Monday, November 9, 2009
I wanted to tell someone how I am the skillet and you are the stove-top I crawl across.
Once upon a city, there was no recipe, we were in a taxi, hot like pavement.
Eighty years past a clinical psychologist, past his red-velvet couch
reads beautiful books, walks to the market
without a walker for reddish-golden apples. No skin. He carries a beautiful basket.
Mid-autumn, near frost, we wake up.
I, mid-poultice-wrapping, hot wrinkling legs.
I look up.
He said, he said,
“Sugarplum, we're all missing someone.”
We drank minty, Mediterranean tea.
I fed my insatiable-thirsty.
He remembers Beowulf and Antigone.
This is an elegy. We look back on the poets of transition, we look back and mourn their loss.
Once, there was an epilogue at the end of a story, where hills full of gold are full of horses that will never be tended, of baked-bread that will go stale. The treasure was cursed, the cider poisoned, the last servant wept until he fell asleep. It was written by hand on parchment, homed in a forgotten Grecian-library, set aflame.
We talked and talked about literature, we spoke and spoke about Freud. As I helped him, in his gray, into his robe, he told me his young-beautiful wife was traveling on business in Singapore.
We grow old, we grow old.
You are the toes. The End.
Monday, October 26, 2009
my yoga body moves into a single pointed place where
I focus on a precious brandished-skin groom
in white breeches and a red riding cap and
a prophetic anchor who never saw his visions
and his listeners who gobbled
all the scraps of sideways wisdom he heaved at them and
finally a Sufi who exclaimed he was the Truth and that his face was my face
and spun in circles
circling around twinkling carousels, I told them
I'd give them everything if they would just given me a minute
when my hair was corn-colored,
I moved toward them blue-shifted (like a smile
rejoicing in our hands) mouth-watering fantasy remains--
me crouched in their lap, blowing cigar smoke in their mouths,
exhaust tastes warm like home, rolls off the tongue like Hebrew or Greek
however all of us could ride well oiled lanterns regardless
of what language we spoke
or we'd shine the light, late at dusk together for weary caravans;
'wake up,' we say 'its time to rise,' cellos bellow from
below our stomachs humble us gnawing on bones of stones we
find our simple recipes for soups made with fish and tall grasses
of which I wove pots and spoons made of bamboo until
we feasted and sent invitations to nations of paper birds
on rice stationary and little origami children took our fingertips and we were
down the rolling mountains where we found plantations of peasants with golden skin
harvesting paragraphs of verbs and cultivating stories from their tea, we buried their wishes
so that I transformed into an archaeologist, or like a cow without skin
I uncovered all of my attachments to worldly adjectives in the end.
Friday, October 9, 2009
First Woman was falling off the shoulders,
eating oranges and potato wedges from a Quince Tree.
And she dancing, dancing.
He says, “Keep that away from me.”
Soft Woman watched him stand adjacent, horizontal to the waters of a tragic koi pond, kissing the water with his back, grace-filled fish of gills complacent as their long swimming bodies surface-trascended, nearly brushing his skin. He was bare and motherless, lying temporal, node by node, in a hospital bed.
Empty Woman watched him float away, hands on temples. In sacred spaces; his hands were in revelation. A Beautiful Woman just wanted to call him home.
She whispered on and on about avocados in the aisles and sweetly shut up the cupboards. Sunflowers for all of the mothers. Fancy frosted cupcakes for everyone, with little pearly roses on the side.
Changing Woman asks ,
Had She seen Moses? Dark-haired and disco,
parting the waters of the East River.
Insatiable-thirsty, technicolor fireworks.
A seer, a Prophet Woman swallowed stainless steel spoons to recite stories of stories. She was lost in a box in translation. The cadence of her abstractions made all of the princes sigh.
Out-shone like fading lights, Tunnel Woman crawled into the whipping horse's eyes. A stallion made of gold coins drank the coffee. A Babylonian King bowed to marquis of names, never-never. Illuminated woman fell from arms in the sky.
