From Preludes, Book I
Prelude #1
Boundless folds of marigolds
No one shall ever see.
The Porcelain to put them in
That haunts my memory.
(The next one conforms to
what I believe the sonnet form of this
new millennium should be, since, being an 8 by 8
square where 8 is the first non-1 cube,
it achieves a sonorous mathematical shape
that can aptly represent our scientifically advanced age)
Prelude #24
Your petal hair hides sepal eyes
and in my ken they're each revised
To one premiere of pure tepals
Since in soul's view difference appalls,
yet just as you combine to one
have us our own trite selfdom shun
to twine as tendrils wrapped in love,
and know our singleness thereof.
From Meditations in Seasons
Meditation 2
What is silence,
But the hazels and sea-swells
Coiling in your iris?
Your emerald stare I’ve seen before
gilding wavecurls and fallwhirls
Or varying the tense of autumn’s torment
In the leaves, your eyes animate with permanence,
What rimless vacancies are more inclusive than they?
In each green inch lies coastal land miles
where migrations of wind roam restless through isles
foraging for meaning, finding beauty
ever unveiling--your eyes are everlasting exhale,
precious prisons of radiance, and yet they kept watch of me once
as I wept wretchedly in repentance.
Green willows, green coral coves, silhouettes of shadows
reported off the coasts, storms no one sees,
seashells swallowing seas, a future
somewhat like the things of memories;
lime-lucid streams, lime-embittered words, the lyrical
death of images of carousels;
high tides, low tides, young and older brides,
mother, daughter, woman, wanderer,
together dormant in your eyes.
Your two eyes are two options, either
everything or everything; green, green rose
or aquamarine; Your two eyes
are three eyes, or no eyes, or all the wilderness of eyes
that spangle through a peacock's tail,
They are stock exchange horizons
running sideways figures on womanly glory,
Green idyll-haunted veldts,
spherically filled with the calm of flowers,
God blessed me by creating them
and allowing them to fill my hours.
Meditation 4
I
Know silence travels faster than light or sound,
Darting on seawaves to estuaries, pastorals, obituaries,
Silence, the shrapnel of God, scatters the universe,
harmonious luminescence over landscapes of nothingness . . .
and know, Italicized Amber Eyes, that my secret is a silence enough
or an echo of an echo of an echo just as much
that inwardly held accrues the many amounts of guilt
which shrivel the horizon line to a dot
and then far off center it
and if you could pluck out my neurons saturated
with this secret I'd still recall that I once
knew a secret of outstanding heinousness
and so the guilt would remain and I wouldn't know
what words when confessed could bring me ease.
II
Father, be the lucid explosion in my mind,
Burn clean my canyons of neurons until I hear nothing
Or let me hear stars ring on their rims one last time,
Merrier Mercy, you are so much destruction
That you only create: Recreate me and end the guilt
of my sin: starve me of, to suffocate me with, your beauty within.
Exile floods through my mind, never have I been less lonely
than womb-day, so Engineer of Edelweiss, chartreuse my
Universe and leave me with less to say,
Carpel Tunnel Syndrome slithers through the walls
Seeking to break my glass soul, so lovely Father, love
Holier than a lover and leave me no more,
for soon my own secret shall be everyone's secret
as obsidian palisades or alabaster balustrades
lace pons or aorta,
Not that they will know my secret
but that everyone will think it
only theirs,
Not that they will console my pain
but that they will wish only for
someone to console their own.
III
Italicized amber eyes--
I wish God, to hide from me, had hid in me
and removed my guilt as far as east
is from the west,
What memories and happiness would then pass through me
if all this horrible guilt too did pass.
From Preludes, Book II
Prelude #10
The master gave up aphorisms
and wanted to write poetry like Hafiz
and so he wrote
"Vineyard
rows and spinal chords
millipede around Taiwan and a 'made
in Taiwan' sticker
protesting
a big gulp’s funeral service right before the stars go on their
meat frenzy again and before Roseanne commands Chopin to
get off his ass and set up a 401K for a
triangle that is made up
of these three
corners: Jefferson's pen tip that
signed the constitution, the tip
of Hitler's last bullet, and all
the times I considered phrenology
on my honeymoon so that if Bill and Hillary
became grape-textured Romeo and Juliet or if
Saint Teresa of Avila and Hue Hefner
on their wedding Day
stab
a diglet together instead of their
wedding cake
and hear it squeal 'swive'
then Metatron's liver, a pocket-full of
AAA batteries, a corduroy meniscus,
and Pangaea can speak
in tongues or do a barber shop quartet and
Kevin Treadeau can
have a blind date with the
Sapir-Worf
Hypothesis or a smidge of Fen-phen that
scrapes
rotisserie
infomercials
and
wives
polygamously
Ahab’s
leg and Cervantes' arm and Evander Holyfield's ear simultaneously
and
a
cross-eyed
Asian
Mona
Lisa
that
attended
the
Scope's
Monkey
trial
reenacted
by
chimpanzees
and attended Y2K
which
inspires
Wordsworth
and his gluttonous, capitalist cousin Wadsworth to wipe their asses
with the nerf-foam version of the aurora borealis until
a woman who threw a marble at Wikipedia hears
'love 15'
from
a planet mobile
where Venus is the Stanley cup, Jupiter is a refried bean
shot-putter, Saturn is an ab roller, and Earth is the super-majority of the mickey
mouse club re-arranging stone-henge
into
a cat's game
of tic-tac-toe
and hence realizes that he was one of
the two end-time
prophets
along with
either
Ronald Reagan's
elastic chopsticks or the Piltdown man
who pissed curry on his first date
(how embarrassing) that was
arranged by his foster-mother's
street sweeper's teletubbie memorabilia collection
agent
who plays golf with someone
who wrote “Telas: the female unmoved mover”
on Bugs Bunny's rabbit slippers
that he won one
time
for meditating drunk while reciting
the declaration
of independence in English which sounded like the Bhagavad-Gita to polish listeners
and to Swahili
listeners sounded like
a joke about how many
lightbulbs it took to screw themselves
into
Elvis reincarnated into a tarantula
who imagined the words
appearing in the sky
next to Zoroaster's face that read as
'God preached a false religion which taught that it is good to have faith
To see if people would fall for it, and if they fell for it
They would be sent to hell, like holy Jerome for example who is right now
translating things into vulgate within hell, while those who
thought that
this faith talk made no sense
were given eternally life and allowed to love God forever,
like Hume playing
billiards
and being
'unusually wake-minded'
in heaven' during
The intermission of a play where Game Genie
And the platonic form of potability performed the lead roles of
Prospero and Miranda in Dale Earnhardt’s new play
but before whirling dervishes twirled
on the head of my loose screws to tighten them
and got too dizzy and
went with my left toaster slot into the past to host an
intervention meeting involving Du Fu
and the creator of 'Fubu'
but after a musical score's written by a tub half-filled with
sawdust blushed in front of everyone except Mussolini and Weebok salesmen and some women and another woman and Jenny Craig and was
frightened by the idea of
a pedestrian-stopping red hand being caught
Red-handed playing Parcheesi with
a Kuwait-shaped section of Michigan, Chan Ho Park, wind-scattered
audition flyers, RuPaul's bunion,
the demon that hid the dinosaur bones in the earth and
the wife of a guy who cried because he couldn't afford
sonic the hedgehog 2 for his son who on the night
of his sadness
had a dream that his wife left him only to
be found 2 weeks later
on a miniature golfing date with Sonic and
later on a second date with Sonic watching
Dale Earnhardt’s new movie
where urim and thummim play Laurel and Hardy"
but then took up gardening once he heard that
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie
went on a double date with Brad Pitt's skeleton and Angelina Jolie's
skeleton because Aunt
Jemimah enslaved Betty Crocker and an avalanche doused a volcano and
the Great Vowel Shift is occurring in my cupboard and
a stool softener is neighbors to a shooting
star
and a guy who
thought about everything except
the
Wimbledon Classic died in a kennel with the
horror
of knowing there existed
at least one guy who would not date a woman unless
she let him call her "fatty flank" and wouldn't
play Texas hold 'em with the fanta girls-turned-men
if they wrote a novel together about a woman
who lost her virginity and thought that the
only way that she could get it
back was is if she tattooed "virginity" onto
the small of her back and wouldn't discuss
Backgammon with Sylvia Brown if
she was sexually petitioned by Kant's chastity
and with the horror of knowing
that there was a guy who
said to his wife "lovey-dear,
there is me, you, and the relationship
between me and you, and I hate to admit it,
but I have been cheating on you with the
relationship, understand?--I am attracted
to our relationship instead of you, it is such
an amazing thing . . ."
and
the horror of knowing a guy who looked
at his fiance and realized how
a
woman
resembles
her
father and
felt all of a sudden
like he was marrying
someone who has half a man
who then went to Vegas
to hear a butterfly howl interrupt a lobster chirp
and
watch Tony Benet play
the bassoon, koto, santoor and kazoo
all at the same time
and the horror of knowing that a woman used her
umblicial chord to lasso the
moon and reel it in because
no man would lasso it for her
since it is 4:45 December 22nd
in Berkeley, California and
David is taking all
the spoiled food out of the fridge and Dani is
beautiful and I am still
stressed out about my Shakespeare final
and I wonder if my life can wend in any other way
except in the writing of
the words
"Vineyard rows and C# chords . . ."
and many many many years later
I might realize that it probably,
most definitely couldn't have.
From Scherzos
Apocalypse: A Vision of the Last Days Loosely Based On The Book of Revelation
Quake Quake: God brings in the end of the age,
one left in the field and one taken to judgment;
NEWS FLASH: Nepal, the Boy Buddha, the abomination to end
all desolation, meditates without accepting water.
Wednesday, 30 November 2005, 16:26 GMT
weebok toccataGATCH--GATCH--
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languish in my river of dead ponies . . .
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Endless lamination of seaweed and tumbleweeds,
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borrowing tomorrow.
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Bno, sure, no shethtur idrt po
Theoroefled =r—S ESS Ess
SER DOCTRORO serveupascoopfulofshadows
SER DOCTORO, serveupascoopofshadows
OKAY, SO MY NAME IS GUY,
Well, , a mutton-chinaringarginchingcha.
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Free-dumb phi-ters.
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Okay So, Peking order: sitcom about police
trying to make it big in Peking law enforcement circuit.
Yung love, I reembmer that so long ago
when my soul was shit-pan for other '.))(
ssundry men, that were old, they mneede
dsomething sto shit in damn Gad damnit . . . .
4 2 fgfg t t
tre
Phone, Thinking of ya like vidal focruse (“sosaason” that is)
What . . .you talking soiks, you fuckumberalla
You want to say teriibl e goanna be when your smackes
Tengo sed. Lets go the resutrating
tioji 54
59
Worship Gosh, hallmarc kard
Pizza-on-the-rim , and galaxy-terrifihey,
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';..';./'/;tyj'l7;'675u7/';5
updated 10:12 a.m. EDT, Fri October 3, 2008
The world's 2nd attempt at the tower of Babel is in Japan,
One trip up their space elevator will cleanse you
of all iniquity, ahc'monwhydontyoujusttrustme
With all of vision's color you are made:
loose strands of emerald, blue and amber weaved
with sable threads do form in5 you a braid
since67 you are joy though peace, remorse that's grieved
and comedy which 6mingle all in one,
therefore just [[doomsdayparadegoosestep}}as the sky that shifts through time
or as the subtle hues of time-spurned sun
your beauty's won by spectrum's climb,
And as light climbs in every step and shade
it seeks a violet vis(((unholy of unholies)))ible to God
alone, with this timbre you're also made
and thus refl5ect the lan5686ds of ceaseless laud--
refract, then, that67 of 67the soul into earth's sense
and t67hus express all things ex8pressionless.
All the rulers of the world,
Louis the 14th, Ivan the Terrible, Pol Pot, Micheal J Fox . . .
Brought back to life from DNA extracts,
only so that they could serve him, the Buddha Boy.
Obhamawinksatmesaysheisthebeastfromthesea.
fill ashark withhelium
and watchit burstas it nearsthe sun . .
Because im balony-mitchels,
And I would woulf like (Carmen ) to (San)
tell you about (Sandeogo) where is Carmen . . . qq
Mike and ike, okra papists
Hoyl Sonnet VIXIXIXi.?????
Grab ya partner do “si” do,
Ravel's Pavane,
as I fill with end of skies,
6##-##-###0: It's obviously still enticing to you.
Those Mexicans if they come more time, with
their with track about angel mormon . .MORMOn. . .
Sylvester neighbor . . . .
sneechesblitzkriegsneeches
These Bimbo snacks
taste like shit.
