tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91482652600205816812024-03-13T19:52:09.030-07:00[Broken Hands]...personal voodoo...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-47663464280456759332011-11-07T22:16:00.001-08:002011-11-08T15:29:18.062-08:00FortyI am the handmaid with many blessings, always apron, always aproning. I am stirring the pot of hot amaranth mush and folding hand made afghans at the feet of different beds.<div>I have seen many ready, and in the ready place I have seen many put down their boats.</div><div><div>The now dead who I think of as dimples in tangerines are abrasions and must be swallowing somewhere, must be undoing the buttons of their pants in freed legless form.</div><div>...I would.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have watched forty people die and with each blowing I wondered if it was supposed to get easier, or harder, or sweeter</div><div>or if the inside of their inside was just outside now.</div><div>The terrible dead who I think of as Moorish warriors wearing metal hides heed rolling trumpets and sonnets for their long lost heart parts. They hop pad to park, crossing the pain ridge of Elysium, standing jagged in the Hemlock undoing themselves to lie in mossy tithes,</div><div>because I would.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dorothy tried to fly out the window.</div><div>Hand floating on top of the top shelf she dove crooned to Beloved for he was waiting outside.</div><div>I saw her sawing him. </div><div>Above the garden, stirring the chickens whom didn't know they were the Chapel; </div><div>vowing never candled so much to Pasty Cline.</div><div>Butterscotch hard candy unwrappers, unpeeling, </div><div>her skin stayed so delicate til the end.</div><div>I carried her, </div><div>limp unused womb back to sunlight linens,</div><div>she wore pearls in her prom pictures and by thirty she had laid down in the dull walled asylum too sterile to beat her sanity back.</div><div>I smoothed the wrinkles of her last lace nightgown. </div><div>I filled her room with yellow hydrangeas because she is just east of Wichita, Kansas</div><div>though sunflowers are the state flower </div><div>I know she must have liked the color.</div><div>I asked her to wait and she held on for eight days aspirating until my hand returned, </div><div>floating on top of hers she heaved to the sandy shore</div><div>and I swear I saw him waiting.</div><div><br /></div><div>People look like angels,</div><div> always.</div><div>People grow old into their halos.</div><div>"Are you my angel?" they say </div><div>as I turn them to side, </div><div>over on crooked shoulder,</div><div>they must not mind the latex barrier between</div><div> them </div><div>and I </div><div><br /></div><div>and I wish I didn't have to wear them.</div><div><br /></div><div>The tragedy of medicine is the canal. The crosshairs of the polyeuthathanes wall.</div><div>Goodness-wall opens it legs and arms in one motion, whereas the good mother touches, </div><div>even</div><div>shoots up the sweat of her sick child.</div><div>The good mother is the carrion. The good mother is the blood.</div><div>Crying medicine talks only to sickness.</div><div>It says "Sit up to swallow."</div><div>The tragedy of medicine is its lack of melody. Nurses assault men with applesauce.</div><div>With vinyl gloves. With hoyers.</div><div>White dresses. White shoes. White socks. White shoelaces. White hair.</div><div>The white mothers are chalk mothers with spotted lozenges.</div><div>The men are dissolving disk shapes in plastic coated mouths.</div><div>Her face is a container, blonde lid for the container.</div><div>Slowly sit up and swallow.</div><div>Crush tab.</div><div>Harmful if swallowed.</div><div>Hospice nurses are frozen, designed to dissolve.</div><div>Her procedure supervisor is a request for help</div><div>echoed</div><div>a request for help</div><div>echoed</div><div>for the ingestion carrion bottle.</div><div>She gives people expiration dates at their cranking</div><div>like a batch of eggs on a streamline conveyor belt.</div><div>I hate her. She stuffs their mouths and denies a man his right to pain.</div><div><br /></div><div>Juanita was my first. I was very young then. </div><div>Sleeping in the night-church I heard her whisper</div><div>"Mama?</div><div>Papa?</div><div>Mama?</div><div>Uncle Ern?</div><div>...Goddammit."</div><div>Her anger was a stiffness.</div><div>She'd swing out and I hated when she spilled her coffee.</div><div>"Ernest!" she'd shout, rolling.<br /></div><div>"Ernest you double crosser. I'm all alone.</div><div> Oh shit."</div><div>Exiled, I was scrawling something perfectly black, </div><div>and I knew the fallible symbol her goneness had took.</div><div><br /></div><div>I once shot a horse in the head but it wasn't the same.</div><div>It was screaming like Picasso, pierced-post kabob horse on fence.</div><div>Her appaloosa dapples twinkled and throbbed into little</div><div>tributary rivers into the Milky Way.</div><div>The mare's name was Moony, which now is funny thinking of all of the blood</div><div>that squirted.</div><div>I gave her a ritual gunshot and didn't even think to say goodbye.