Everyone lifted their hands in praise, in thanks, for saddles on antiquated elephants, for reflecting pools and cinnamon or saffron epithets.
Everyone mourned because not even Saving Woman could save him.
Cascading Woman succumbed to gravity. Elapsing, she said, saidless, goodbye.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Through my eyes,
in my daydreams,
my house is tall.
Up one thousand flights of winding stairs
you tirelessly find my hide hanging from oyster shell.
Thinned and sagging from my bones, I fall apart into your hands;
while my eyes are wishing, wanting, wanton--
little bottles of wonton lollipops.
I am baking you a breakfast of magnificent spiderwebs I found on corncobs.
My time piece, ancient like Central Station, says, whispers,
“Don't forget to look up.”
So I don't.
In a red tile bathroom we made dirty love.
I knew so little about you, except every subtle sinew, every nuance of your presence,
I knew so little about you.
My grandfather time piece, it stands on two legs with stiff arms
and circus feet.
Topsy-turvy acrobats fly from sill to sill,
and I open my windows to let the light in as it strikes dark.
I open my windows. The world drifts in.
The pebbles you throw reach the Afghan rugs.
Parlors, parlors, parlors. There are entire floors of parlors
full of Afghan rugs, in my tall house.
Silently they fall into the night
and this way you still feel like a six hour daylight shift,
of dreaming of fucking in the slough.
Your shadow tries to keep my warm.
Your shadow creeps into my sleep and tries to keep me warm.
You crept along my back with fingers (in notches) of water.
I was a rowboat tied to your bed post,
breathily, cut me off and set me downstream.
You flow like tender: through my hands
and in my pockets.
Your muttering under the word names
left me breathless; gasping exhales like drowning, I am breathless.
Frantic. In a panic.
I ban my words to speak your language.
Red tile bathroom, red tile bathroom
with the big red. read. arm chair out above.
My mouth is touching your atlas, at the nape of your thoughts,
and that, that is my favorite spot.
Hands, face, chest,
all pressed against a red-tinted vanity.
We screamed at each other,
you still called me “Pretty.”
My fingers are fiber-optics. Your skin is cerebral...
Now time has passed and your Fertile Crescent skin
(electrified with lights)
tastes metallic and brandished, like a dream.
We made wild stories in the dark.
We weighed mild allegories to black and brick yards.
I stretch my skin over the distance. A body. A bridge.
I just want to tempt you. I just want to spread
myself out like a map of the stars
and take up infinite space in your heart.
I secretly want you to stay a tragedy.
Where is Hercules when Poseidon is inside him?
To be the thin heroine, to be breastless and useless.
I am Philosophical. I am Godless. But you call me Goddess.
I can hook you with my fins, with my Trident I can reel you in.
we are the loneliest of kin.
I slip into the streams of my own consciousness
as I sleep in my big tall house from the throws of my own empty nest.
And in this fantasy-reality you reach me,
you are dripping from tips
of nipples from breasts
heaving with the milk of human longing.
In kindness I reach out to relieve your sacred texts.
The hands of time reach nine and I wake to find no tall house.
I was grinding coffee. I was cutting your limbs. I was praying to willows. I was singing your hymns.
I sang. I cockled. I cooed. I stood, barefoot in a chicken coop,
recalling perfect eggshells, recalling how your face was seamless.
I asked the dreamless hens if that made you real.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
the sand in between my hands.
in the inside there is sleeping. there is sleeping, weeping and peeping. in the inside there is weeping.
in the evening there is feeling. in the evening there are feelings, feelings and feelings.
all our feelings on air on the ceilings.
in my hands there are ceilings.
all of your standards have streamers and all of the curtains have bed linens and are smitten in Brooklyn are the bed linens which are smitten. the linens in Brooklyn are smitten.
my hands, my feelings, your bed linens are smitten with my hands and feelings in Brooklyn all of the circles are circling.
all of the circles are circling like circles in the sandy ceilings of feeling.
((i am in Brooklyn.))
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Your face turned to pixels, and He washed you away
with his hands.
