Elected Uncertainty Leeching.

Creative Return Breaching.

I am not done with my preaching.

Not till I’m done with this bleaching

persisting the christening

while my backside,

glistening,

projects Joy onto you.

 

Terra-minded,

I am terrified

while spring bears witness to grapevine virtue.

We know not where we wander.

Just meandering.

On this prehensile fabric we tread.

with buckets of water and filth

wares on our backs

sticks in our grip

moving forth we endeavor our visions

manifesting our toes to the grounds

our drive directed

we push forth,

for what-all?

 

What do ye seek?

Why face morning-call?

 

Through body and farce

chrysanthemums and weeds

aligned with sight we condense our dreams-

into tiny packages-

and bless them with seeds.

present them to all

and no one.

memorize them as creeds

to wish fare better on future

and to remind ourselves to breathe.

Duality

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

ever-green.

 

O to look upon you, beauty! you creature of mirth!

Your skin a pillow

for the air.

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.

 

hereafter I hold your laughter in the way of a coddle

and your weeps in the way of a rock.

Oroborus

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.

Crawlingly.

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.

babble.

chatter.

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

forfeiture

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 a 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 really, leave it.

to be found abandoned by seashore,

friends with the starfish once again.

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.
reminding me
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 black fly stomps on my hand.
my hand twitches.
the involuntary function operates without my consent.
without “me.”
no command was necessary.
no imperative.
just 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 corner of a cloud at the end of an island

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.

airys

the water flows up.
five streams.
and the dove upward thru the tunnel gods hand
god’s hand
petals and rain plops flowing amongst the lilies and their fetal pads.

no peering eyes of hunters
no one is tying us to the trees:
the trees, wings in mountains

we do poses.

animal love

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.

while defrosting in the brisk and saying yes, still.

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.