</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw you, Edward, MIT engineer, wondering about the right tool for the job. Pious father,</div><div>working the grime of an Ohio rubber factory, reading your six straw-haired children Chaucer and Milton. "Where are they now?" You ask with bullshit nostrils. "How do we leave here? What car do we take?" His fingers methodically undoing a seatbelt. I took-hands coaxed him on a cot, in a dream, into the blinding hallway, rolling together, me, Virgil, I lead him but to Paradise because he was Christian, because at his funeral we read from a palm leaf. Only one foot in and he woke up screaming, only I couldn't shoot him this time.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Hildegarde Octavia has overshot one hundred, transversed St. Louis to Mongolia, rolling hills, undoing folklore, bored she no longer watercolors for her daughters because they too are tired watercolors. She is grayer every morning. Outward the fog is more like a veil that starts to show itself. She is grayer in the twilight. Still without glasses she reads a novel about Lyell, a cowboy who chaparral prays. I gave her a book about angels with influenza in the World War, she loved it. I gave her a book about unicorns and she told me it was a lie. At night I blanket her down, watching as the red writings in God's red pen scrawl further across her back. If I could translate them I know they will help me answer her when she weeps, "Has Jesus forgotten me?" No, I say. All breasts and belly. Arthur was my husband, he tall and strong and has been gone. How long? I think I am one hundred and one. She weaves like a pent up horse, restless, woman-sailor stranded at sea. How do I die? I don't know the ethics of my answer. You can stop eating. She breaks wide, I'll be going to hell, I like devil's food. I am at the bardo window, I am the lookout. With great gratitude I pulse, a river into the ocean: you must let go of the boat. I am service, but this sailing vessel, with its legs and chest and shoulders does hold abundance, does not serve you anymore. Folding back into the afghan she crocheted, I wish her goodnight: until sunrise.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-46393514264933968082011-09-04T07:42:00.000-07:002013-01-27T19:31:49.379-08:00Hiss.Soothsayer, poet, poet-
<br />
seer women, old with wrought iron hands.
<br />
Mother woman composed of oven biscuits
<br />
paisley print tapered dress.
<br />
Dancer woman with sheer skin trinkets
<br />
jangle woman dancer, sin eater
<br />
she beats her legs together, wasps wings
<br />
her body hums harmonic Dharma,
<br />
electronic meditation woman
<br />
with cool summer breasts, she is grassy woman of soot,
<br />
a holy woman hands of salt cohesive and granular
<br />
the pathway to her mouth was curse-encoded
<br />
with mulberry beads, emerald gems, stones, sand tabletops for weekend sacrifice.
<br />
Who is she, banchee woman that screams, belts her prayers in the night.
<br />
She is pregnant bellied Shiva, corpses of powder, skull washing bowls
<br />
and crystalline begging pot to boil water
<br />
and piss.
<br />
Opaque pot.
<br />
Body permanent.
<br />
Body dead.
<br />
Body of bone and piss.
<br />
Body of uterus rotting.
<br />
Body of sacred mouth.
<br />
Flowing river body of sadness she laps onto catwalks
<br />
and all husbands throw trinkets at her.
<br />
Ecstatic worshipping woman, bones thirsty relics,
<br />
lapping divine river, Eldorado river
<br />
golden immortal fortune, she is stark and naked.
<br />
All of the husbands bless her with their sadness.
<br />
She is healer woman,
<br />
someday to pass away and baptize their wrongs,
<br />
forgotten dying woman, martyr,
<br />
they croon for her, men with tired stockings.
<br />
They reach and coil with their beaten army limbs, with their fierce grip
<br />
and leathery palms. They reach inside of her gentile calf,
<br />
arterial bleeding.
<br />
She sways into them;
<br />
she is meditating woman
<br />
revived from the piles of suicide ashes.
<br />
She is pearly Isis with cripple crow wings.
<br />
Beneath a red light, beneath a black light.
<br />
She is crying light woman!
<br />
She is Navajo woman, panting in the winter,
<br />
selling priceless jade, curse-encoded.
<br />
She is oracle woman, eyes of lotus,
<br />
hysterical, missing, melted shut.
<br />
Seer woman of peace but sees the wars of their ancestors,
<br />
their jugular brothers. She fortells the raping of her village,
<br />
the mothers.
<br />
Slinking back behind the beaded curtains
<br />
she is jungle woman, hair down, hair back, hair on his neck,
<br />
slithering Kundalini woman.
<br />
Red snake from the garden of language.
<br />
She tells him the story of banishment,
<br />
and he will teach it on the boughs of willows, on the blackboards.
<br />
Disguised, oh her body of magic. She was a serpent.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-61775202987408377912011-08-26T17:15:00.001-07:002013-01-27T19:33:18.232-08:00Water MountainCelestial snake, beamed and blind boa
<br />
curled. Sleeping.
<br />
Patience. Pants. Patience.
<br />
Holding to your unfurrowed, softly round
<br />
brow. Planetary shaped,
<br />
like Jupiter
<br />
like seeds.
<br />
<br />
Bags piled in the backseat canvas.
<br />
Places to compile. Places to unwind.