Time Warner Springs presents: “Live at the auditorium”
a special feature that foxfriendsOprahO'reily are talking about ,
and it is a very exciting thing that your whole family
will enjoy, I gave it two thumps up, it was rip roaring
fun for the whole family, the critics are all shitting upward
doogie0houser-doogie-houser
I’d cross the Tigris . . and maybe Euphrates” the new hit
LOVESONG. By coldplay. And kanye.
stuck a fork in a balloon, qwt4owt4
e5y985j898joprlffkggkeoprekk eroij fj
touched a marlin today, and he died from it,
Listen to Coast 103.9,, we got “John Danver”
back on the show, backfrom death, ;'.
we resurrected john denver, ;.'
Oh, yeah we just had to build a “John Dnver machine”
and place his corpse in there and he pops out alive ju
stlike brandnew f,f ,
Yeah “Fresh” swooped down
Making a plastic brotherhood
between subway and quiznos,
Tyop uwe tyuweijtoh
hegemon(Magic Johnson)ic
and vulgarized limerick,
yeah, lucy was just an old chinaman with the rickets,
no, its obviously just rickets,
rickets are a dime a dozen,
shit, my wife has 'em,
Wayne Gretsky
suckin on cancer-popsicle
Rachmaninov's Adagio, in his 2nd symphony,
ecstasy of mercy, -
Write your whole biography with only f words . . . .
Tornado unlicking Chanukah
FRIO, FRIO, mama its FRIO
PAP-SMEARINGFOREHEAD
tadpole aftermath, heifer red, eric the red,
Frambert frambert frambert irascible
Lap Dog Lap Song fret fret fret ambr ambr ambr
Happle sauce lag lag lag lager lager lager
Rendition after the taste, after taste or,
'marriage and miscarriage, titties and entities,
Ascetic and Starving and so-skinny-her-rib-bones-stick-out Cinderella,
wandering with Samanas . . . .
Hey cassanova,
,
“Oh, so you think you are a regular Cassanova
thatsAMAZINGcuzGodiscominforya
From Nocturnes
In Imitation of Donne
I thought Orion swiftly would the lunge of Taurus end
and that Orion's soul this hunt's suspense would hast'ly rend,
yet his anxiety the static stars ever suspend
to broadcast angst to all below who forage, feed, and fend,
And who were these stars' namers that their names I should prefer?
I could retrace Taurus, Artemis, and Orion, her wooer
and thus make love the drama that the stars would always stir--
though amour's incompleteness then would evermore endure.
It seems that God has fashioned us unlike the stagnant stars
whose movements are unfit to script this flux-full life of ours,
so man, instead inscribe the clouds with our dynamic plight
since on their shapes dread forms to joy by sublunary sight,
And yet those clouds shall ever tell of life's capricious weather,
for clouds cannot choose whether they'd seek lover or seek leather.
Good Lord! I pray star-ward to you: please clear this cloudy variance,
let shine Your Good and e'er emit the joy of peaceful permanence.
*
In Imitation of Shakespeare
Your sleeping eyes can't see your sleeping eyes
nor how soft sleep carves slightness in your smile.
Your dream-drunk mind knows not the sun's slow rise
nor when your breathe descends amidst its while.
These sights are mine to bear, though they're your life
and prove life there. This view is only mine
although it shows how all could end all strife,
Thus as your soul drinks up a dreamer's wine
I'll note your image in my sleepless eyes
with words: your fragile breath and fragile smile
are of an angel's caught in timeless skies,
Rapt by God's love, e'er freed from stress or trial.
So now see all I see that you can't see,
that you see God in ways unseen by me.
from Koans
In Pseudo-Imitation of Dickinson
A clicking in my brain,
becomes master again--
and lets me exhale--
the breezes of zen,
horizontal euphoria,
auroras of sea--
an unusual way
to end history.
*
From Scherzos
Pride Before the Fall
I
The ballerina curtsies as the curtains rise
posing pride before their fall
as if to say:
There is suffering?
And a path out of suffering?
Nonsense, but there is beauty
and a path to beauty.
As if saying:
There’s a heaven,
not a God.
II
The notions of
autumn camouflaged as summer, potpourri
Irregularly adrift, checkerboards
Of warmth and shade cast from a lattice,
Anticipation of something
Warm on a cold day
all held in the mind while not blended together
(Rainbows homogenize to puddles of gray)
Approximate the hammer tension her dimples
Hold—of guns and pianos—when she smiles
And leans back casually.
III
During any given moment in her dance
Parts of her body are moving
slow like movie credits
as others move
rapid like movie trailers,
slow and fast simultaneously,
What some report
car crashes to feel like,
Each nuance of her movement exorcizing the wrinkles
Out of the shadows and rainbows
cast upon her and the stage
until she ceases moving altogether--
her apple cheeks, vase white thighs,
and orange round breasts
a still life.
IV
She was beautiful in a very formidable sense.
She had just come inside from some drizzle
that delightfully jeweled her dry hair.
Not only was she physically beautiful
but that beauty was enhanced
by the nimbleness of her dance.
After a minute or so of watching her however
she seemed a little less beautiful;
I am almost sure that it was because
She responded rudely to a question I asked her
prior to her performance.
Initially my mind was
fully given to her beauty,
but before long it began
to devote some of its energy to
factoring the felt meaning of her words
into my estimation of her beauty,
which made her begin to seem a little less beautiful.
Perhaps her remark
did not accurately represent
her personality
But either way it is a reminder
that all thing arrive in the fullness of their time
including satisfaction.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Meditation in Seasons
Inspired by the works of Fryderyk Chopin, Salvador Dalí, and John Donne.
Meditation 1
I
How breezes tinge the riverside ridges
with cindering blends of rose-wrenched vintage
is fullness as it is in summertime loneliness
When neurons erode from echoic holiness;
How wind pulls some leaves over coldness of shoals
is peacefulness, emptiness without roars or parole,
Why these seasonal strains share none in coincidence
--one forgets the other, each recalls just itself--
is meridian divide on an earthquake span of sea,
bewildering as God (as to sometimes become God)
and already is a mania of mismemory,
like equivocal hues pre-dusk or post-dawn,
Where if one were just born, it could seem afternoon
or morning blue, this undetermined value
is each morning's misery and blur to me, why,
Angels or brain chemicals? Even if devils
caused these harmonies hallucinogenic,
at least thought would feel less enigmatic.
II
Encircling blusters smooth through the wilderness
for sweltering smears of crimsons and coppers,
distanced away within the air,
These, the Colour of God fraught in self-anxiety,
these knots of autumn imploded ambrosially
and already I'm late to remember
for comatose drones, their tidal cessation,
seascapes or evanescence and dispersal
are the snuffing-out and an equanimity
that won't take off from me; sometimes
in this maritime mist it's sparse to see
where is left and what is right,
God can I smell a haunt of rose?
It's not beyond but dendritically composed
and thus extincts as a body goes
Nor can I know reflection from shadow,
my shadow a devil, reflection's an angel,
while all a standard self's much brain chemical, chemical,
God the Nirvana, Headache of Happiness
reduces anatomically to pixels of stardust; I am the whole universe
coming to know itself carelessly,
Ovum, oaken, oasis and Ohm,
unknowable and unknown, Adam un-Eved and all atomed
that Psychology might solve me, quod erat demonstrandum
so that I a machine can process enlightenment's rerun,
an algorithmic clicking that makes me feel forgiven,
multiplex aloneness, appliance without choice
which still feels choice and that God chose him,
all's atoms all Adam'd that algorithm-as-pantheism
elects determinism--not God's--but our universe's sin.
III
Encirclings singe the riverine ridge
with sweltering smears of drank desert vintage,
leaked static of God caught in self-satiety,
all of bliss for a life which is ever lived lonely,
as a cub nestling close to the corpse of his mother,
unafraid of the world while he's able to feel her.
Meditation 2
What is silence,
But the hazels and sea-swells
Coiling in your iris?
Your emerald stare I’ve seen before
gilding wavecurls and fallwhirls
Or varying the tense of autumn’s torment
In the leaves, your eyes animate with permanence,
What rimless vacancies are more inclusive than they?
In each green inch lies coastal land miles
where migrations of wind roam restless through isles
foraging for meaning, finding beauty
ever unveiling--your eyes are everlasting exhale,
precious prisons of radiance, and yet they kept watch of me once
as I wept wretchedly in repentance.
Green willows, green coral coves, silhouettes of shadows
reported off the coasts, storms no one sees,
seashells swallowing seas, a future
faintly like photos and memories,
lime-lucid streams, lime-embittered words, the lyrical
death of images of carousels;
high tides, low tides, young and older brides,
mother, daughter, woman, wanderer,
together dormant into your eyes.
Your two eyes are two options, either
everything or everything; green, green rose
or aquamarine; Your two eyes
are three eyes, or no eyes, or all the wilderness of eyes
that spangle through a peacock tail,
They are stock exchange horizons
running sideways figures on womanly glory,
Green idyll-haunted veldts,
spherically filled with river-runs of flowers,
God blessed me by creating them
and allowing them to fill my hours.
Meditation 3
From swoons of solar wind a swan looms down,
Vast Crystalline universe trilled around her crown,
below her shadows spilling slow;--void rolls abreast her
absence as a death that demons know. Observer, observe her
Presence, blurry dance of bliss and blindness;--release
of winter's violence or a snowflake wandering off slow.
Celestial theater, smear essence everywhere of her,
leave obsidian-rim oceans desolate with soreness,
destroy our history, cease her harp-wrung moan
and words and thoughts from eras ago
won't be part of our past any more--
and taut falls her shadow.
She's aged, she's angel,
withholding winds of wide
eternity, with weathering wings
descends the waters scraped pale by
luster'd moon corona, remembering those
well crucifixated to telephone poles over faint miles
of road, saint statutes brimmed with murderers' brains
ever weeping by a tide--her passion to be transubstantiated by a
meat-hopper's shears, her compassion for creatures unable to elude an oven's
sear--all accelerated through her mind, so softly she stares, viewing blasphemous
obelisks, pyramidally hex of a sun--medium-rare shadows show samsara, nirvana as one.
Where among "Mystery, Babylon the Great" does Adam's creation rehearse its suicide? but
where a sorrowed swan appears purely and tressed, hoarse with thoughts of ages blessed,
thoughts towards a floral bride and her bouquet unloosed on a seaside,
of yellow-red rounds of leaf-falls dwindling over woodlands,
of amethyst and amaryllis hues over dry seas of areas,
of lightning slowly spilling on far era's sierras,
the loneliness of what it's like to see
the way God once had let things be,
--all skid through her mind,
so she weeps repentantly
and dotes upon her home
in isles she's yet to know:
everything, dear everything dies in Ohm.
To swoons of solar wind the downy swan resumes,
Edgelessness-edged universe re-arrange into its own tomb,
Beyond her molten sunset pours, panoramically an oblivion of agate,
rose and nightshade which an angel may adore--Witholder, withold her
forgiveness! The swan's last glance at providence, a slipknot's
ease rims paradise, a miscarriage rouses war--
Astral Theater, fill summertime,
wintertime and springtime
with the fallen brush of ash,
the apocalypse breaks its knell
and the swan weeps over revelations of
crematoriums in hell: and what do you say to a child
with the world in their eyes, but that the world's well?
Rainbows are really nothingness, that stretch around to nowhere.
Meditation 4
I
Know silence travels faster than light or sound,
Darting on seawaves to estuaries, pastorals, obituaries,
Silence, the shrapnel of God, scatters the universe,
harmonious luminescence over landscapes of nothingness . . .
and know, Italicized Amber Eyes, that my secret is a silence enough
or an echo of an echo of an echo just as much
that inwardly held accrues the many amounts of guilt
which shrivel the horizon line to a dot
and then far off center it
and if you could pluck out my neurons saturated
with this secret I'd still recall that I once
knew a secret of outstanding heinousness
and so the guilt would remain and I wouldn't know
what words when confessed could bring me ease.
II
Father, be the lucid explosion in my mind,
Burn clean my canyons of neurons until I hear nothing
Or let me hear stars ring on their rims one last time,
Merrier Mercy, you are so much destruction
That you only create: Recreate me and end the guilt
of my sin: starve me of, to suffocate me with, your beauty within.
Exile floods through my mind, never have I been less lonely
than womb-day, so Engineer of Edelweiss, chartreuse my
Universe and leave me with less to say,
Carpel Tunnel Syndrome slithers through the walls
Seeking to break my glass soul, so lovely Father, love
Holier than a lover and leave me no more,
for soon my own secret shall be everyone's secret
as obsidian palisades or alabaster balustrades
lace pons or aorta,
Not that they will know my secret
but that everyone will think that this secret
is only theirs
Not that they will console my pain
but that they will wish only for
someone to console their own.
III
Italicized amber eyes--
I wish God, to hide from me, had hid in me
and removed my guilt as far as east
is from the west,
What memories and happiness would then pass through me
if all this horrible guilt too did pass.
