world of form
whirled into form
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Reverence is my love for you, fellow traveler.
I wear my vulnerability like a billowing veil
and my steadfastness like a mounted pole
or a well-rooted bush
O to look upon you, you with such beauty, you creature of mirth!
Your skin a pillow
your posture a missing mirror found.
Blessed I face you in warrior’s trust
delicately holding your pain and ecstasies through my gaze.
Forest meets rich ground.
We are Illuminated.
Lush eyes moist gushing your insides.
From hereafter I hold your laughter in the way of a coddle
and your weeps in the way of a rock.
Following a non manifesting period the fury of stagnant inertia transforms to the self-motivated oroborus, the serpent eating itself in a desirous auto-cannibalism of spirit.
Evolution comes eventually.
as we still cry for a Revolution.
Vaulted high, sizzling perfect lines are crack-whipped onto the page and artfully articulated at the symposiums.
But we are creators that DO. A blend of starry-eyed fancy and spitfire catalyzes the quill. Fronds weave wyrds in the air.
Listening in kind brings new association.
And admitting for good that the symbol is dead undermines the premise upon which we are acting.
What I say, what you respond, becomes to us mere clatter.
reflecting a moment that passes by like this one.
or this one.
And we are still here
playing show in tell
pretending in dim light
making beautiful things out of the pain
penning is code for that shit you can’t say outright
it is a silent scream first.
an eloquent demonstration second.
a ventriloquist’s counterpoint.
A Majical transmission.
and fool Devil’s tool.
So pick a crusade. Represent it well.
then, please dispose of this note.
so says the zen master to the gypsy:
truth and trash are one.
or, in layman’s terms,
leave a penny, take a penny.
But leave it.
to be found abandoned by seashore.
Meanwhile, sing a rondel.
pet a beagle.
experience instantaneous climax.
Borrow some fire.
Be out there and harmless,
Stationary under moving darkness.
Keep snake-spined and jelly-chested
Eyes like sand dragons refracting the wind in the grasses
like the breathing is in unison.
speak now, or forever hold your peace.
how can i say yes to that when i can choose right now to sit
in dim light
sharing space with the flies inside in summertime?
these flying things reminding me that i am alive,
buzzing me further inside.
of the record left by my imaginary scribe.
of my trials and inevitable failures.
of my gems and illustrious truths.
of famous last words.
of epitaphs and wills.
of the binding nature of the signature.
and the evolving scribbles we make daily.
a standard fly stomps on my hand and it twitches.
the involuntary function operates without my consent.
no command was necessary.
the body moving perfectly with the ordained script of movement in this given scene.
intuition is trumped by instinct.
I am a marionette. I trust that I am held gently.
on the beach that day in paradise
the words came to us like approaching drums that didn’t stop.
for miles and miles and onward into the sky there were thousands of them
uniformed marching in red hats and tassels.
wearing feathers and carrying skin drums, snares, rattles, timpanis, wooden sticks and metal.
dancing in chaotic tandem it snaked upward from a source that became cloudy when i squinted to see a little better.
it was white, though, and clear.
warm and cool, breezy and still, silent and glorious.
looking up and questioning i turned to the side to ask you if you saw that, too
but looking down i saw there was no more beach, and there was no more you.
and there you were.
the water can be up
and the dove upward thru the tunnel gods hand
petals and rain plops flowing amongst the lilies and their fetal pads
surface tension protecting from peering eyes of hunters
no one is tying us to the trees
the trees wings in mountains
we do poses.
looking up from inside of the tub to the fountain pouring down on me i don’t see a wall but an oasis, a sun-shower marking the first warm rain of spring. the warmth of the sun in raindrops affects my body differently from that of the furnace-heat, even with the window open, sun shining at dawn, on those few mornings where i do greet him (father, i’ve missed you).
this might be the 500th time i’ve sat in this tub. i was bathed in this tub as a wee babe. i’ve bled in this tub, had teenaged orgasms in this tub, prayed in this tub, sobbed, sang, shivered, slept in this tub. i’ve washed it and i’ve littered it with little hairs.
now i’m splashing around in it, celebrating the primal glory of having a bath. i play with my hair, i swing it to and fro, dangling and dready, ego-less like a cat bathing its OWN self like no one is watching (but we are, and but yet they’re not in kitty’s bubble) or a poor zoo creature stepping into a real prairie stream, and like an animal, i know love’s essence.
on the side of a stream preening, guarding and basking in my own territory,
i wouldn’t mind if you joined me.
She’d spent years chasing bipolar Fire and Water both. The flame and the ocean, Dionysus and Athena. When one became too smothering, too demanding, she’d retreat to the other to beg for redemption, and both gods would provide in turn until yet again the other murmured out and she’d valley down into sanctuary again. Justifying with Balance and talk of penance she would place herself on sporadic coasts. Her dreams and poetry were filled with burning beaches, raging blazes gloriously consuming acres and acres, dozens of retreating miles of dunes, beach grass, poker-hot stones and shells. A devouring on the border, a silent epic war between the two cardinal forces was the oil, her arterial sap. At night the moon never waned as the months went by. There was never a change, this was how she knew she was dreaming. One last rite, she spoke when her voice could no longer cut through the roar and rush and din, and she acknowledged Risk as the possibility of Eternal Return. She could not bear cursing or being cursed thus and made her way to the forest by way of a string.
Finding a root to rest between she wondered when the moon might be full again here, when it would be warm enough to swim like a wet fish again, to be slick, to float. She waited for a woosh to rip behind her and lift her up as a demigod.
And then the trees started speaking, cricking and cracking in layers. The forest creatures danced their scurry dance, showing off as the filigree amongst the trees’ vast and cozy stillness and she remembered them her childhood friends and the tale of the cottage in the woods, how she let that celebrated Pond dribble away, and she realized she forgot she had left someone in the bottom of the pot.
And right then, neither threatened nor threatening the lush earth mother with shade and moss birthed one more forest nymph, who you’ll sometimes notice through licks of campfire flicking her wings in a stream.
i keep stepping in puddles in my kitchen on the floor.
my hair peevishly keeps falling into my face but i refuse to pull it back. i’m a little spiteful that way sometimes.
there are two 1/3-left bags of bread and vegetables that haven’t been put away since three days ago.
spite keeps me from doing that chore, too. didn’t buy’em, not gonna eat’em.
i start to feel like i’m in a cell phone video game with one level that never ends.
the same task and the same buttons, and then after twenty minutes the realization comes that you’re being a jackass and you slam the phone off. it’s not so bad to be on the train alone.
but for the first time in a long time it’s daytime and i am alone in the kitchen i grew up in, mine and not mine at once. and i look outside the kitchen window, a square camera lens flecked with raindrops allowing me to be privy to the moving mist outside.
it’s probably cold there. i consider chugging my coffee and diving into the unmowed yard.
like a wet dog i’d frolic in the wet grass, which wouldn’t take issue with joining onto me.
and then for a while i’d lay belly-up, then belly-down, then scratch myself a bit, then get up again.
at some point i’d come inside because i need to pee, but i’m not really a pet you see.
but i’m still in the kitchen, a box obscured from process. beams of light get lost in here like rubber balls do in children’s rooms or keys fall through gratings in thunderstorms.
that story would take too long to tell, though.
my pan has heated up and i crack an egg in it, wishing for hollandaise and remembering poaching.