<br />
Unwound and unbalanced heart.
<br />
What is balance but emptiness?
<br />
What is emptiness but love?
<br />
Unbound balanced heart, hither-oh,
<br />
I come to you, between two night trees.
<br />
We laugh, the two laugh at the one.
<br />
And I recollect this sickness
<br />
that encumbers my belly like a pack of heavy timber
<br />
<br />
of fire, for your chaotic step,
<br />
after I break for you my drum.
<br />
We are a night walk
<br />
up a mountain
<br />
and exchange a furlong submarine.
<br />
Patience. Pants. Submerged
<br />
and forlorn
<br />
you are my fawn. Patience. For the sun.
<br />
I weave into your night garden.
<br />
With night blossoms
<br />
and night bed.
<br />
I am breath, waiting
<br />
heavy, unbalanced
<br />
for night-cut-peaches
<br />
and night-cut-sun.
<br />
Broadcasting, undersea, screaming transistor,
<br />
telepathic dolphins
<br />
sing a clear song of despair
<br />
of their water-wombs
<br />
shut out from the light.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-88234169998288865942011-08-22T17:05:00.000-07:002011-08-22T17:09:22.089-07:00Negative SpaceWho I am now
<br />Who am I now
<br />talking about the man who once talked.
<br />And in speaking spoke with
<br />great gratitude.
<br />Who am
<br />Who aren't is who am I now.
<br />Who I am will not be
<br />the incantation spoken
<br />nor the reverberation in his throat.
<br />Who is the melody of energy
<br />that is the asphyxiation of
<br />you and me.
<br />Who is the puzzle of bodies
<br />transfixed on questions of ontology.
<br />Who is speaking spoke with
<br />arms of legs of signifier's closed eyes.
<br />Who is the melody body.
<br />Transfixed with ontology
<br />who is speaking spoke
<br />with reverberation in his throat.
<br />Who is the soothsayer, the soothsayer who I am.
<br />Namer of all incantations.
<br />Who is a pear.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-89798864141372269172011-08-22T16:55:00.000-07:002011-08-22T17:02:50.282-07:00Drift.Permission to be lucid:
<br />(ok, go).
<br />Deeply, deeply
<br />we transition
<br />ice barriers, an iceberg
<br />deeply, deeply
<br />the body drifts, we go.
<br />(a body at rest beaming bright white lights
<br />of the forever nothing we all already are, or
<br />have always become).
<br />Upon arriving we saddle
<br />and grind until one or the other
<br />is made uncomfortable.
<br />The corners of the room are contrived
<br />and pink.
<br />The more intimately I look
<br />for them the less apparent they are.
<br />Our hands of two, wash away
<br />into the air, formless
<br />I use them to hold things
<br />though we both know
<br />they aren't there.
<br />Really there is only one of us
<br />and we are headless.
<br />Lampshade, lampshade
<br />the lighting doesn't flicker
<br />or vary
<br />in the land of eternal dusk.
<br />You are my twilight lover,
<br />my one and only, my intertwined synapse.
<br />Permission to be lucid:
<br />(ok, go).
<br />Doorway, doorway
<br />we have floated through
<br />another doorway
<br />another time that looks like real time
<br />(but it is always real time once you acknowledge
<br />the perpetual dreamstate of all of mankind).
<br />My spirit body enters this room
<br />to heal my spirit organs
<br />which look like real organs
<br />and are real organs
<br />now that I acknowledge the perpetual suffering
<br />of all of mankind.
<br />I am in the cathedral of all dreamers
<br />and here, a man
<br />long and winding
<br />takes me up a grand crystal staircase
<br />into a hallway
<br />that everyone has been to before.
<br />I have no hands because
<br />they are falling apart.