Meditation 1
I
How breezes tinge the riverside ridges
with cindering blends of rose-wrenched vintage
is fullness as it is in summertime loneliness
When neurons erode from echoic holiness;
How wind pulls some leaves over coldness of shoals
is peacefulness, emptiness without roars or parole,
Why these seasonal strains share none in coincidence
--one forgets the other, each recalls just itself--
is meridian divide on an earthquake span of sea,
bewildering as God (as to sometimes become God)
and already is a mania of mismemory,
like equivocal hues pre-dusk or post-dawn,
Where if one were just born, it could seem afternoon
or morning blue, this undetermined value
is each morning's misery and blur to me, why,
Angels or brain chemicals? Even if devils
caused these harmonies hallucinogenic,
at least thought would feel less enigmatic.
II
Encircling blusters smooth through the wilderness
for sweltering smears of crimsons and coppers,
distanced away within the air,
These, the Colour of God fraught in self-anxiety,
these knots of autumn imploded ambrosially
and already I'm late to remember
for comatose drones, their tidal cessation,
seascapes or evanescence and dispersal
are the snuffing-out and an equanimity
that won't take off from me; sometimes
in this maritime mist it's sparse to see
where is left and what is right,
God can I smell a haunt of rose?
It's not beyond but dendritically composed
and thus extincts as a body goes
Nor can I know reflection from shadow,
my shadow a devil, reflection's an angel,
while all a standard self's much brain chemical, chemical,
God the Nirvana, Headache of Happiness
reduces anatomically to pixels of stardust; I am the whole universe
coming to know itself carelessly,
Ovum, oaken, oasis and Ohm,
unknowable and unknown, Adam un-Eved and all atomed
that Psychology might solve me, quod erat demonstrandum
so that I a machine can process enlightenment's rerun,
an algorithmic clicking that makes me feel forgiven,
multiplex aloneness, appliance without choice
which still feels choice and that God chose him,
all's atoms all Adam'd that algorithm-as-pantheism
elects determinism--not God's--but our universe's sin.
III
Encirclings singe the riverine ridge
with sweltering smears of drank desert vintage,
leaked static of God caught in self-satiety,
all of bliss for a life which is ever lived lonely,
as a cub nestling close to the corpse of his mother,
unafraid of the world while he's able to feel her.
Meditation 2
What is silence,
But the hazels and sea-swells
Coiling in your iris?
Your emerald stare I’ve seen before
gilding wavecurls and fallwhirls
Or varying the tense of autumn’s torment
In the leaves, your eyes animate with permanence,
What rimless vacancies are more inclusive than they?
In each green inch lies coastal land miles
where migrations of wind roam restless through isles
foraging for meaning, finding beauty
ever unveiling--your eyes are everlasting exhale,
precious prisons of radiance, and yet they kept watch of me once
as I wept wretchedly in repentance.
Green willows, green coral coves, silhouettes of shadows
reported off the coasts, storms no one sees,
seashells swallowing seas, a future
faintly like photos and memories,
lime-lucid streams, lime-embittered words, the lyrical
death of images of carousels;
high tides, low tides, young and older brides,
mother, daughter, woman, wanderer,
together dormant into your eyes.
Your two eyes are two options, either
everything or everything; green, green rose
or aquamarine; Your two eyes
are three eyes, or no eyes, or all the wilderness of eyes
that spangle through a peacock tail,
They are stock exchange horizons
running sideways figures on womanly glory,
Green idyll-haunted veldts,
spherically filled with river-runs of flowers,
God blessed me by creating them
and allowing them to fill my hours.
Meditation 3
From swoons of solar wind a swan looms down,
Vast Crystalline universe trilled around her crown,
below her shadows spilling slow;--void rolls abreast her
absence as a death that demons know. Observer, observe her
Presence, blurry dance of bliss and blindness;--release
of winter's violence or a snowflake wandering off slow.
Celestial theater, smear essence everywhere of her,
leave obsidian-rim oceans desolate with soreness,
destroy our history, cease her harp-wrung moan
and words and thoughts from eras ago
won't be part of our past any more--
and taut falls her shadow.
She's aged, she's angel,
withholding winds of wide
eternity, with weathering wings
descends the waters scraped pale by
luster'd moon corona, remembering those
well crucifixated to telephone poles over faint miles
of road, saint statutes brimmed with murderers' brains
ever weeping by a tide--her passion to be transubstantiated by a
meat-hopper's shears, her compassion for creatures unable to elude an oven's
sear--all accelerated through her mind, so softly she stares, viewing blasphemous
obelisks, pyramidally hex of a sun--medium-rare shadows show samsara, nirvana as one.
Where among "Mystery, Babylon the Great" does Adam's creation rehearse its suicide? but
where a sorrowed swan appears purely and tressed, hoarse with thoughts of ages blessed,
thoughts towards a floral bride and her bouquet unloosed on a seaside,
of yellow-red rounds of leaf-falls dwindling over woodlands,
of amethyst and amaryllis hues over dry seas of areas,
of lightning slowly spilling on far era's sierras,
the loneliness of what it's like to see
the way God once had let things be,
--all skid through her mind,
so she weeps repentantly
and dotes upon her home
in isles she's yet to know:
everything, dear everything dies in Ohm.
To swoons of solar wind the downy swan resumes,
Edgelessness-edged universe re-arrange into its own tomb,
Beyond her molten sunset pours, panoramically an oblivion of agate,
rose and nightshade which an angel may adore--Witholder, withold her
forgiveness! The swan's last glance at providence, a slipknot's
ease rims paradise, a miscarriage rouses war--
Astral Theater, fill summertime,
wintertime and springtime
with the fallen brush of ash,
the apocalypse breaks its knell
and the swan weeps over revelations of
crematoriums in hell: and what do you say to a child
with the world in their eyes, but that the world's well?
Rainbows are really nothingness, that stretch around to nowhere.
Meditation 4
I
Know silence travels faster than light or sound,
Darting on seawaves to estuaries, pastorals, obituaries,
Silence, the shrapnel of God, scatters the universe,
harmonious luminescence over landscapes of nothingness . . .
and know, Italicized Amber Eyes, that my secret is a silence enough
or an echo of an echo of an echo just as much
that inwardly held accrues the many amounts of guilt
which shrivel the horizon line to a dot
and then far off center it
and if you could pluck out my neurons saturated
with this secret I'd still recall that I once
knew a secret of outstanding heinousness
and so the guilt would remain and I wouldn't know
what words when confessed could bring me ease.
II
Father, be the lucid explosion in my mind,
Burn clean my canyons of neurons until I hear nothing
Or let me hear stars ring on their rims one last time,
Merrier Mercy, you are so much destruction
That you only create: Recreate me and end the guilt
of my sin: starve me of, to suffocate me with, your beauty within.
Exile floods through my mind, never have I been less lonely
than womb-day, so Engineer of Edelweiss, chartreuse my
Universe and leave me with less to say,
Carpel Tunnel Syndrome slithers through the walls
Seeking to break my glass soul, so lovely Father, love
Holier than a lover and leave me no more,
for soon my own secret shall be everyone's secret
as obsidian palisades or alabaster balustrades
lace pons or aorta,
Not that they will know my secret
but that everyone will think that this secret
is only theirs
Not that they will console my pain
but that they will wish only for
someone to console their own.
III
Italicized amber eyes--
I wish God, to hide from me, had hid in me
and removed my guilt as far as east
is from the west,
What memories and happiness would then pass through me
if all this horrible guilt too did pass.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Scherzos
Unamused as we sat
On hallucinations of grass
slowly sinking sideways
into woodcurls of time
Conferencing about permanence
beneath ancient conifers
dismembering permanence
of distant hails and limes--
We saw Koranic lasses--
Malaria, Clamiddya, Miss Peppermint Universe--
end their lives as telephonic busts
who winepressed the future
with backgammoning drought,
pancreas in pain-increase:
The pressure of our hands release.
Just scratch the scatch'n'sniff wine menu
and schmooze into its oven-fumes,
if that be enough for Buddha to
reincarnate backwards towards the past,
that bastard ass,
Just resume the miraculous . . .
Jupiter! Enchilada Jupiter!
a tight and roaring grip on space!
imagine myself agonized
by your nuclear nausea,
her puddles of embrace.
We scream manacles at horizons,
seasons for seasons,
I cant afford your petty gowns,
or save a spot in the Meridian hearse
Who forged this impossible, the horizon?
reasons for reasons,
and if I could I'd mail frowns
and jettison rover in a Millennium hearse.
Salt tenderness, rips-up snails! prime celestial coast,
Talmudic angels: "grow, grow!" But let die the grass;
Mark Mcguire maintains with Miss Pesticide Hearing-aid
and Foldger's cups milk-lust gay parades.
Cloud's Charades of Gamelan
Ostinato, accompanied by flute and fetus,
and I see us, rewound when Christ chiseled "CE",
Who set weebles in the terror of
Thursday-scape.
Things repeats the kiss with confidence:
there was a view,
too far from here, but too close to there,
where sienna diagonals of violins
lugged soft and stop copulation,
We Conferenced permanence
beneath ancient conifers;
whittled blasphemy
towards distant hails and limes--
vetoed sanskrit, damn P.C. advocate,
sermonized loin-leisure to lime the rust,
moralized those lactating-luscious, God disgust,
and then there were 3 sisters' busts:
O Unamused us!
*
I
See me, the distance?
A bouquet of winter and virus,
Make the universe exists
To the left of me—
Things and no time for things,
A horizon made slow
rename it now
“The galaxy ricocheting wind”
—Or—
“The galaxy possessed by demons,
Fond wife, bought white paint, four kids.”
balloons-hung-like-salami
brains-slushed-in-a-dove,
--told everyone your secret,
sorry had to tell someone, love.
II
I'm Mexican and my first word was "beer"
which begins a poet's career.
My first sin was not stating
my birthday wish in the form of a prayer.
When I first heard the word
"Graffiti" I laughed,
though it was a serious matter,
jail, hospital, or death.
While Michaelangelo graffitied
the Sistine Chapel
Death supersoakedhimandhospitalwasallsnickering
and my childhood self
kisses my future self;
me-as-fetus swallows
the last breath I will breathe.
III
Ronald Macdonald,
red feet swaying in the wind:
someone stole his happy meal
and so he did that thing,
that permanent, selfish thing,
dollar-menu-as-some-sand-dollars-on-coast,
Burgundy blood and laurels
lapping onto shores,
Babylon's coagulated residence,
the non-existence of
cirrus widening,
November computing souls.
The living need the fountain
of youth to stay alive,
the dead need the fountain
of Andy Williams to remain dead;
remember, Andy, your first accordion as a teen?
ticklemeAlGoreatasorbetflavoredcrimescene.
Barbra Walters began dating MissingNo
after divorcing a swarming hive of lobsters,
Prepare the worthies for Glad zip wrap.
Love, spilt tetris
on your pepto-bismol sundress,
hope that's fine, lovey-dove, lovely-dear
I'd read Shakespeare--
makes my nose bleed though,
Wormwood hits Stalingrad,
foundtommorowninaWesleySnipesvideo
IV
The coastline leans in
Towards receding hair lines
Of proud fiscal sin,
As the missing link
Between television and mystic vision
Are captured in the father land,
I want some idol worthy of my worship
Or an ice-cream flavor called “worthy-of-my-sherbet”—
then:
Through the hopes,
through memories,
someone's got a great husband,
your new baby,
hopes he'll get well soon,
your loan was approved,
always thinking of you,
God bless sons or daughters,
Apple-flavored Poke
and Feeling Around,
(After they married,
they renamed themselves:
"Lovely PFA"),
came to visit me
when I'm lonely,
and changed diapers
on
agurneywhichyeahismakingsomeonehappy.
4 pipes, one busted, slithering
Through the walls of eternity,
Starting with you ending with me,
Like the can and string phones
We used to make when 13.
One transports fire, one
Transports mustard, one transports
Jack Daniels, one transports
All the sweet nothings that
Susan B. Anthony wanted to
Her shoe-fitter, but was too timid
To say, that’s the one the broke,
And all her words leaked to
All the youth and stole their hearts,
And now they are rioting in the streets.
all history should re-happen in seconds then thaw.
Through the hopes,
through memories,
someone's got a great husband,
you have a new [VietnamPilot58diedofHeartFailure],
hopes he'll get well soon,
your loan was approved,
always thinking of you,
God bless sons or daughters,
Christ's heart bursts forth with water
*
I said so much of my love to the moon
That it hid in the earth, making everything petrify
That roams along the terrestrial girth. Can you imagine
How I feel when not followed by your shadow?
Please haunt me and permit me no escape,
Your moonscape with a color emptier than white
Must wallow in my soul’s bottle, igniting it with citrus,
Must roll two numbers from just one dice.
