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.

nobody’s tying us to the trees.
the trees, they are wings in mountains.

we do poses.

rejecting illness

scattered  possessions, scattered stickies, many tabs, clutter – mindstate of add, or in other words, creativity. constant tangental responses combined with noticing and contemplating MORE of the observable world than others. the dancing girl. everything must be in view. everything must be accessible, splayed out of the file cabinets, it’s right under there under the lamp, third one down, no, the one to the right, next to the pile of books. no, the other pile. everything must be in view. if you put marbles in a bag they’ll never roll around and you’ll never see them. small pouches get lost. you leave them in a drawer and become forgotten. everything is important. everything is material. all of this can be used, and it will be used when it’s the right time. trust me. they’re all dear and precious. they come to me like muses do, but some of them, admittedly, are genies. the thing is, i dont know which are which until they tell me, and by then i’ve gotten so used to them anyway that i barely know they’re there.

“maybe you should look into re-organization therapy?”

i don’t need it. re-organization therapy is for people who feel uncomfortable about the whole thing. they become anxious, they feel embarrassed, it begins to destroy their lives. they’re lying to themselves. it’s the truth. you know it, and i know it. is that discomfort the fault of the condition, or is it theirs? are they happy, believing whatever it is that they believe? how is that serving them?

“you’re beginning to lose me. there’s no logical pattern of logic. it’s almost as though you were calculating a tautology without an answer, which, of course is impossible. do you realize this? do you remember how many times so far today i have said this to you? and this is the worst i’ve seen it. how can you suggest that we are not subject to God and His will? this is hubris. you could be killed for even referencing that in public. our conversations are always in confidence, as you well know. they must be, for that is the code. i am telling you this because the danger goes beyond that. you are becoming a danger. to yourself, and to others. i can promise you ultimate peace. your sick confusion, your painful delusions, oh they must be so painful, no more will you have to endure that burden, that hellfire. it’s not your fault. you were made that way. but i’ve sworn to act in the interest and as a torch-carryer, a sacrifice for myself indeed, but i would never say so to others, of course. things will be happier for you. you’ll be happy.”

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.

morning in the afternoon

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.

affinity

there’s an acute danger in affinity.

just as with any two things that are the same.

mathematics understands this as exponential growth. we know it as pouring water into a full tub,

or too much pressure on the one side of a glass,

or

a tidal wave responding to a small-scale quake on the coast of a small town.

we pray for a counter.

opposites aren’t much better, though,

an even steven leaves all factors at zero,

and a balance beam balanced, though beautiful in its lesson of equilibrium, can impart no progress through its stagnation.

but there’s an acute threat of fate in affinity’s innate shades and shadows.

we understand as one of our most basic tenets that each set of eyes might not see the same as the other.

voted for as though in alliance, bakers understand this well.

like sifting fine powders, rising and settling suddenly makes more sense.

a given color is mixed into all points of that palette, said the painter to me when i asked her the secret of hue over a glass of Montalcino.

the blood red of the sun over the post-apocalyptic village is in every house,

every window,

even the shades of green in the ferns in the corner:

the same ones that symbolize new life in the wake of disaster.

(she’s still a new-born symbolist)

weddings traditionally are finalized, before the kiss, of joint flames on a single candle.

try this at home.

please, do try this at home.

it’s not a community center stand-up set.

held to the side evenly, neither wick extinguishes, but cloudy white Perspiration strips the scrap pretense down.

musicians know the ability of affinity well.

you can’t go wrong, the pianist says, playing nothing but C.

what ocean would disagree, her skin infinite kisses of molecules in surface tension, their embrace protecting a universe from harm, from sky-walkers that want to destroy and pillage perfection?

our sweat drips into the amniotic mirror of the earth’s fluid body.

and sometimes we look into another’s eyes and it just makes sense.

this should be enough to teach us to fall forward into affinity because we aren’t kicking away hard enough from that which doesn’t understand.