<br />Permission to be lucid:
<br />(ok, go).Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-48973113581427600622011-04-19T23:17:00.000-07:002011-05-05T23:29:23.569-07:003-31-2011A map of fish cages, my childhood is circular <br />fragments framed by the drape of<br />the land on this side, the sea on that side.<br /><br />I was so young then; you were still a hellion,<br />unfolding like a lobster trap at the base of a lake<br /><br />and I was a channel.<br />My fingernails spreadso<br />from my mouth, wide,<br />the images in my throat crawl out.<br />Clean calf,<br />I disappeared into the eyelashes<br />of the fade of the world, with little black hooves<br />and loyal white legs.<br /><br />I remember when you were inside me then,<br />the darkness was silk that became a prayer in my blood,<br />cancer parted me like fevered sludge.<br />Horizontal in my river, poured your narrow banner,<br />your lower landscape,<br />your quick-bleating sod<br />and your ruined squall.<br />I gave you permission to kneel godless.<br />In your cemetery,<br />your wrists of agony<br />were caught fish in the bramble.<br /><br />Looking back, the sweet hum of your nudges<br />was a jawbone,<br />thick-fingered and gray shaped.<br />I hissed at you, <br />and you, in low voices<br />asked to be hoisted and banished.<br />You, lifted by grizzly machinery,<br /> were rusty as the joint of a decaying tooth.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-38119689317117043622011-04-19T22:46:00.000-07:002011-04-19T23:17:19.581-07:00Creation StoriesMan was born in streams of milk<br />from Earth's whimpers in the night.<br />The Sky, twinkling archway with cigarette.<br />Father, dangled his pipe.<br /><br />God shattered his fist. <br />Shut in the boughs of grace, furnaces<br />smoked God out.<br />Furies of our intersections<br />muddled God's laughter <br />and shrieks of our shame flags <br />flew like an oven,<br />or a Resurrection<br />of gut-sacks.<br />God, throbbing, squeezed the soil <br />and from Earth's wounds, Man slipped out.<br /><br />His Mother cooed: "Man was born thirsty."<br />Man raged into her volcano breasts,<br />and they were minnows who slithered <br />upstream.<br />The Sky saw Man as a bastard<br />whose delicate eyes would jerk open<br />when suffocated or<br />whose body would drift<br />when washed too clean.<br />God loved the human rubbish until sundown.<br />Sky became twilight and<br />He gave man palms to beg with.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-55481727273644709612010-10-02T08:08:00.001-07:002010-10-02T08:08:33.413-07:00hakiuishmodern words are ancient<br />fly towards history<br />longing for old names.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-65003460673088135912010-08-20T07:33:00.000-07:002010-08-20T07:35:01.147-07:00postcardalways building.<br />ode to you who builds.<br />heavy, the hands of construction<br />and <br />long, the faces who fashion bronze.<br />Oh, light eternal<br />monuments mild fire gentle.<br />Your crown of languish and laurel<br />burns like a wreath.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-41622102987265603192010-08-08T22:00:00.001-07:002013-01-27T20:27:42.565-08:00new apartment.home.<br />
<div>
many churches.</div>
<div>
many churches.</div>
<div>
many bells.</div>
<div>
him.</div>
<div>
many churches.</div>
<div>
many bellies of balloons.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
ventricle. ventricle. ventricle.</div>
<div>
in the bellies of balloons.</div>
<div>
never was afraid of a secret never swallowed.</div>
<div>
many bellies full of illness.</div>
<div>
many bell tolls of many churches.</div>
<div>
home. </div>
<div>
him.<br />
Alone.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-58998569559837300952010-07-07T23:41:00.000-07:002010-07-08T00:40:23.211-07:00breaths between the 4 and the 6Disappear. <div>Illusive passageways echo to the bend. <div>The distance between time.<div>No train to either side.<div><br /></div><div>No, I have not forgotten </div><div>the way my throat swelled </div><div>to another realm of thirsty</div><div>when faced with your face. Your slightly open mouth.</div><div>Thin and nimble, legs only for you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ventricle to lonely ventricle,</div><div>every thunder of you first sung in refrain.</div><div>Sorry-song swimmer, you are of the sea,</div><div>drowned, your magic was tragic and black.</div><div>Urchin choruses sad-saw cry: </div><div>for your nets, I was foam.</div><div>Woe.</div><div>The sinew. </div><div>Between you </div><div>and I.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saw you all silver. Mysterious as forgiveness.</div><div><br /></div><div>Circular skylines deeply repeating,</div><div>elapsing morning arms,</div><div>coffee table dawn with no poetry in sight.</div><div>Away inches from a scripted deity of cartography; </div><div>a partitioned abyss, leagues down you found</div><div>stubborn flowers, a front-seat kiss.</div><div><br /></div><div>You, of the lines.</div><div>As effervescent </div><div>as clothes-pins </div><div>strung up on twine.</div><div>Pulsing, this harmony embodies </div><div>homage to the wind, to life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Any day now, any day now, </div><div>fall apart in this metaphor. </div><div>Moonlight corridor, night after night.</div><div><br /></div></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-41092135020041576282010-05-26T19:40:00.000-07:002010-05-28T00:17:16.691-07:00Were You Lonely, Cupcake?Deeper dishes hidden in the pantry in the dark<div>she asks:</div><div>How Do I Love This Body?</div><div>How do I...love? </div><div>Does she roll it out of dough.</div><div>Consumer of the hot flame fuel I watched your tabletops grow</div><div>in the corner hearth fires.