Visions of the desert harlots, above dirt devils,
twirling above the thirsty moans of saints,
when your porous plain comes close to the earth,
so that I could touch it when I stand on a stool,
oh were I an abandoned vehicle
grazed by your glow and chalky flesh!
oh were I some dying turtle left on a sienna
sun-dimmed road, rubbed by your alcohol!
the blossoms bake wherever there is wind,
la mesa rescinds. The veins of the clouds,
ripped from the war and bleeding long autumnal sores,
cycle the names and surnames of sentiments
forgot in a pond. At pond's edge, there you stand!
Your blanch amnesia marinates both the bedroom
where I weep in your remembrance and the bedroom
where I was born.
Must Lazarus awake on your grounds for you
to chase me? Levitate in silence but then answer me!
Or to provoke myself: Yesterday, the ripple radiance
of a rill clambered uphill, an elastic smack
where a nuclear summit blew east and burnt south,
then I could not eat bread anymore,
or hear roasts anymore by the dove's and pine's shore,
there you seemed like spirit intuiting and fissuring
the arcade of stars, morgue missletoe paused
for the kiss of dead lovers--
died in a car, October 12th 1987
Larkspur, Magnolia, and yellow-leaved Cholera,
showers of pedals scrape my brain
in this shallow baptismal, the inner flanks
of my thighs resonate with a portrait of ruffles:
this quick smile caught mid a ragtime midnight
where you also are above, your awful fragrance
of woodworm weaving through my rib bones
whether I continue to play the piano
or row a boat in the shadows. You rosy disk
that rotates or stays still, tangent to my window sill,
tyrant to my will, please tie your nerve endings to mine
and be that smile faint in my remembrance
that passes for the divine.
*
Seaside crayons horizontally remembering
Sails and seaborne suggestions of nuclear white,
as currents compressing bliss-wise like risen wine
right in front of mine or time--
Umbrellas of parallel fizz rehearsedly and sea,
Drab cirrus soundlessness bells of apocalypse
pick sand of salt, tuck tint suave grain, at spec of less
as acyclic whips gauze shroud-ess manzanita tree,
Criminal or real pairs the sails; glissandoed
lengths of bright oceancast weld the well seashells
to their lethal twirls, Elysium plastered with
daughter-of-pearl . . . her sour air, 10-4, savor her hair . . .
for yon' ounce of roundness blustering occidental kiss,
heresies of centuries bunt pumice till crumbs amiss
for ocean-surfaced sun memorizing yesterday shriveling,
touch the tin, Grieved Dulcia, keeps our tick, tock a-stumbling . . .
My flesh perplex, wasps cocooning to become hornets
to emerge into a room with cooing madrigal discordance
piped from carbonated inquisition racks of Goldberg, Rube, Zaire--
childrins who doesn't step aun' cracks won't neither pass da' equator,
Scizophreniform, say! Scism of our Lord, 'Zwounds-
Scizophrenia, sick and sinnin' ya', nay, spic and spannin' ya!
then God is in elsewhere-as-everywhere, his rod and staff spared,
all those floods of God's love
were just chemicals, nueral cycles, mother nature's chemistry set,
ages 8 and up, 8 and up, pain my cup for it overfloweth with vallium,
8 and up and Creator's zeal cured by dosage of meds,
God can't end, nor can these lines that say God is dead . . .
The stranger--pulls out a stop watch--continues to mutter instead:
Eternities of Windex spreads meadows of dulcimer, rose, and lavender
before male enlargement of orient from steel cyclones and iron tornadoes,
Endor's Witch wheedles summer-syringed chemicals, Eros wheedles Erdős,
H and R Puff'n'Stuff is some pus-in-us, wanna
touch that Ol' Wonderous--yogic self-mummification a stomach ache of ecstasy
is my lust and least I suppose. Leopard stains made from wine spill,
O clumsy Jesters of Paralysis, forgiveness would be all nice-y, wice-y
woundn'titbe? lips lyse to kiss but then kiss or miss, Great Suleiman
rehearse crazed sea, miles and repressed miles of lemon or mustard heresy,
The crackle of salt flays tides of their forgetfulness or
Seneca's blood sometimes makes for a nice dash O something
or cameras stole the image of shovels and sand dollars from the beach
is miles and nihilistic miles of childhood a-fumbling,
Celestial bloopers like Calicos and Coy are
many orange blotches of many suns as a boy,
many things I remember realer than what life became
couldn't ever have happened, nothing's new 'neath the sun . . .
Wipin' moist towelettes is Gent lick-pus, then jump the shark in us!
sixths, sixths of angels lined my cradle as demonic
steam engines conduct music of my cabalistic cradle mobile,
Aye my lusty, Deary: Dulcion isnowthefreemanIam.
'Sblood! no matter what they tell me, or what cracked seashells hear,
the sand smooth as bridal oven and my first syllable was "beer"--
--a silent silhouette staring at me, see there, on pier--
once, on gore-understood-gourmet beach, I cut my foot on intentional glass
and then cherry scars from when my first cat scratched me
long ago, were re-ignited, all over hands, arms, body--
Love, Where Has God Gone? but cherry scars from when my cat scratched me
spelling along my flesh: "of this life I am weary."
*
Rhymes with Todd or Susser Todd,
Fill a jansport with bear-baiting xor clandestine
Clydesdales given a punch and kick,
Aaron, to lead calf’s throng sings a song:
AaAaAaAaAa, and then Moses interrupts
With negative theology polemic,
Not to beat a dead horse, or to even
beat a horse, but: AaAaAaAaAaAa
AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa . . . . . .
lech-lush, creat-cha havin' cauliflowers tonight!
Trilling bite of a trilobite tells kibbles sans bits,
give me my leg taxidermied
So I can mount it along with
my Pheasants and my Ish (he of the Dish),
and whydaya also slap on the wall his three wished fish
Paradiddle citadel, FOAM-SOAP,
FOP—your whole lifesaflop or I'm thinkin'
STOP—that means look both ways,
But don’t you forget to look that other
Way again--hey, slob Armstrong, where’s your
Instrument? Well scat then,
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-phatty-phat
Phallus fanatic, Fanny, smack that
Pen from your hand, haven’t you
Heard, God didn't create Eve and her women
For the creation of music?
But I’ll still give ya songs
Without a word—from ya woman!
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-Rat-aAaAaAaAa
AaAaAaAaAaAa—okay, so repressed mormons
Knocky-knock and attempt to explain
Mystical underwear to intelligence
Of Mr. Spock, long johns and prosper:
how's a Swedish clock chirping Miranda
Rights and how’s the 80s and 90s being each of my nostrils?
Cadium yellow and burnt sienna
Sunset tomato you’re made of,
Moses strikes disbelievers
with Kant's 4 o clock jealousy--TREES at times squeal,
Nothing Chopin wouldn't ever do,
that few days catholic who hated Jews,
But let’s get our theology strait
Its “very God of very God,
begotten, not made”
Moses calls wild hearts and spades,
And Aarron, if only to bluff,
Ignites with: AaAaAaAaAaAa
AaAaAaAaAa, Franztelllaityourlove
Because then this asshole will
Stop AaAaAaAaAaAaAa—FOP!
Kirk—set to stun—this lecherous Kirk Cameron
Showing God in a banana,
AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa
Snuggles gonna make sure there’s flames for ya
AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa
in vitro m-and-m's fills
The Mariners’, Indian’s, Pirate’s rosters
And AaAaAaAa—Barb.Everywhere—
Candle-light-is-all-our-sight—
FOAM-FAJ, gentility or genitalia,
Aqua—FUCT—orhowboutPERTURBATIONS—
OkayOryaknowwhat—justBATIONS—
hey, Leg-weak whereas ya’ funny speak?
Rat-a-tat-tat-RaAaAaAaAaAa,
Snuggles always knew u couldn't escape from the law,
Grace is but for the JEWS and LEWDS . . .whisper "bATION"
RATIO NELSON—AaAaAaAa-
Dahmer-mansthe-DOPPLER--Czar Bar
the new candy bar . . .
AaAaAa-BARB.EVEYWHERE--IscariotSamba
SAMBOsauce--SHisk-KaBoB--ORB--
WHEEZE--mightymaxcourtingpollypocket--GORP!
FOP!CLINTON--Lil' PANCREATIC SECRETION hereandthere--
neverhurtnoone--one day a treebecameanegg
so break a leg, EDna, break that lusty leg
BIMBO SNACKS--GREEDY PANDA,
see right through your smile and kidfoolishness
want my MONEY BACK, I, Ithinkuknowwhatimtalkingabout
___ _____ but so did IRAQ,
shook hands with a SONATA--thoughnofreebrunch,
4 inch tape worm--wouldn't go away did my taxes . . .
Belshazzar, worship the image,
of a milk mustache and some coffee sideburns,
if I leave this poem, this poem unfinished . . .
*
Quake Quake: God brings in the end of the age,
one left in the field and one taken to judgment;
NEWS FLASH: Nepal, the Boy Buddha, the abomination to end
all desolation, meditates without accepting water.
Wednesday, 30 November 2005, 16:26 GMT
weebok toccataGATCH--GATCH--
guilty, lusty--SoberPeters >>>
XXX--special rebate, two for one and one for all,
languish in my river of dead ponies . . .
PORD--the majnificent000earther
666--KantandEichmanndo-a-dittysweet,
Deckckckcckckcshufflebramble . . . . . taste . . . .sauce>:l,eg
PorbERSOUR,
SSN: 6-- -- ---0, sorobmenowrobmeanddoeverything
Endless lamination of seaweed and tumbleweeds,
Cheetos pocket-substance with
borrowing tomorrow.
Sorry you weren’t an asshole it wasetuif eerws
Bno, sure, no shethtur idrt po
Theoroefled =r—S ESS Ess
SER DOCTRORO serveupascoopfulofshadows
SER DOCTORO, serveupascoopofshadows
OKAY, SO MY NAME IS GUY,
Well, , a mutton-chinaringarginchingcha.
okayI am applying for this bank job, I
need a granite grover teach me ABCs
Free-dumb phi-ters.
. texas and yan burgersdreffus affair . .
.melenyellow, redetracher drun through
your viens and memberane and members tyqo
wqpwoe . . mtyowir. . why do I always have
to come in in here to
see that you failed all your classes?
Okay So, Peking order: sitcom about police
trying to make it big in Peking law enforcement circuit.
Yung love, I reembmer that so long ago
when my soul was shit-pan for other '.))(
ssundry men, that were old, they mneede
dsomething sto shit in damn damnit . . . .
4 2 fgfg t t
tre
Phone, Thinking of ya like vidal focruse (“sosaason” that is)
What . . .you talking soiks, you fuckumberalla
You want to say teriibl e goanna be when your smackes
Tengo sed. Lets go the resutrating
tioji 54
59
Worship Gosh, hallmarc kard
Pizza-on-the-rim , and galaxy-terrifihey,
YUa testament to my cltoruefilibustercloturefilibuster ,.
, , dekendinh . . thokay fine I admit it it was a
quote a ook from a l
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shdogihv689u5059v6ih09 Waqa Beowulfdazzle-thou-bitchofa-duel
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updated 10:12 a.m. EDT, Fri October 3, 2008
The world's 2nd attempt at the tower of Babel is in Japan,
One trip up their space elevator will cleanse you
of all iniquity, ahc'monwhydontyoujusttrustme
With all of vision's color you are made:
loose strands of emerald, blue and amber weaved
with sable threads do form in5 you a braid
since67 you are joy though peace, remorse that's grieved
and comedy which 6mingle all in one,
therefore just [[doomsdayparadegoosestep}}as the sky that shifts through time
or as the subtle hues of time-spurned sun
your beauty's won by spectrum's climb,
And as light climbs in every step and shade
it seeks a violet vis(((unholy of unholies)))ible to God
alone, with this timbre you're also made
and thus refl5ect the lan5686ds of ceaseless laud--
refract, then, that67 of 67the soul into earth's sense
and t67hus express all things ex8pressionless.
All the rulers of the world,
Louis the 14th, Ivan the Terrible, Pol Pot, Micheal J Fox . . .
Brought back to life from DNA extracts,
only so that they could serve him, the Buddha Boy.
Obhamawinksatmesaysheisthebeastfromthesea.
fill ashark withhelium
and watchit burstas it nearsthe sun . .
Because im balony-mitchels,
And I would woulf like (Carmen ) to (San)
tell you about (Sandeogo) where is Carmen . . . qq
Mike and ike, okra papists
Hoyl Sonnet VIXIXIXi.?????
Grab ya partner do “si” do,
Ravel's Pavane,
as I fill with end of skies,
6##-##-###0: I know it's still enticing.
Those Mexicans if they come more time, with
their with track about angel mormon . .MORMOn. . .
Sylvester neighbor . . . .
sneechesblitzkriegsneeches
These Bimbo snacks
taste like shit.