He shaped them and swayed them
so that they became brooms,
sweeping away your apathy and ugly.
Grudgingly you kissed me and
I became a red fish,
bursting for Darwin, gills exploded
a frantic acrobat stuck on land.
You reeled me in, fishermen. You were shape-shifters then.
Hooks in, you were a coke pusher-liar, a jazz musician, a Gemini.
You were a Delta, a dark haired and thick-skinned, one or two night standoffish bed post.
Once you told me I was pretty on the yellowed tile of a stranger’s bathroom.
When you dreamt, you dreamt about Italy. You were greenish copper scarred.
You were a bi-polar muscle car monger, steadfast and dead wrong.
You were one hundred percent Dutch and one hundred percent Italian.
You were Bob Dylan. You were an old man.
The others went out like lamps.
You remained, you were an alibi.
I stared blindly at your sacrum.
In retrospect, it was tired then
I told you how sorry I was,
for all that I had been.
Monday, June 1, 2009
reincarnates from other lives, they returned on the count of dark
countless tries, they are reflections of Italian classes
of flesh-fables, in passing.
a blue colored, up the shirt-down. to. the. socks.
kinda-man waits in the doorway
tied up, barely.
smirking crooked like a baseball player with New
reciting wanton pants on the ground,
a black nonchalant
could not get through December
without sighing on the back stepped porch.
at his place on the south part of a paned-glass front door
a woman is shutting out the veranda
and he is tucking-in the folds of a new-old dress,
one of every color.
their skins are a hot waxy margarine from summer.
choruses of beautiful women in waiting, petition from behind the walls.
she, "beautiful," he says
turquoise dress, is every creeking noise in his hardwood floors.
she is all of the promises to cross stitch her heart
falling from her breath, with porcelain and bonnets.
her lips are painted in acrylics, poised and taught.
the mapper of her hair he draws plans (like inky tattoos) from her skin.
they’ve been waiting for the silence, it was just a matter of time.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
...she awoke to call me a
classical greek tao-rist!
that i fucked God in the mouth and i with my new headdress danced like conception.
i am the south wind. i am moving through you.
that is until i grew old as shadow, as a prayer of protection waltzing to the e.a.r.t.h.
bowing as a petition, limbs in the dirt.
And on the hour i sang songs i believed,
i slept and knew my new life had been a dream
every ex-seamstress followed me there and
fashioned me new existential caps
(THAT is why you keep your little lovers in your lap.)
i've put out your future fire with my tears.
And i was so happy sappy that i
tried out her math. tourists, heads of a feather with
all of the calculus and conics
and the knowledge of a futurist
made of machineries, we walked and embodied seas of melting topography.
our corpses were sworn to
youth and our warm witnesses left our centers in a burst, during the nomenclature
of an effigy.
i have two faces, a real trickster,
are you brave enough, want to lie with me?
i count your worth in bravery
in terms of the number of scars opposed to your burns.
you are the dirty culture growing on the inside of my mouth (!!)
[that which is now, is me rubbing my slippery gum against the blank space, rolling the back of my lips over your notion and wincing my face.]
and like an airplane turbine swallowing,hard the wind
blow through me like lungs or a schizophrenic on the street who shouts for you to free your sin!
"Hey, humanity the end is NEAR."
Listen to the man, who speaks of satellite performed laser lobotomies,
he has multiples degrees and a Ph.D and he is trying to help your witness be free and he watched me
float, toes pointed through the aisles and I saw the end. It looked like a wall...made of two way glass.
and in terms of reincarnation I felt my recyclable self pass,
away. I left for an aeon.
When I woke I was gray crushed velvet, with balloons on my head and pumps on my feet.
Never had never smelled so much like oranges.
I had seen your nebula and starstruck I was
forever and ever
I was feeling your bandwidth-frequency
inside of me.
You are my interesting words. You grow out of my belly and talk about a libertarian brick builder's simplicity. Like
chickens and sons.
I made a pie for you today and baked it from scratches of etchings of the shape of nothings
and we gave it a name.
We called it a Fond Memory and ate every last bite.