N.R.M.

The surge: my feeling of the narrative was quelled, in bergamont.

It regressed
infinitely, until the snapshot of the gallop
was taken, made beloved and framed,
walking-wishing-galloping
upon the wing of a summertime wave.

I remembered
the tastes of cities
like dreams of curry, like dreams of soap.

We worshiped the sky like it had become the sun, as if it had transformed
to the sacred baskets of texts,
to the holy feet of missionaries;
I wept into their hands and they ordained me.

The man's arms became ropes and I felt his semantics,
his lungs aided him
in the acceptance
of the pears
of their religion.
I wanted to kiss him.
I became like a jeweled fig. I was pale. I was a pistachio.
In becoming, I was the secret, the child, the figure in the carpet.

We,
the man and I, broke into the temple.
We drank
to the calligraphers, to the songs of sorry-constellations,
to war,
to lemons in our hearts,
to the stark while of the walls.

His skin was a disruption, so I gave him woven lace.
He buried me in the center of a stone, I told him he was
a citadel,
and that he was bright

and timid.

Boundless Reminiscence of Dreams and How it Felt to be Felt

There is a homeopathic ambiance of the too much of never-never.
Organic and empathetic, the rhythms hung between consciousness
and a thick tunneled subway station. The air is honey.
A native steel drum sings melancholy pockets;
quiet closets.

Skin was fluid like shampoo, pretty little fingers, pretty little
quandry of golden hues of purple lights on a big down bed. Here dream't to be a
Patagonian astronomer, the sky faded in essentially imperfect paradigms; in the color of shivers everything is blue. Many people die in Paris.
Some gasp for air, the deep breadth of meditation.

...the bass comes in, an aria from the breezes of compositions waft between bodies
who lie crooked. Someone is the cadenza.
Electrically tactile, the space between matters moaned until it spun,
more than just hollow, it is the dwelling of lingering summer.
Hot opaque religion was the devotion of the pupil, of the offered child
trying to interpret the pauseless language of the inbetween scribblings.
Silence came over domestic spheres, where men sewed lace chamois,
women crawled on their bellies, offering communion to those who ask.

There is a sharp desire to accept the body, to transcend to heaven.
A soft river of geometric rules divides the mouth. Provinces of
bubbled soda and ruffled toffee play cautious, motionless music. Where is the kiss if native lips
never presuppose a cigarette? Delicate touches, the chimneys of boundary are burning.

a recent journal-excerpt (non-cohesive)

This is a human document.....................................................
my intrigue is sublime. I dream't I was a boundary. I dream't I was a parabola.
he dream't in motion.
We were starstruck, twice.

I carry Him.
the anvil. He sighs. He is a symphony of sounds, filling me with
heavy metals.
I coo. I coo.
He spoke in parables of parables.
"Oh you are heavy," I etched in lyric.
And yet, He was light.

thoughts on The Good Book

Gideon is the author of the God whose cadence
is a metronome.
He beats like a pretty little tempo-clock.
Twice reflected, I saw him in the glossy shadows.
In motion,
I told him his Mover, unmoved,
didn't move me.

Truth be told I read a Book that told me the
truth about stories.
I knew I had discovered the antidote.
I withdrew because I had recovered her petticoat,
ugly-raisin hands opened up from the sky and
stanza by stanza, fell billowing folds of clothes.

The protagonist asked for an endless supply of baked beans, and comforting
things
only to be soaking, pressure cooked in his own diction.

After the flood, only analogy was left to the plot. We skeptics, believers
analyzed the crisis
which untangled like a silky, gossamer strand that fell out
of mouths like French
cobblestones.
I walked through the books until I reached a climax,
and in the ecstasy of the agony of someone else's lord, I watched the
world fall apart, in unison
all of the houses fell down, all of the Figs stood up.

I felt the overflow of the hyperbole, the chaos, the end.
I, stone iconography, laid on my back and recited all of the myths.

I came. I came, God. In this rendition,
I became God.

In 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.
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.
The End.

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.

enjabment at work

Meditating on nowhere and blown out like a flame
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.

Courtesans Galloping Horses

I.

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.


II.

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.

III.
Cascading Woman succumbed to gravity. Elapsing, she said, saidless, goodbye.