Time Warner Springs presents: “Live at the auditorium”
a special feature that foxfriendsOprahO'reily are talking about ,
and it is a very exciting thing that your whole family
will enjoy, I gave it two thumps up, it was rip roaring
fun for the whole family, the critics are all shitting upward
doogie0houser-doogie-houser
I’d cross the Tigris . . and maybe Euphrates” the new hit
LOVESONG. By coldplay. And kanye.
stuck a fork in a balloon, qwt4owt4
e5y985j898joprlffkggkeoprekk eroij fj
touched a marlin today, and he died from it,
Listen to Coast 103.9,, we got “John Danver”
back on the show, backfrom death, ;'.
we resurrected john denver, ;.'
Oh, yeah we just had to build a “John Dnver machine”
and place his corpse in there andhepopsoutaliveju
stlike brandnew f,f ,
Yeah “Fresh” swooped down
Making a plastic brotherhood
between subway and quiznos,
Tyop uwe tyuweijtoh
hegemon(Magic Johnson)ic
and vulgarized limerick,
yeah, lucy was just an old chinaman with the rickets,
no, its obviously just rickets,
rickets are a dime a dozen,
shit, my wife has 'em,
Wayne Gretsky
suckin on cancer-popsicle
Rachmaninov's Adagio, in his 2nd symphony,
ecstasy of mercy, -
Write your whole biography with only f words . . . .
Tornado unlicking Chanukah
FRIO, FRIO, mama its FRIO
PAP-SMEARINGFOREHEAD
tadpole aftermath, heifer red, eric the red,
Frambert frambert frambert irascible
Lap Dog Lap Song fret fret fret ambr ambr ambr
Happle sauce lag lag lag lager lager lager
Rendition after the taste, after taste or,
'marriage and miscarriage, titties and entities,
Ascetic Cinderella, wandering with Samanas . . . .
Hey cassanova,
,
“Oh, so you think you are a regular Cassanova
thatsAMAZINGcuzGodiscominforya
*
I
Serrated lightening stabs
Some caked hill meadows to decide edibility
Of tubers, roses, honeysuckles
That perforate electrically across
Its curvilinearness,
Knotted wigs of moss slide down
Some stain glass scenes of a feminine rabbi
Mead-halling it with the boys.
The past, ever birthing the future while regretting it,
Swallows it all back up
But nevertheless shits it all out
Marinated in wet feculence,
Thus the past is nothing
But a big bang singularity
That anciently echoes
with detectable frequencies
“Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani”
II
The past is something
Like big band Basie cadenzas
Or barbershop aubades
Of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”,
Pleasure stuffed in piccolos or inferred from jinn-low trembelos
Which renders the incompetence of Castrati much more worth it
And says nothing on Eunuchs who it still sucks to be,
So you men, recite of rainbows
Just once more and just for me, as I recount
Her diligence dance, acorn thighs,
Mango breasts and ox sterility . . .
III
The expense of spirit is waste of shame.
Loneliness is a waste just the same, just the same.
She donned a jester’s cap and thigh-high leggings,
Clasped a fool’s scepter clad in green arm-sleeves,
She stood atop hilltops, pursy as if always winking,
As thunder railed and moss in sloth slid.
Having returned from
Collecting the used arrows of cupid,
Her left breast was a container wherein more containers hid.
If she was my neighbor or a neighbor I’d
Imagine moving next to
We would hide in Temecula fields
Or spelunk Temecula sewage tunnels.
IV
The expense of spirit is a waste of shame,
So in 7th grade once drawing her
Nudges of guilt made me throw her in file 13
And stop all pastimes leveraged onanistically.
I too quit discerning her in every female classmate
Which has continued to today where I don’t feel a thing,
So Thanks, Jesus, for your monopolies of wisdom,
Even staring at a woman is adultery.
V
If she was Lear’s buxom fool
She’d have guffawed at the king of kings,
But if she was crucified by his side
She might have shriek for forgiveness.
If I had met her at a club,
Finally having mastered my own body
So that I didn’t look foolish dancing,
She might have approached me
Putting her nailed hands in mine
And backing her ass against me gently,
Or if she was my wife,
I’d be spooning with her
and talking of religion (King David’s saintliness
Though he had those wives and whores).
And if she was Bathsheba
She would have still been bathing outdoors.
Now, hearing the floral stairways of Claire de Lune,
I’m tolled from soul and self
To be cheated by fancy once more . . .
VI
A eunuch’s orgy of imagined fact
Proposes joys that saunter off as dreams
Thus she’s alive and I’m a playwright’s act
Writ out to be much sweeter than he seems.
She sprints pavilions clad in green leggings,
Long ivory balustrades run on their side
She skims their rails with her green arm-sleeves
As she goes off to be a maelstrom’s bride,
And now I have but my own lines to script
As she has fled to be her own pleasure:
Where’s beauty gone when beauty’s from us slipped,
And how’ll my soul its female forms measure?
So world please know and knowing, know too well:
Heaven made it so I couldn’t go to hell.
*
Preschool Papa, six foot high,
(On three short feet
the next three lie),
Wife-wet smooches
sometime smudge
Catinflas Papa.
Sundry wreathes,
Orbed tra-la-la of trees,
Warm all doors
but Papa's door
Caroling drear:
Of course
Of course
when asked if
Papa craves
Divorce.
Donut's Shadows
lunge across
Globed Papa's face
Whose eyes of storms
Which show his mouth
Show how they taste,
Hawaiian lips
which scrape pink his nape
Also show great taste.
Planes afoot
the star-tipped fir
As true ones
splash for star gazers,
Zooming the later
to toss us the former
Trowel Papa did.
Papa prefers
Hawaiian punch
At succotash dinners,
I don't obsess about why,
Papa features
Tropic screen savers
on his laptop not his desktop,
I'm preoccupied with my trust for that guy.
See me watching
the Buddha Head
that sties upon
his primate bed
to cage her smile
In my klutz
brain,
Re-Emboss it
on
a
guileless
dame,
and shelled in Papa's
crows-footed steel toes
Not fit for five feet,
Palm read her naan palm
At earthquake's birthdays
If a ring zings, leech-speed, on
Wreath-mustached concrete.
Pa preached to Ma
Of 36-24-36 divorce,
that she'll soon hold
flat-smiles of dotted lines
where she can practice
writing her name.
He tr-la-la-ed her
to restock each sock
with Zeppelins
to remember his -isms.
"And tell our kids
I need them much
(Needed, affordable wine-like punch!)
You're a peach
when it comes
to cleat-cleaning chores--
theoretically, theoretically,
theoretically yours."
*
I
The ballerina curtsies as the curtains rise
posing pride before their fall
as if to say:
There is suffering?
And a path out of suffering?
Nonsense, but there is beauty
and a path to beauty.
As if saying:
There’s a heaven,
not a God.
II
The notions of
autumn camouflaged as summer, potpourri
Irregularly adrift, checkerboards
Of warmth and shade cast from a lattice,
Anticipation of something
Warm on a cold day
all held in the mind while not blended together
(Rainbows homogenize to puddles of gray)
Approximate the hammer tension her dimples
Hold—of guns and pianos—when she smiles
And leans back casually.
III
During any given moment in her dance
Parts of her body are moving
slow like movie credits
as others move
rapid like movie trailers,
slow and fast simultaneously,
What some report
car crashes to feel like,
Each nuance of her movement exorcizing the wrinkles
Out of the shadows and rainbows
cast upon her and the stage
until she ceases moving altogether--
her apple cheeks, vase white thighs,
and orange round breasts
a still life.
IV
She was beautiful in a very formidable sense.
She had just come inside from some drizzle
that delightfully jeweled her dry hair.
Not only was she physically beautiful
but that beauty was enhanced
by the nimbleness of her dance.
After a minute or so of watching her however
she seemed a little less beautiful;
I am almost sure that it was because
She responded rudely to a question I asked her
prior to her performance.
Initially my mind was
fully given to her beauty,
but before long it began
to devote some of its energy to
factoring the felt meaning of her words
into my estimation of her beauty,
which made her begin to seem a little less beautiful.
Perhaps her remark
did not accurately represent
her personality
But either way it is a reminder
that all thing arrive in the fullness of their time
including satisfaction.
On hallucinations of grass
slowly sinking sideways
into woodcurls of time
Conferencing about permanence
beneath ancient conifers
dismembering permanence
of distant hails and limes--
We saw Koranic lasses--
Malaria, Clamiddya, Miss Peppermint Universe--
end their lives as telephonic busts
who winepressed the future
with backgammoning drought,
pancreas in pain-increase:
The pressure of our hands release.
Just scratch the scatch'n'sniff wine menu
and schmooze into its oven-fumes,
if that be enough for Buddha to
reincarnate backwards towards the past,
that bastard ass,
Just resume the miraculous . . .
Jupiter! Enchilada Jupiter!
a tight and roaring grip on space!
imagine myself agonized
by your nuclear nausea,
her puddles of embrace.
We scream manacles at horizons,
seasons for seasons,
I cant afford your petty gowns,
or save a spot in the Meridian hearse
Who forged this impossible, the horizon?
reasons for reasons,
and if I could I'd mail frowns
and jettison rover in a Millennium hearse.
Salt tenderness, rips-up snails! prime celestial coast,
Talmudic angels: "grow, grow!" But let die the grass;
Mark Mcguire maintains with Miss Pesticide Hearing-aid
and Foldger's cups milk-lust gay parades.
Cloud's Charades of Gamelan
Ostinato, accompanied by flute and fetus,
and I see us, rewound when Christ chiseled "CE",
Who set weebles in the terror of
Thursday-scape.
Things repeats the kiss with confidence:
there was a view,
too far from here, but too close to there,
where sienna diagonals of violins
lugged soft and stop copulation,
We Conferenced permanence
beneath ancient conifers;
whittled blasphemy
towards distant hails and limes--
vetoed sanskrit, damn P.C. advocate,
sermonized loin-leisure to lime the rust,
moralized those lactating-luscious, God disgust,
and then there were 3 sisters' busts:
O Unamused us!
*
I
See me, the distance?
A bouquet of winter and virus,
Make the universe exists
To the left of me—
Things and no time for things,
A horizon made slow
rename it now
“The galaxy ricocheting wind”
—Or—
“The galaxy possessed by demons,
Fond wife, bought white paint, four kids.”
balloons-hung-like-salami
brains-slushed-in-a-dove,
--told everyone your secret,
sorry had to tell someone, love.
II
I'm Mexican and my first word was "beer"
which begins a poet's career.
My first sin was not stating
my birthday wish in the form of a prayer.
When I first heard the word
"Graffiti" I laughed,
though it was a serious matter,
jail, hospital, or death.
While Michaelangelo graffitied
the Sistine Chapel
Death supersoakedhimandhospitalwasallsnickering
and my childhood self
kisses my future self;
me-as-fetus swallows
the last breath I will breathe.
III
Ronald Macdonald,
red feet swaying in the wind:
someone stole his happy meal
and so he did that thing,
that permanent, selfish thing,
dollar-menu-as-some-sand-dollars-on-coast,
Burgundy blood and laurels
lapping onto shores,
Babylon's coagulated residence,
the non-existence of
cirrus widening,
November computing souls.
The living need the fountain
of youth to stay alive,
the dead need the fountain
of Andy Williams to remain dead;
remember, Andy, your first accordion as a teen?
ticklemeAlGoreatasorbetflavoredcrimescene.
Barbra Walters began dating MissingNo
after divorcing a swarming hive of lobsters,
Prepare the worthies for Glad zip wrap.
Love, spilt tetris
on your pepto-bismol sundress,
hope that's fine, lovey-dove, lovely-dear
I'd read Shakespeare--
makes my nose bleed though,
Wormwood hits Stalingrad,
foundtommorowninaWesleySnipesvideo
IV
The coastline leans in
Towards receding hair lines
Of proud fiscal sin,
As the missing link
Between television and mystic vision
Are captured in the father land,
I want some idol worthy of my worship
Or an ice-cream flavor called “worthy-of-my-sherbet”—
then:
Through the hopes,
through memories,
someone's got a great husband,
your new baby,
hopes he'll get well soon,
your loan was approved,
always thinking of you,
God bless sons or daughters,
Apple-flavored Poke
and Feeling Around,
(After they married,
they renamed themselves:
"Lovely PFA"),
came to visit me
when I'm lonely,
and changed diapers
on
agurneywhichyeahismakingsomeonehappy.
4 pipes, one busted, slithering
Through the walls of eternity,
Starting with you ending with me,
Like the can and string phones
We used to make when 13.
One transports fire, one
Transports mustard, one transports
Jack Daniels, one transports
All the sweet nothings that
Susan B. Anthony wanted to
Her shoe-fitter, but was too timid
To say, that’s the one the broke,
And all her words leaked to
All the youth and stole their hearts,
And now they are rioting in the streets.
all history should re-happen in seconds then thaw.
Through the hopes,
through memories,
someone's got a great husband,
you have a new [VietnamPilot58diedofHeartFailure],
hopes he'll get well soon,
your loan was approved,
always thinking of you,
God bless sons or daughters,
Christ's heart bursts forth with water
*
I said so much of my love to the moon
That it hid in the earth, making everything petrify
That roams along the terrestrial girth. Can you imagine
How I feel when not followed by your shadow?