</div><div>Baby, you are so beautiful,</div><div>and hungry.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are biscuits for the open window in your being, what was empty</div><div>what was lonesome can be clotheless in the shower, in the hot steamy mirror.</div><div>Do you raise your eyelids to witness? </div><div>Sink-swim again in your kitchen.</div><div>the marble-ish counters are hospitable houses for making warm mouths,</div><div>salivate, tempting</div><div>bite by bite of bread, butter, butter, butter: more butter.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stay hidden, always remain silent and self-assured</div><div>not a one will know about the cranberries, or the chocolate-chocolate loaves</div><div>cooling in the sills of your kitchen.</div><div>Aprons fold so nicely over our tummies, tie it.</div><div>Kiss the delicate touches of saffron, of basil.</div><div>You are god's tastebuds.</div><div>You are his fingertips.</div><div>You reach for a fried-up crusty crustacean</div><div>he's dried-up and useless, crawling home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Who will hold your sorrow besides a cookie jar?</div><div>a tempting salutation from a mushroom top, or a congruent cocktail made with</div><div>champagne ...and St. Germaine...</div><div><br /></div><div>Balsamic reduction, redux, influx.</div><div>"Hey mister you can have me if you hand me your heart and your belly.</div><div>I'll saute you into submission.</div><div>Pour your journey into me, I'll swallow it</div><div>and kiss away your tired."</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw you eating your dinner of rice and gruyere in a closet,</div><div>under mother's cashmere,</div><div>crumpled were your tears.</div><div>Pilsner in hand, a loaf in common:</div><div>Are you able to eat this? Do you think its delicious?</div><div>This is serendipitous.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-27820037680598813452010-05-15T10:55:00.000-07:002010-05-16T23:24:45.334-07:00Denver PoemYou were<br />an uninjured soldier, or misanthrope.<br />(Hello white rabbit, have we met?<br />Have we fallen faster or caught ourselves? We float<br />hearts above cozy petticoats.)<br />You were arms-length, never close<br />enough to encompass, it was a<br />warm lamp, <br />an on and off<br />coordinated-quiet symphonic conversation from the bedroom tramp.<br /><br />Dear Denver, you were a sullen night alone over boards of fruit with suede-ish flats, cigarettes on your breath, in your air. Oh, your nights are long. Take me, for these lights on- off are sorry when spent alone. Ask her the root of her why. Ask her, the root...ask her the root of her why. Ask her the logistics of her existence. She is infinitely unfolding tiers of body-parts, toes to motion of days spent with or without a dime or a kiss. Your sludgy streets rekindle longing dead inside her double-breasted vest. Those pockets she emptied for your performers, your juggling men and their tricks. The tall-tall buildings with the rounded corners are the judges of this nonsense, they point and hiss at the semantics. Her interactions were soft and deliberate. Watery in Confluence Park, picnics of decaf and midnight milk; she may pack up and leave you someday.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-71097773131426184452010-04-16T20:19:00.000-07:002010-04-16T21:51:45.735-07:00volo illo narrabat fabulam sui mihi<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;">(this is a breath.<br />this is only a moment.<br />we were mermaids<br />who never drown.)<br /><br />Narrate.<br /><br />Tell me. Tell me something<br />captivating.<br />I was watching. I was an emotionless<br />witness<br />witnessing the breezes, the branches,<br />and spring.<br />I heard your strange geometry.<br />I need you to explain it to me.<br /><br />Tell me. Tell me your myth.<br />What was your elegiac breakfast?<br />Wafting, lofty, morning to morning.<br />The floorboards are temporal, present.<br />But what was your preface?<br />The waltz that moved you, that carried you<br />here: I've caressed that music.<br />I envision a silken, hot, balloon.<br />It is golden. It is illuminated.<br /><br />...and what of touch?<br />It is a fever of mystery.<br />I've felt them--<br />--your words.<br />They rain down upon me like violets,<br />like silver-sparkling thumb-tacks.<br />My edges blurred.<br /><br />I wore seven veils.<br />My feet were barefoot. My back is crooked.<br />I have filled my curtains with wares and yolked them to my belly<br />to my back<br />to get here<br />to have faith in this flesh, in this skin.<br />May I still listen?<br />Never have I away'd in so many colors,<br />under so many waves.<br />I am full of questions.<br /><br />I want to navigate with you<br />a river of forks<br />and spoons.<br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-80296350558349086552010-03-17T21:45:00.001-07:002010-03-17T22:20:51.573-07:00N.R.M.The surge: my feeling of the narrative was quelled, in bergamont.<br /><br />It regressed <br />infinitely, until the snapshot of the gallop <br />was taken, made beloved and framed,<br /> walking-wishing-galloping <br />upon the wing of a summertime wave. <br /><br />I remembered<br />the tastes of cities <br />like dreams of curry, like dreams of soap.<br /><br />We worshiped the sky like it had become the sun, as if it had transformed<br />to the sacred baskets of texts,<br />to the holy feet of missionaries;<br />I wept into their hands and they ordained me.<br /><br />The man's arms became ropes and I felt his semantics,<br />his lungs aided him <br />in the acceptance <br />of the pears <br />of their religion.<br />I wanted to kiss him. <br />I became like a jeweled fig. I was pale. I was a pistachio.