, shoulder:
clavicular
neck and shirt
unbuttoned:
I go
down on me:
give me
grace
or give me
death, or
fuck this race:
I've thrown
my pen
into
the garden:
my life is
changed:
I see
one way
and look
an other:
I am he
but never me:
I speak
and get forgotten.
*
glitters,
like human
hair in deep
pore, black
hole whose end
unseen
arrives as
fingertip
to wrist
to forearm,
bicep, shoulder:
clavicular
neck and shirt
unbuttoned:
I go
down on me:
give me
grace
or give me
death, or
fuck this race:
I've thrown
my pen
into
the garden:
my life is
changed:
I see
one way
and look
an other:
I am he
but never me:
I speak
and get forgotten.
*
Panegyric
Clytemnestra leads
the fever trees
through which
the starlight in our fibers
streams. This
I know through the stem
of my vocabulary,
inclined toward eros
and global warming
in which every sex
luxuriates toward
death's perfect
innovation. People
just want to live.
Our desire is a simple
candleflame
set before the sun,
consumed by it
from where we sit
yet not invisible to
us, who feel it
rise to the seeing
level of our eyes.
Psychosis resolves itself
every hundred feet
per second, exploding
basilisks with wings
of certain marble.
Because I love them
and you, my heart
remains a sentence:
Sometimes a practical
piece of string, at others,
a snake to bite you
back with your own pain.
Sometimes, even
a lightning bolt
that masturbates its own
skeleton: The moon
runs high and orange,
and normal cities
quiver, saturated with
groundwater
and the flow through
living sewers of
tears, saliva, semen,
menstruel blood
and the remains of fourteen
clouds. The day
rises: trees begin to
brighten. Hands unfold:
Hearts and minds
depict. Meanwhile,
man no. 36724
wonders what
an indentifying number
is. What a fantastic
activity philosophy can be!
He can be employed
anywhere on earth, but
how likely is it, beyond
having this Self, that his
body will be received by
some other as pure gift?
Marriage, she sd., leads
to only two things:
Infidelity and murder.
Silence. I know:
I killed my own.
So did my next door
neighbor. We shared
a meal and she asked,
what if a human
were not human
and the world inside
was not a form of hope
or any future term,
but was innocent poverty
stolen against instant
assimilation of pleasure?
I thought she was
a Hapsbuirg, and asked
about the House of
Atreus. But no:
Exuberance was of beauty
then, and exuberance
remains in beauty now.
The words by which we
survive are the language
by which we flag
uncertain strangers
who sadly steal us
from ourselves and hold us
to our own desires.
Better madness,
than to loathe the stable
model that refuses to
consume its food. Open
your mouth and cry
to heaven above:
Perhaps the graves
have opened up too soon.
A boner on a pillar
speaks of eternity and time:
Excesses of motion,
desire, formulation,
revenge and appetite
are signs of life.
They and it burn in us.
Variety is immortal.
*
the fever trees
through which
the starlight in our fibers
streams. This
I know through the stem
of my vocabulary,
inclined toward eros
and global warming
in which every sex
luxuriates toward
death's perfect
innovation. People
just want to live.
Our desire is a simple
candleflame
set before the sun,
consumed by it
from where we sit
yet not invisible to
us, who feel it
rise to the seeing
level of our eyes.
Psychosis resolves itself
every hundred feet
per second, exploding
basilisks with wings
of certain marble.
Because I love them
and you, my heart
remains a sentence:
Sometimes a practical
piece of string, at others,
a snake to bite you
back with your own pain.
Sometimes, even
a lightning bolt
that masturbates its own
skeleton: The moon
runs high and orange,
and normal cities
quiver, saturated with
groundwater
and the flow through
living sewers of
tears, saliva, semen,
menstruel blood
and the remains of fourteen
clouds. The day
rises: trees begin to
brighten. Hands unfold:
Hearts and minds
depict. Meanwhile,
man no. 36724
wonders what
an indentifying number
is. What a fantastic
activity philosophy can be!
He can be employed
anywhere on earth, but
how likely is it, beyond
having this Self, that his
body will be received by
some other as pure gift?
Marriage, she sd., leads
to only two things:
Infidelity and murder.
Silence. I know:
I killed my own.
So did my next door
neighbor. We shared
a meal and she asked,
what if a human
were not human
and the world inside
was not a form of hope
or any future term,
but was innocent poverty
stolen against instant
assimilation of pleasure?
I thought she was
a Hapsbuirg, and asked
about the House of
Atreus. But no:
Exuberance was of beauty
then, and exuberance
remains in beauty now.
The words by which we
survive are the language
by which we flag
uncertain strangers
who sadly steal us
from ourselves and hold us
to our own desires.
Better madness,
than to loathe the stable
model that refuses to
consume its food. Open
your mouth and cry
to heaven above:
Perhaps the graves
have opened up too soon.
A boner on a pillar
speaks of eternity and time:
Excesses of motion,
desire, formulation,
revenge and appetite
are signs of life.
They and it burn in us.
Variety is immortal.
*
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