Please haunt me and permit me no escape,
Your moonscape with a color emptier than white
Must wallow in my soul’s bottle, igniting it with citrus,
Must roll two numbers from just one dice.
Visions of the desert harlots, above dirt devils,
twirling above the thirsty moans of saints,
when your porous plain comes close to the earth,
so that I could touch it when I stand on a stool,
oh were I an abandoned vehicle
grazed by your glow and chalky flesh!
oh were I some dying turtle left on a sienna
sun-dimmed road, rubbed by your alcohol!
the blossoms bake wherever there is wind,
la mesa rescinds. The veins of the clouds,
ripped from the war and bleeding long autumnal sores,
cycle the names and surnames of sentiments
forgot in a pond. At pond's edge, there you stand!
Your blanch amnesia marinates both the bedroom
where I weep in your remembrance and the bedroom
where I was born.
Must Lazarus awake on your grounds for you
to chase me? Levitate in silence but then answer me!
Or to provoke myself: Yesterday, the ripple radiance
of a rill clambered uphill, an elastic smack
where a nuclear summit blew east and burnt south,
then I could not eat bread anymore,
or hear roasts anymore by the dove's and pine's shore,
there you seemed like spirit intuiting and fissuring
the arcade of stars, morgue missletoe paused
for the kiss of dead lovers--
died in a car, October 12th 1987
Larkspur, Magnolia, and yellow-leaved Cholera,
showers of pedals scrape my brain
in this shallow baptismal, the inner flanks
of my thighs resonate with a portrait of ruffles:
this quick smile caught mid a ragtime midnight
where you also are above, your awful fragrance
of woodworm weaving through my rib bones
whether I continue to play the piano
or row a boat in the shadows. You rosy disk
that rotates or stays still, tangent to my window sill,
tyrant to my will, please tie your nerve endings to mine
and be that smile faint in my remembrance
that passes for the divine.
*
Seaside crayons horizontally remembering
Sails and seaborne suggestions of nuclear white,
as currents compressing bliss-wise like risen wine
right in front of mine or time--
Umbrellas of parallel fizz rehearsedly and sea,
Drab cirrus soundlessness bells of apocalypse
pick sand of salt, tuck tint suave grain, at spec of less
as acyclic whips gauze shroud-ess manzanita tree,
Criminal or real pairs the sails; glissandoed
lengths of bright oceancast weld the well seashells
to their lethal twirls, Elysium plastered with
daughter-of-pearl . . . her sour air, 10-4, savor her hair . . .
for yon' ounce of roundness blustering occidental kiss,
heresies of centuries bunt pumice till crumbs amiss
for ocean-surfaced sun memorizing yesterday shriveling,
touch the tin, Grieved Dulcia, keeps our tick, tock a-stumbling . . .
My flesh perplex, wasps cocooning to become hornets
to emerge into a room with cooing madrigal discordance
piped from carbonated inquisition racks of Goldberg, Rube, Zaire--
childrins who doesn't step aun' cracks won't neither pass da' equator,
Scizophreniform, say! Scism of our Lord, 'Zwounds-
Scizophrenia, sick and sinnin' ya', nay, spic and spannin' ya!
then God is in elsewhere-as-everywhere, his rod and staff spared,
all those floods of God's love
were just chemicals, nueral cycles, mother nature's chemistry set,
ages 8 and up, 8 and up, pain my cup for it overfloweth with vallium,
8 and up and Creator's zeal cured by dosage of meds,
God can't end, nor can these lines that say God is dead . . .
The stranger--pulls out a stop watch--continues to mutter instead:
Eternities of Windex spreads meadows of dulcimer, rose, and lavender
before male enlargement of orient from steel cyclones and iron tornadoes,
Endor's Witch wheedles summer-syringed chemicals, Eros wheedles Erdős,
H and R Puff'n'Stuff is some pus-in-us, wanna
touch that Ol' Wonderous--yogic self-mummification a stomach ache of ecstasy
is my lust and least I suppose. Leopard stains made from wine spill,
O clumsy Jesters of Paralysis, forgiveness would be all nice-y, wice-y
woundn'titbe? lips lyse to kiss but then kiss or miss, Great Suleiman
rehearse crazed sea, miles and repressed miles of lemon or mustard heresy,
The crackle of salt flays tides of their forgetfulness or
Seneca's blood sometimes makes for a nice dash O something
or cameras stole the image of shovels and sand dollars from the beach
is miles and nihilistic miles of childhood a-fumbling,
Celestial bloopers like Calicos and Coy are
many orange blotches of many suns as a boy,
many things I remember realer than what life became
couldn't ever have happened, nothing's new 'neath the sun . . .
Wipin' moist towelettes is Gent lick-pus, then jump the shark in us!
sixths, sixths of angels lined my cradle as demonic
steam engines conduct music of my cabalistic cradle mobile,
Aye my lusty, Deary: Dulcion isnowthefreemanIam.
'Sblood! no matter what they tell me, or what cracked seashells hear,
the sand smooth as bridal oven and my first syllable was "beer"--
--a silent silhouette staring at me, see there, on pier--
once, on gore-understood-gourmet beach, I cut my foot on intentional glass
and then cherry scars from when my first cat scratched me
long ago, were re-ignited, all over hands, arms, body--
Love, Where Has God Gone? but cherry scars from when my cat scratched me
spelling along my flesh: "of this life I am weary."
*
Rhymes with Todd or Susser Todd,
Fill a jansport with bear-baiting xor clandestine
Clydesdales given a punch and kick,
Aaron, to lead calf’s throng sings a song:
AaAaAaAaAa, and then Moses interrupts
With negative theology polemic,
Not to beat a dead horse, or to even
beat a horse, but: AaAaAaAaAaAa
AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa . . . . . .
lech-lush, creat-cha havin' cauliflowers tonight!
Trilling bite of a trilobite tells kibbles sans bits,
give me my leg taxidermied
So I can mount it along with
my Pheasants and my Ish (he of the Dish),
and whydaya also slap on the wall his three wished fish
Paradiddle citadel, FOAM-SOAP,
FOP—your whole lifesaflop or I'm thinkin'
STOP—that means look both ways,
But don’t you forget to look that other
Way again--hey, slob Armstrong, where’s your
Instrument? Well scat then,
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-phatty-phat
Phallus fanatic, Fanny, smack that
Pen from your hand, haven’t you
Heard, God didn't create Eve and her women
For the creation of music?
But I’ll still give ya songs
Without a word—from ya woman!
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-Rat-aAaAaAaAa
AaAaAaAaAaAa—okay, so repressed mormons
Knocky-knock and attempt to explain
Mystical underwear to intelligence
Of Mr. Spock, long johns and prosper:
how's a Swedish clock chirping Miranda
Rights and how’s the 80s and 90s being each of my nostrils?
Cadium yellow and burnt sienna
Sunset tomato you’re made of,
Moses strikes disbelievers
with Kant's 4 o clock jealousy--TREES at times squeal,
Nothing Chopin wouldn't ever do,
that few days catholic who hated Jews,
But let’s get our theology strait
Its “very God of very God,
begotten, not made”
Moses calls wild hearts and spades,
And Aarron, if only to bluff,
Ignites with: AaAaAaAaAaAa
AaAaAaAaAa, Franztelllaityourlove
Because then this asshole will
Stop AaAaAaAaAaAaAa—FOP!
Kirk—set to stun—this lecherous Kirk Cameron
Showing God in a banana,
AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa
Snuggles gonna make sure there’s flames for ya
AaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAaAa
in vitro m-and-m's fills
The Mariners’, Indian’s, Pirate’s rosters
And AaAaAaAa—Barb.Everywhere—
Candle-light-is-all-our-sight—
FOAM-FAJ, gentility or genitalia,
Aqua—FUCT—orhowboutPERTURBATIONS—
OkayOryaknowwhat—justBATIONS—
hey, Leg-weak whereas ya’ funny speak?
Rat-a-tat-tat-RaAaAaAaAaAa,
Snuggles always knew u couldn't escape from the law,
Grace is but for the JEWS and LEWDS . . .whisper "bATION"
RATIO NELSON—AaAaAaAa-
Dahmer-mansthe-DOPPLER--Czar Bar
the new candy bar . . .
AaAaAa-BARB.EVEYWHERE--IscariotSamba
SAMBOsauce--SHisk-KaBoB--ORB--
WHEEZE--mightymaxcourtingpollypocket--GORP!
FOP!CLINTON--Lil' PANCREATIC SECRETION hereandthere--
neverhurtnoone--one day a treebecameanegg
so break a leg, EDna, break that lusty leg
BIMBO SNACKS--GREEDY PANDA,
see right through your smile and kidfoolishness
want my MONEY BACK, I, Ithinkuknowwhatimtalkingabout
___ _____ but so did IRAQ,
shook hands with a SONATA--thoughnofreebrunch,
4 inch tape worm--wouldn't go away did my taxes . . .
Belshazzar, worship the image,
of a milk mustache and some coffee sideburns,
if I leave this poem, this poem unfinished . . .
*
Quake Quake: God brings in the end of the age,
one left in the field and one taken to judgment;
NEWS FLASH: Nepal, the Boy Buddha, the abomination to end
all desolation, meditates without accepting water.
Wednesday, 30 November 2005, 16:26 GMT
weebok toccataGATCH--GATCH--
guilty, lusty--SoberPeters >>>
XXX--special rebate, two for one and one for all,
languish in my river of dead ponies . . .
PORD--the majnificent000earther
666--KantandEichmanndo-a-dittysweet,
Deckckckcckckcshufflebramble . . . . . taste . . . .sauce>:l,eg
PorbERSOUR,
SSN: 6-- -- ---0, sorobmenowrobmeanddoeverything
Endless lamination of seaweed and tumbleweeds,
Cheetos pocket-substance with
borrowing tomorrow.
Sorry you weren’t an asshole it wasetuif eerws
Bno, sure, no shethtur idrt po
Theoroefled =r—S ESS Ess
SER DOCTRORO serveupascoopfulofshadows
SER DOCTORO, serveupascoopofshadows
OKAY, SO MY NAME IS GUY,
Well, , a mutton-chinaringarginchingcha.
okayI am applying for this bank job, I
need a granite grover teach me ABCs
Free-dumb phi-ters.
. texas and yan burgersdreffus affair . .
.melenyellow, redetracher drun through
your viens and memberane and members tyqo
wqpwoe . . mtyowir. . why do I always have
to come in in here to
see that you failed all your classes?
Okay So, Peking order: sitcom about police
trying to make it big in Peking law enforcement circuit.
Yung love, I reembmer that so long ago
when my soul was shit-pan for other '.))(
ssundry men, that were old, they mneede
dsomething sto shit in damn damnit . . . .
4 2 fgfg t t
tre
Phone, Thinking of ya like vidal focruse (“sosaason” that is)
What . . .you talking soiks, you fuckumberalla
You want to say teriibl e goanna be when your smackes
Tengo sed. Lets go the resutrating
tioji 54
59
Worship Gosh, hallmarc kard
Pizza-on-the-rim , and galaxy-terrifihey,
YUa testament to my cltoruefilibustercloturefilibuster ,.
, , dekendinh . . thokay fine I admit it it was a
quote a ook from a l
r
4798uy4gjm89ujgvdvfodfijmgvd
shdogihv689u5059v6ih09 Waqa Beowulfdazzle-thou-bitchofa-duel
';..';./'/;tyj'l7;'675u7/';5
updated 10:12 a.m. EDT, Fri October 3, 2008
The world's 2nd attempt at the tower of Babel is in Japan,
One trip up their space elevator will cleanse you
of all iniquity, ahc'monwhydontyoujusttrustme
With all of vision's color you are made:
loose strands of emerald, blue and amber weaved
with sable threads do form in5 you a braid
since67 you are joy though peace, remorse that's grieved
and comedy which 6mingle all in one,
therefore just [[doomsdayparadegoosestep}}as the sky that shifts through time
or as the subtle hues of time-spurned sun
your beauty's won by spectrum's climb,
And as light climbs in every step and shade
it seeks a violet vis(((unholy of unholies)))ible to God
alone, with this timbre you're also made
and thus refl5ect the lan5686ds of ceaseless laud--
refract, then, that67 of 67the soul into earth's sense
and t67hus express all things ex8pressionless.
All the rulers of the world,
Louis the 14th, Ivan the Terrible, Pol Pot, Micheal J Fox . . .
Brought back to life from DNA extracts,
only so that they could serve him, the Buddha Boy.
Obhamawinksatmesaysheisthebeastfromthesea.
fill ashark withhelium
and watchit burstas it nearsthe sun . .