<br />In becoming, I was the secret, the child, the figure in the carpet.<br /><br />We, <br />the man and I, broke into the temple.<br />We drank<br /> to the calligraphers, to the songs of sorry-constellations,<br />to war, <br />to lemons in our hearts, <br />to the stark while of the walls.<br /><br />His skin was a disruption, so I gave him woven lace.<br />He buried me in the center of a stone, I told him he was<br />a citadel,<br />and that he was bright <br /><br />and timid.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-60830220226299399312010-03-12T23:15:00.000-08:002010-03-13T00:05:38.629-08:00Boundless Reminiscence of Dreams and How it Felt to be FeltThere is a homeopathic ambiance of the too much of never-never.<br />Organic and empathetic, the rhythms hung between consciousness<br />and a thick tunneled subway station. The air is honey.<br />A native steel drum sings melancholy pockets; <br /> quiet closets.<br /><br />Skin was fluid like shampoo, pretty little fingers, pretty little<br />quandry of golden hues of purple lights on a big down bed. Here dream't to be a<br />Patagonian astronomer, the sky faded in essentially imperfect paradigms; in the color of shivers everything is blue. Many people die in Paris.<br />Some gasp for air, the deep breadth of meditation.<br /><br />...the bass comes in, an aria from the breezes of compositions waft between bodies<br />who lie crooked. Someone is the cadenza. <br />Electrically tactile, the space between matters moaned until it spun, <br />more than just hollow, it is the dwelling of lingering summer.<br /> Hot opaque religion was the devotion of the pupil, of the offered child<br />trying to interpret the pauseless language of the inbetween scribblings.<br />Silence came over domestic spheres, where men sewed lace chamois,<br />women crawled on their bellies, offering communion to those who ask.<br /><br />There is a sharp desire to accept the body, to transcend to heaven.<br />A soft river of geometric rules divides the mouth. Provinces of<br />bubbled soda and ruffled toffee play cautious, motionless music. Where is the kiss if native lips<br />never presuppose a cigarette? Delicate touches, the chimneys of boundary are burning.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-10321241083507596392010-02-21T21:58:00.000-08:002010-02-21T22:05:45.793-08:00a recent journal-excerpt (non-cohesive)This is a human document.....................................................<br />my intrigue is sublime. I dream't I was a boundary. I dream't I was a parabola.<br />he dream't in motion.<br />We were starstruck, twice.<br /><br />I carry Him.<br />the anvil. He sighs. He is a symphony of sounds, filling me with<br />heavy metals.<br />I coo. I coo.<br />He spoke in parables of parables.<br />"Oh you are heavy," I etched in lyric.<br />And yet, He was light.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-76284163262422274002010-01-16T18:25:00.000-08:002010-01-16T19:03:49.123-08:00thoughts on The Good BookGideon is the author of the God whose cadence<br />is a metronome. <br />He beats like a pretty little tempo-clock. <br />Twice reflected, I saw him in the glossy shadows.<br />In motion,<br />I told him his Mover, unmoved,<br />didn't move me.<br /><br />Truth be told I read a Book that told me the<br />truth about stories.<br />I knew I had discovered the antidote.<br />I withdrew because I had recovered her petticoat,<br />ugly-raisin hands opened up from the sky and<br />stanza by stanza, fell billowing folds of clothes.<br /><br />The protagonist asked for an endless supply of baked beans, and comforting<br />things<br />only to be soaking, pressure cooked in his own diction.<br /><br />After the flood, only analogy was left to the plot. We skeptics, believers<br />analyzed the crisis<br />which untangled like a silky, gossamer strand that fell out <br />of mouths like French<br />cobblestones. <br />I walked through the books until I reached a climax,<br />and in the ecstasy of the agony of someone else's lord, I watched the<br />world fall apart, in unison<br />all of the houses fell down, all of the Figs stood up. <br /><br />I felt the overflow of the hyperbole, the chaos, the end. <br />I, stone iconography, laid on my back and recited all of the myths.<br /><br />I came. I came, God. In this rendition,<br />I became God.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-3233921796487198322009-11-09T10:54:00.000-08:002009-11-09T10:55:12.201-08:00In the nighttime, I still need you.Whereabouts in the morning, I find myself transforming into the absent protagonist of a tired-novel, written only for myself, a semi-private-cyberspace, a personal journal, for all. I am leather bound, and drying out. I smell like must and have been translated, twice. My hair becomes the ancient words written in calligraphy. You are the calligrapher. I am the interpreter.<br />I wanted to tell someone how I am the skillet and you are the stove-top I crawl across.<br />Once upon a city, there was no recipe, we were in a taxi, hot like pavement. <br />The End.<br /><br />Eighty years past a clinical psychologist, past his red-velvet couch<br />reads beautiful books, walks to the market <br />without a walker for reddish-golden apples. No skin. He carries a beautiful basket.<br />Mid-autumn, near frost, we wake up.<br />I, mid-poultice-wrapping, hot wrinkling legs.<br />I look up.<br />He said, he said,<br />“Sugarplum, we're all missing someone.”<br />We drank minty, Mediterranean tea.<br />I fed my insatiable-thirsty.<br />He remembers Beowulf and Antigone.<br /><br />This is an elegy. We look back on the poets of transition, we look back and mourn their loss.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />We grow old, we grow old.<br />You are the toes. The End.