Because im balony-mitchels,
And I would woulf like (Carmen ) to (San)
tell you about (Sandeogo) where is Carmen . . . qq
Mike and ike, okra papists
Hoyl Sonnet VIXIXIXi.?????
Grab ya partner do “si” do,
Ravel's Pavane,
as I fill with end of skies,
6##-##-###0: I know it's still enticing.
Those Mexicans if they come more time, with
their with track about angel mormon . .MORMOn. . .
Sylvester neighbor . . . .
sneechesblitzkriegsneeches
These Bimbo snacks
taste like shit.
Time Warner Springs presents: “Live at the auditorium”
a special feature that foxfriendsOprahO'reily are talking about ,
and it is a very exciting thing that your whole family
will enjoy, I gave it two thumps up, it was rip roaring
fun for the whole family, the critics are all shitting upward
doogie0houser-doogie-houser
I’d cross the Tigris . . and maybe Euphrates” the new hit
LOVESONG. By coldplay. And kanye.
stuck a fork in a balloon, qwt4owt4
e5y985j898joprlffkggkeoprekk eroij fj
touched a marlin today, and he died from it,
Listen to Coast 103.9,, we got “John Danver”
back on the show, backfrom death, ;'.
we resurrected john denver, ;.'
Oh, yeah we just had to build a “John Dnver machine”
and place his corpse in there andhepopsoutaliveju
stlike brandnew f,f ,
Yeah “Fresh” swooped down
Making a plastic brotherhood
between subway and quiznos,
Tyop uwe tyuweijtoh
hegemon(Magic Johnson)ic
and vulgarized limerick,
yeah, lucy was just an old chinaman with the rickets,
no, its obviously just rickets,
rickets are a dime a dozen,
shit, my wife has 'em,
Wayne Gretsky
suckin on cancer-popsicle
Rachmaninov's Adagio, in his 2nd symphony,
ecstasy of mercy, -
Write your whole biography with only f words . . . .
Tornado unlicking Chanukah
FRIO, FRIO, mama its FRIO
PAP-SMEARINGFOREHEAD
tadpole aftermath, heifer red, eric the red,
Frambert frambert frambert irascible
Lap Dog Lap Song fret fret fret ambr ambr ambr
Happle sauce lag lag lag lager lager lager
Rendition after the taste, after taste or,
'marriage and miscarriage, titties and entities,
Ascetic Cinderella, wandering with Samanas . . . .
Hey cassanova,
,
“Oh, so you think you are a regular Cassanova
thatsAMAZINGcuzGodiscominforya
*
I
Serrated lightening stabs
Some caked hill meadows to decide edibility
Of tubers, roses, honeysuckles
That perforate electrically across
Its curvilinearness,
Knotted wigs of moss slide down
Some stain glass scenes of a feminine rabbi
Mead-halling it with the boys.
The past, ever birthing the future while regretting it,
Swallows it all back up
But nevertheless shits it all out
Marinated in wet feculence,
Thus the past is nothing
But a big bang singularity
That anciently echoes
with detectable frequencies
“Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani”
II
The past is something
Like big band Basie cadenzas
Or barbershop aubades
Of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”,
Pleasure stuffed in piccolos or inferred from jinn-low trembelos
Which renders the incompetence of Castrati much more worth it
And says nothing on Eunuchs who it still sucks to be,
So you men, recite of rainbows
Just once more and just for me, as I recount
Her diligence dance, acorn thighs,
Mango breasts and ox sterility . . .
III
The expense of spirit is waste of shame.
Loneliness is a waste just the same, just the same.
She donned a jester’s cap and thigh-high leggings,
Clasped a fool’s scepter clad in green arm-sleeves,
She stood atop hilltops, pursy as if always winking,
As thunder railed and moss in sloth slid.
Having returned from
Collecting the used arrows of cupid,
Her left breast was a container wherein more containers hid.
If she was my neighbor or a neighbor I’d
Imagine moving next to
We would hide in Temecula fields
Or spelunk Temecula sewage tunnels.
IV
The expense of spirit is a waste of shame,
So in 7th grade once drawing her
Nudges of guilt made me throw her in file 13
And stop all pastimes leveraged onanistically.
I too quit discerning her in every female classmate
Which has continued to today where I don’t feel a thing,
So Thanks, Jesus, for your monopolies of wisdom,
Even staring at a woman is adultery.
V
If she was Lear’s buxom fool
She’d have guffawed at the king of kings,
But if she was crucified by his side
She might have shriek for forgiveness.
If I had met her at a club,
Finally having mastered my own body
So that I didn’t look foolish dancing,
She might have approached me
Putting her nailed hands in mine
And backing her ass against me gently,
Or if she was my wife,
I’d be spooning with her
and talking of religion (King David’s saintliness
Though he had those wives and whores).
And if she was Bathsheba
She would have still been bathing outdoors.
Now, hearing the floral stairways of Claire de Lune,
I’m tolled from soul and self
To be cheated by fancy once more . . .
VI
A eunuch’s orgy of imagined fact
Proposes joys that saunter off as dreams
Thus she’s alive and I’m a playwright’s act
Writ out to be much sweeter than he seems.
She sprints pavilions clad in green leggings,
Long ivory balustrades run on their side
She skims their rails with her green arm-sleeves
As she goes off to be a maelstrom’s bride,
And now I have but my own lines to script
As she has fled to be her own pleasure:
Where’s beauty gone when beauty’s from us slipped,
And how’ll my soul its female forms measure?
So world please know and knowing, know too well:
Heaven made it so I couldn’t go to hell.
*
Preschool Papa, six foot high,
(On three short feet
the next three lie),
Wife-wet smooches
sometime smudge
Catinflas Papa.
Sundry wreathes,
Orbed tra-la-la of trees,
Warm all doors
but Papa's door
Caroling drear:
Of course
Of course
when asked if
Papa craves
Divorce.
Donut's Shadows
lunge across
Globed Papa's face
Whose eyes of storms
Which show his mouth
Show how they taste,
Hawaiian lips
which scrape pink his nape
Also show great taste.
Planes afoot
the star-tipped fir
As true ones
splash for star gazers,
Zooming the later
to toss us the former
Trowel Papa did.
Papa prefers
Hawaiian punch
At succotash dinners,
I don't obsess about why,
Papa features
Tropic screen savers
on his laptop not his desktop,
I'm preoccupied with my trust for that guy.
See me watching
the Buddha Head
that sties upon
his primate bed
to cage her smile
In my klutz
brain,
Re-Emboss it
on
a
guileless
dame,
and shelled in Papa's
crows-footed steel toes
Not fit for five feet,
Palm read her naan palm
At earthquake's birthdays
If a ring zings, leech-speed, on
Wreath-mustached concrete.
Pa preached to Ma
Of 36-24-36 divorce,
that she'll soon hold
flat-smiles of dotted lines
where she can practice
writing her name.
He tr-la-la-ed her
to restock each sock
with Zeppelins
to remember his -isms.
"And tell our kids
I need them much
(Needed, affordable wine-like punch!)
You're a peach
when it comes
to cleat-cleaning chores--
theoretically, theoretically,
theoretically yours."
*
I
The ballerina curtsies as the curtains rise
posing pride before their fall
as if to say:
There is suffering?
And a path out of suffering?
Nonsense, but there is beauty
and a path to beauty.
As if saying:
There’s a heaven,
not a God.
II
The notions of
autumn camouflaged as summer, potpourri
Irregularly adrift, checkerboards
Of warmth and shade cast from a lattice,
Anticipation of something
Warm on a cold day
all held in the mind while not blended together
(Rainbows homogenize to puddles of gray)
Approximate the hammer tension her dimples
Hold—of guns and pianos—when she smiles
And leans back casually.
III
During any given moment in her dance
Parts of her body are moving
slow like movie credits
as others move
rapid like movie trailers,
slow and fast simultaneously,
What some report
car crashes to feel like,
Each nuance of her movement exorcizing the wrinkles
Out of the shadows and rainbows
cast upon her and the stage
until she ceases moving altogether--
her apple cheeks, vase white thighs,
and orange round breasts
a still life.
IV
She was beautiful in a very formidable sense.
She had just come inside from some drizzle
that delightfully jeweled her dry hair.
Not only was she physically beautiful
but that beauty was enhanced
by the nimbleness of her dance.
After a minute or so of watching her however
she seemed a little less beautiful;
I am almost sure that it was because
She responded rudely to a question I asked her
prior to her performance.
Initially my mind was
fully given to her beauty,
but before long it began
to devote some of its energy to
factoring the felt meaning of her words
into my estimation of her beauty,
which made her begin to seem a little less beautiful.
Perhaps her remark
did not accurately represent
her personality
But either way it is a reminder
that all thing arrive in the fullness of their time
including satisfaction.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Preludes, Book II
Prelude #1
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prelude #2
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Prelude #4
When the sunlight skims you right
Your eyes flicker quick from
Innocence to omniscience,
When you loosen your hair,
It cascades with a color
Of fallen chestnut coarseness,
And you stand beautifully,
as a sustaining last note
Of violins in symphony
that expands while it ends
that hordes life as it dies,
that in ending survives
or seems sometimes to survive
You are lovely like a fountain
ever pouring forth its sound
even when there's none to listen,
though I listen, and its good,
more lovely than a river
That remembers all the ages
When it fathomed lands alone,
so remember that we walked
down the streets with soundless whisper
We laced fingers while we spoke
about our lives and lives remembered,
I'll remember in those walks
when I fully understood
that you're a blessing for the blessed,
truest blessing for the world,
I'll recall when life's good
how it too was good before:
you're a blessing--don't reply--
such a blessing to this world.
Prelude #5
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Prelude #9
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Prelude #10
The master gave up aphorisms
and wanted to write poetry like Hafiz
and so he wrote
"Vineyard
rows and spinal chords
millipede around Taiwan and a 'made
in Taiwan' sticker
protesting
a big gulp’s funeral service right before the stars go on their
meat frenzy again and Roseanne commands Chopin to
get off his ass and set up a 401K for a
triangle that is made
of these three
corners: Jefferson's pen tip that
signed the constitution, the tip
of Hitler's last bullet, and all
the times I considered phrenology
on my honeymoon so if Bill and Hillary
became grape-textured Romeo and Juliet or if
Saint Teresa of Avila and Hue Hefner
on their wedding Day
stab
a diglet together instead of their
wedding cake
and hear it squeal 'swive'
then Metatron's liver, a pocket-full of
AAA batteries, a corduroy meniscus,
and Pangaea can speak
in tongues or do a barber shop quartet and
Kevin Treadeau can
have a double blind date with the
Sapir-Worf
Hypothesis and a smidge of Fen-phen that
scrapes
rotisserie
infomercials
and
wives
polygamously
Ahab’s
leg and Cervantes' arm and Evander Holyfield's ear simultaneously
and
a
cross-eyed
Asian
Mona
Lisa
that
attended
the
Scope's
Monkey
trial
reenacted
by
chimpanzees
and attended Y2K
which
inspires
Wordsworth
and his gluttonous, capitalist cousin Wadsworth to wipe their asses
with the nerf-foam version of the aurora borealis until
a woman who threw a marble at Wikipedia hears
'love 15'
from
a planet mobile
where Venus is the Stanley cup, Jupiter is a refried bean
shot-putter, Saturn is an ab roller, and Earth is the super-majority of the mickey
mouse club re-arranging stone-henge
into
a cat's game
of tic-tac-toe
and hence realizes that he was one of
the two end-time
prophets
along with
either
Ronald Reagan's
elastic chopsticks or the Piltdown man
who pissed curry on his first date
(how embarrassing) that was
arranged by his foster-mother's
street sweeper's teletubbie memorabilia collection
agent
who plays golf with someone
who wrote “Telas: the female unmoved mover”
on Bugs Bunny's rabbit slippers
that he won one
time
for meditating drunk while reciting
the declaration
of independence in English which sounded like the Bhagavad-Gita to polish listeners
and to Swahili
listeners sounded like
a joke about how many
lightbulbs it took to screw themselves
into
Elvis reincarnated into a tarantula
who imagined the words
appearing in the sky
next to Muhammed’s (pbuh) face that read as
'God preached a false religion which taught that it is good to have faith
To see if people would fall for it, and if they fell for it
They would be sent to hell, like holy Jerome for example who is right now
translating things into vulgate within hell, while those who
thought that
this faith talk made no sense
were given eternally life and allowed to love God forever,
like Hume playing
billiards
and being
'unusually wake-minded'
in heaven' during
The intermission of a play where Game Genie
And the platonic form of potability perform the lead roles of
Prospero and Miranda in Dale Earnhardt’s play
but before whirling dervishes twirl
on the head of my loose screws to tighten them
and get too dizzy and
go with my left toaster slot into the past to
intervention meeting involving Du Fu
and the creator of 'Fubu'
but after a musical score's written by a tub half-filled with
sawdust blushes in front of everyone except Mussolini and Weebok salesmen and some women and another woman and Jenny Craig and is
frightened by the idea of
a pedestrian-stopping red hand being caught
Red-handed playing Parcheesi with
a Kuwait-shaped section of Michigan, Chan Ho Park, wind-scattered
audition flyers, RuPaul's bunion,
the demon that hid the dinosaur bones in the earth and
the wife of a guy who cried because he couldn't afford
sonic the hedgehog 2 for his son who on the night
of his sadness
had a dream that his wife left him only to
be found 2 weeks later
on a miniature golfing date with Sonic and
later on a second date watching
Dale Earnhardt’s new movie
where urim and thummim play Laurel and Hardy"
but then took up gardening once he heard that
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie
went on a double date with Brad Pitt's skeleton and Angelina Jolie's
skeleton because Aunt
Jemimah enslaved Betty Crocker and an avalanche doused a volcano and
the Great Vowel Shift is occurring in my cupboard and
a stool softener is neighbors to a shooting
star
and a guy who
thought about everything except
the
Wimbledon Classic died in a kennel with the
horror
of knowing there existed
at least one guy who would not date a woman unless
she let him call her "fatty flank" and wouldn't
play Texas hold 'em with the fanta girls-turned-men
if they wrote a novel about a woman
who lost her virginity and thought that the
only way that she could get it
back was is if she tattooed "virginity" onto
the small of her back and wouldn't discuss
Backgammon with Sylvia Brown if
she was sexually petitioned by Kant's chastity
and with the horror of knowing
that there was a guy who
said to his wife "lovey-dear,
there is me, you, and the relationship
between me and you, and I hate to admit it,
but I have been cheating on you with the
relationship, understand?--I am attracted
to our relationship instead of you, it is such
a darling . . ."