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-85014509575887719152009-10-26T21:44:00.000-07:002010-04-14T23:08:29.077-07:00enjabment at workMeditating on nowhere and blown out like a flame<br />my yoga body moves into a single pointed place where <br />I focus on a precious brandished-skin groom <br />in white breeches and a red riding cap and<br />a prophetic anchor who never saw his visions<br />and his listeners who gobbled <br />all the scraps of sideways wisdom he heaved at them and<br />finally a Sufi who exclaimed he was the Truth and that his face was my face<br />and spun in circles <br />circling around twinkling carousels, I told them <br />I'd give them everything if they would just given me a minute<br />when my hair was corn-colored, <br />I moved toward them blue-shifted (like a smile<br />rejoicing in our hands) mouth-watering fantasy remains--<br />me crouched in their lap, blowing cigar smoke in their mouths, <br />exhaust tastes warm like home, rolls off the tongue like Hebrew or Greek<br />however all of us could ride well oiled lanterns regardless<br />of what language we spoke<br />or we'd shine the light, late at dusk together for weary caravans;<br />'wake up,' we say 'its time to rise,' cellos bellow from<br />below our stomachs humble us gnawing on bones of stones we<br />find our simple recipes for soups made with fish and tall grasses<br />of which I wove pots and spoons made of bamboo until<br />we feasted and sent invitations to nations of paper birds <br />on rice stationary and little origami children took our fingertips and we were<br />down the rolling mountains where we found plantations of peasants with golden skin<br />harvesting paragraphs of verbs and cultivating stories from their tea, we buried their wishes<br />so that I transformed into an archaeologist, or like a cow without skin<br />I uncovered all of my attachments to worldly adjectives in the end.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-78611162556897564392009-10-09T13:02:00.001-07:002009-10-09T13:02:48.194-07:00Courtesans Galloping HorsesI.<br /><br />First Woman was falling off the shoulders,<br />eating oranges and potato wedges from a Quince Tree.<br />And she dancing, dancing.<br />He says, “Keep that away from me.”<br /><br />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.<br />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. <br />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. <br /><br /><br />II.<br /><br />Changing Woman asks , <br />Had She seen Moses? Dark-haired and disco,<br />parting the waters of the East River.<br />Insatiable-thirsty, technicolor fireworks.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />Everyone lifted their hands in praise, in thanks, for saddles on antiquated elephants, for reflecting pools and cinnamon or saffron epithets. <br /><br />Everyone mourned because not even Saving Woman could save him.<br /><br />III.<br />Cascading Woman succumbed to gravity. Elapsing, she said, saidless, goodbye.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-53964157529125855152009-09-01T22:54:00.000-07:002009-09-01T22:55:09.894-07:00Brooklyn BridgeThis fine moment is mine, <br /> not yours.<br />Through my eyes, <br /> in my daydreams, <br /> my house is tall.<br />Up one thousand flights of winding stairs<br />you tirelessly find my hide hanging from oyster shell.<br />Thinned and sagging from my bones, I fall apart into your hands;<br />while my eyes are wishing, wanting, wanton--<br />little bottles of wonton lollipops.<br />I am baking you a breakfast of magnificent spiderwebs I found on corncobs.<br /><br />My time piece, ancient like Central Station, says, whispers,<br />“Don't forget to look up.”<br /> So I don't.<br />In a red tile bathroom we made dirty love.<br />I knew so little about you, except every subtle sinew, every nuance of your presence,<br />I knew so little about you.<br /><br />My grandfather time piece, it stands on two legs with stiff arms<br />and circus feet.<br />Topsy-turvy acrobats fly from sill to sill,<br />and I open my windows to let the light in as it strikes dark. <br />I open my windows. The world drifts in.<br />The pebbles you throw reach the Afghan rugs. <br />Parlors, parlors, parlors. There are entire floors of parlors<br />full of Afghan rugs, in my tall house.<br />Silently they fall into the night<br />and this way you still feel like a six hour daylight shift, <br />of dreaming of fucking in the slough.<br /><br />Your shadow tries to keep my warm.<br />Your shadow creeps into my sleep and tries to keep me warm.<br /><br />You crept along my back with fingers (in notches) of water.<br />I was a rowboat tied to your bed post,<br />breathily, cut me off and set me downstream.<br />You flow like tender: through my hands<br />and in my pockets.<br />Your muttering under the word names<br />left me breathless; gasping exhales like drowning, I am breathless.<br /><br />Frantic. In a panic.<br />I ban my words to speak your language.<br /><br />Red tile bathroom, red tile bathroom<br />with the big red. read. arm chair out above.<br />My mouth is touching your atlas, at the nape of your thoughts,<br />and that, that is my favorite spot.<br />Hands, face, chest, <br />all pressed against a red-tinted vanity.<br />We screamed at each other, <br /> you still called me “Pretty.”<br />My fingers are fiber-optics. Your skin is cerebral...<br /><br />Now time has passed and your Fertile Crescent skin<br />(electrified with lights)<br />tastes metallic and brandished, like a dream.<br />We made wild stories in the dark.<br />We weighed mild allegories to black and brick yards.<br /><br />I stretch my skin over the distance. A body. A bridge.<br />I just want to tempt you. I just want to spread<br />myself out like a map of the stars<br />and take up infinite space in your heart.<br /><br />I secretly want you to stay a tragedy.<br />Where is Hercules when Poseidon is inside him?<br />To be the thin heroine, to be breastless and useless.<br />I am Philosophical. I am Godless. But you call me Goddess.<br />I can hook you with my fins, with my Trident I can reel you in.<br />God knows,<br /> we are the loneliest of kin.<br /><br />I slip into the streams of my own consciousness <br />as I sleep in my big tall house from the throws of my own empty nest.<br />And in this fantasy-reality you reach me, <br />you are dripping from tips<br />of nipples from breasts<br />heaving with the milk of human longing.<br />In kindness I reach out to relieve your sacred texts.<br /><br />The hands of time reach nine and I wake to find no tall house.<br />I was grinding coffee. I was cutting your limbs. I was praying to willows. I was singing your hymns.<br />I sang. I cockled. I cooed. I stood, barefoot in a chicken coop,<br />recalling perfect eggshells, recalling how your face was seamless.<br />I asked the dreamless hens if that made you real.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-16268652345139809222009-08-26T20:11:00.000-07:002009-08-26T21:09:07.553-07:00remix of roastbeefthis makes sand. this makes sand. the sand in between my fingers.<br />the sand in between my hands. <br />in the inside there is sleeping. there is sleeping, weeping and peeping. in the inside there is weeping.<br />in the evening there is feeling. in the evening there are feelings, feelings and feelings.<br />all our feelings on air on the ceilings.<br />in my hands there are ceilings.<br />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.<br />my hands, my feelings, your bed linens are smitten with my hands and feelings in Brooklyn all of the circles are circling.<br />all of the circles are circling like circles in the sandy ceilings of feeling.<br />((i am in Brooklyn.))Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-9962602963599447762009-06-11T01:14:00.000-07:002009-06-11T19:20:13.197-07:00this needed a title, so i named it after you (s)You told me that you didn’t believe in God.<br />Your face turned to pixels, and He washed you away<br />with his hands.<br />He shaped them and swayed them <br />so that they became brooms,<br />sweeping away your apathy and ugly.<br />Grudgingly you kissed me and <br />I became a red fish,<br />bursting for Darwin, gills exploded<br />I was <br />a frantic acrobat stuck on land.<br /><br />You reeled me in, fishermen. You were shape-shifters then.<br />Hooks in, you were a coke pusher-liar, a jazz musician, a Gemini.<br />You were a Delta, a dark haired and thick-skinned, one or two night standoffish bed post.<br />Once you told me I was pretty on the yellowed tile of a stranger’s bathroom.<br />When you dreamt, you dreamt about Italy. You were greenish copper scarred.<br />You were a bi-polar muscle car monger, steadfast and dead wrong.<br />You were one hundred percent Dutch and one hundred percent Italian.<br />You were Bob Dylan. You were an old man. <br /><br />The others went out like lamps. <br />You remained, you were an alibi. <br />I stared blindly at your sacrum. <br />In retrospect, it was tired then<br />I told you how sorry I was,<br />for all that I had been.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9148265260020581681.post-23265467230691609852009-06-01T23:15:00.000-07:002009-06-01T23:18:59.797-07:00do not//write something about never.<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CLiopia%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">reincarnates from other lives, they returned on the count of dark</p> <p class="MsoNormal">countless tries, they are reflections of Italian classes</p> <p class="MsoNormal">of flesh-fables, in passing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">a blue colored, up the shirt-down. to. the. socks.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">kinda-man waits in the doorway</p> <p class="MsoNormal">tied up, barely.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">smirking crooked like a baseball player with New</p> <p class="MsoNormal">[dirty] Slang.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">reciting wanton pants on the ground,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">a black nonchalant <st1:place>Labrador</st1:place></p> <p class="MsoNormal">could not get through December</p> <p class="MsoNormal">without sighing on the back stepped porch.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">at his place on the south part of a paned-glass front door</p> <p class="MsoNormal">a woman is shutting out the veranda </p> <p class="MsoNormal">and he is tucking-in the folds of a new-old dress,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">one of every color.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">their skins are a hot waxy margarine from summer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">choruses of beautiful women in waiting, petition from behind the walls.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">she, "beautiful," he says</p><p class="MsoNormal"> turquoise dress, is every creeking noise in his hardwood floors.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">she is all of the promises to cross stitch her heart</p> <p class="MsoNormal">falling from her breath, with porcelain and bonnets.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">her lips are painted in acrylics, poised and taught.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">the mapper of her hair he draws plans (like inky tattoos) from her skin.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">they’ve been waiting for the silence, it was just a matter of time.</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17778758770135371746noreply@blogger.com0