and
the horror of knowing a guy who looked
at his fiance and realized how
a
woman
resembles
her
father and
felt all of a sudden
like he was marrying
someone who has half a man
who then went to Vegas
to hear a butterfly howl interrupt a lobster chirp
and
watch Tony Benet play
the bassoon, koto, santoor and kazoo
all at the same time
and the horror of knowing that a woman used her
umblicial chord to lasso the
moon and reel it in because
no man would lasso it for her
since it is 4:45 December 22nd
in Berkeley California and
David is taking all
the spoiled food out of the fridge and Dani is
beautiful and I am still
stressed out about my Shakespeare final
and I wonder if my life can wend in any other way
except in the writing of
the words
"Vineyard rows and C# chords . . ."
and many many years later
I realized that it couldn't.
Prelude #11
The master also said, "I knew
a man once who God commanded to
commit suicide
so that he could become
His
son for all of eternity;
that night
the man drank so much water
that his brain dislodged
from his skull"
Prelude #12
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Mon mon, mon mon mon? Mon mon
mon mon mon mon mon mon
mon mon mon mom. Mon mon
mon mon mon mon mon mon,
mon mon! Mon mon mon mon mon mon
Mon mon mon. Mon mon
mon mon mon mon mon mon
mon; mon
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Mon mon mon. Mon mon mon mon mon mon mon
mon mon mon mon mon mon mon mon mon
mon mon mon mon and even
when we were the dawn.
Mon mon mon mon mon mon mon, mon mon?
Mon mon mon mon mon mon mon mon mon!
Prelude #21
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Prelude #4
When the sunlight skims you right
Your eyes flicker quick from
Innocence to omniscience,
When you loosen your hair,
It cascades with a color
Of fallen chestnut coarseness,
And you stand beautifully,
as a sustaining last note
Of violins in symphony
that expands while it ends
that hordes life as it dies,
that in ending survives
or seems sometimes to survive
You are lovely like a fountain
ever pouring forth its sound
even when there's none to listen,
though I listen, and its good,
more lovely than a river
That remembers all the ages
When it fathomed lands alone,
so remember that we walked
down the streets with soundless whisper
We laced fingers while we spoke
about our lives and lives remembered,
I'll remember in those walks
when I fully understood
that you're a blessing for the blessed,
truest blessing for the world,
I'll recall when life's good
how it too was good before:
you're a blessing--don't reply--
such a blessing to this world.
Prelude #5
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Prelude #10
The master gave up aphorisms
and wanted to write poetry like Hafiz
and so he wrote
"Vineyard
rows and spinal chords
millipede around Taiwan and a 'made
in Taiwan' sticker
protesting
a big gulp’s funeral service right before the stars go on their
meat frenzy again and Roseanne commands Chopin to
get off his ass and set up a 401K for a
triangle that is made
of these three
corners: Jefferson's pen tip that
signed the constitution, the tip
of Hitler's last bullet, and all
the times I considered phrenology
on my honeymoon so if Bill and Hillary
became grape-textured Romeo and Juliet or if
Saint Teresa of Avila and Hue Hefner
on their wedding Day
stab
a diglet together instead of their
wedding cake
and hear it squeal 'swive'
then Metatron's liver, a pocket-full of
AAA batteries, a corduroy meniscus,
and Pangaea can speak
in tongues or do a barber shop quartet and
Kevin Treadeau can
have a double blind date with the
Sapir-Worf
Hypothesis and a smidge of Fen-phen that
scrapes
rotisserie
infomercials
and
wives
polygamously
Ahab’s
leg and Cervantes' arm and Evander Holyfield's ear simultaneously
and
a
cross-eyed
Asian
Mona
Lisa
that
attended
the
Scope's
Monkey
trial
reenacted
by
chimpanzees
and attended Y2K
which
inspires
Wordsworth
and his gluttonous, capitalist cousin Wadsworth to wipe their asses
with the nerf-foam version of the aurora borealis until
a woman who threw a marble at Wikipedia hears
'love 15'
from
a planet mobile
where Venus is the Stanley cup, Jupiter is a refried bean
shot-putter, Saturn is an ab roller, and Earth is the super-majority of the mickey
mouse club re-arranging stone-henge
into
a cat's game
of tic-tac-toe
and hence realizes that he was one of
the two end-time
prophets
along with
either
Ronald Reagan's
elastic chopsticks or the Piltdown man
who pissed curry on his first date
(how embarrassing) that was
arranged by his foster-mother's
street sweeper's teletubbie memorabilia collection
agent
who plays golf with someone
who wrote “Telas: the female unmoved mover”
on Bugs Bunny's rabbit slippers
that he won one
time
for meditating drunk while reciting
the declaration
of independence in English which sounded like the Bhagavad-Gita to polish listeners
and to Swahili
listeners sounded like
a joke about how many
lightbulbs it took to screw themselves
into
Elvis reincarnated into a tarantula
who imagined the words
appearing in the sky
next to Muhammed’s (pbuh) face that read as
'God preached a false religion which taught that it is good to have faith
To see if people would fall for it, and if they fell for it
They would be sent to hell, like holy Jerome for example who is right now
translating things into vulgate within hell, while those who
thought that
this faith talk made no sense
were given eternally life and allowed to love God forever,
like Hume playing
billiards
and being
'unusually wake-minded'
in heaven' during
The intermission of a play where Game Genie
And the platonic form of potability perform the lead roles of
Prospero and Miranda in Dale Earnhardt’s play
but before whirling dervishes twirl
on the head of my loose screws to tighten them
and get too dizzy and
go with my left toaster slot into the past to
intervention meeting involving Du Fu
and the creator of 'Fubu'
but after a musical score's written by a tub half-filled with
sawdust blushes in front of everyone except Mussolini and Weebok salesmen and some women and another woman and Jenny Craig and is
frightened by the idea of
a pedestrian-stopping red hand being caught
Red-handed playing Parcheesi with
a Kuwait-shaped section of Michigan, Chan Ho Park, wind-scattered
audition flyers, RuPaul's bunion,
the demon that hid the dinosaur bones in the earth and
the wife of a guy who cried because he couldn't afford
sonic the hedgehog 2 for his son who on the night
of his sadness
had a dream that his wife left him only to
be found 2 weeks later
on a miniature golfing date with Sonic and
later on a second date watching
Dale Earnhardt’s new movie
where urim and thummim play Laurel and Hardy"
but then took up gardening once he heard that
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie
went on a double date with Brad Pitt's skeleton and Angelina Jolie's
skeleton because Aunt
Jemimah enslaved Betty Crocker and an avalanche doused a volcano and
the Great Vowel Shift is occurring in my cupboard and
a stool softener is neighbors to a shooting
star
and a guy who
thought about everything except
the
Wimbledon Classic died in a kennel with the
horror
of knowing there existed
at least one guy who would not date a woman unless
she let him call her "fatty flank" and wouldn't
play Texas hold 'em with the fanta girls-turned-men
if they wrote a novel about a woman
who lost her virginity and thought that the
only way that she could get it
back was is if she tattooed "virginity" onto
the small of her back and wouldn't discuss
Backgammon with Sylvia Brown if
she was sexually petitioned by Kant's chastity
and with the horror of knowing
that there was a guy who
said to his wife "lovey-dear,
there is me, you, and the relationship
between me and you, and I hate to admit it,
but I have been cheating on you with the
relationship, understand?--I am attracted
to our relationship instead of you, it is such
a darling . . ."
and
the horror of knowing a guy who looked
at his fiance and realized how
a
woman
resembles
her
father and
felt all of a sudden
like he was marrying
someone who has half a man
who then went to Vegas
to hear a butterfly howl interrupt a lobster chirp
and
watch Tony Benet play
the bassoon, koto, santoor and kazoo
all at the same time
and the horror of knowing that a woman used her
umblicial chord to lasso the
moon and reel it in because
no man would lasso it for her
since it is 4:45 December 22nd
in Berkeley California and
David is taking all
the spoiled food out of the fridge and Dani is
beautiful and I am still
stressed out about my Shakespeare final
and I wonder if my life can wend in any other way
except in the writing of
the words
"Vineyard rows and C# chords . . ."
and many many years later
I realized that it couldn't.
Prelude #11
The master also said, "I knew
a man once who God commanded to
commit suicide
so that he could become
His
son for all of eternity;
that night
the man drank so much water
that his brain dislodged
from his skull"
Prelude #12
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Mon mon, mon mon mon? Mon mon
mon mon mon mon mon mon
mon mon mon mom. Mon mon
mon mon mon mon mon mon,
mon mon! Mon mon mon mon mon mon
Mon mon mon. Mon mon
mon mon mon mon mon mon
mon; mon
mon mon mon mon mon mon mon mon
Mon mon mon. Mon mon mon mon mon mon mon
mon mon mon mon mon mon mon mon mon
mon mon mon mon and even
when we were the dawn.
Mon mon mon mon mon mon mon, mon mon?
Mon mon mon mon mon mon mon mon mon!
Prelude #21
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Friday, July 4, 2008
Koans
God seems to save us
from existential crisis,
but if God were first
He'd have no God
and thus be the first
to write ethic's verse.
*
All my poetry is a writ of
God or the death thereof
*
the end of a poem,
like a boy becoming man
and reincarnating
back into a boy,
is like its beginning.
*
What would it be, Brett,
if, as an act of performance art,
you deleted and burnt every
piece of artwork you have ever
made in either drawing, music,
or poetry? Would life be any different?
*
I stared into the vacancy of my white wall,
so much that it began to look like providence.
*
A clicking in my brain,
becomes master again--
and lets me exhale--
the breezes of zen,
horizon euphoria,
auroras of sea--
an unusual way
to end history.
from existential crisis,
but if God were first
He'd have no God
and thus be the first
to write ethic's verse.
*
All my poetry is a writ of
God or the death thereof
*
the end of a poem,
like a boy becoming man
and reincarnating
back into a boy,
is like its beginning.
*
What would it be, Brett,
if, as an act of performance art,
you deleted and burnt every
piece of artwork you have ever
made in either drawing, music,
or poetry? Would life be any different?
*
I stared into the vacancy of my white wall,
so much that it began to look like providence.
*
A clicking in my brain,
becomes master again--
and lets me exhale--
the breezes of zen,
horizon euphoria,
auroras of sea--
an unusual way
to end history.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Sonatas
I know I once heard summer gales
through night blow fields of sealong swales
where tides warmed deep with violet hue--
That is the night that I once knew.
The cliffs held brush that stretched a mile
and let the winds the brush defile
while seas rumbled with amber glow--
You walked those shores I used to know.
Your hair whirled out in strait-cut wind
While calm you watched the waves set in,
Your dress flailed round your unmoved legs
as waves slid back to leave their dregs.
I know this must have happened then--
But its your words I've forgotten!
I've lost those words you once did say
making all else I know go gray.
I'd rove the world but ne'er recall
Your talk I once thought was mere scrawl,
I'd hear hoarse winds through each new night
yet still your words not regrain quite,
You said something of greater shores,
greater than those of life before
And no amount of walking land
has brought me to those sacred sands,
You said that I could meet you there,
I forgot where, so unaware
of what the future had in store--
Now all I want is at that shore!
Blow those winds round me once more!
And stand there as you did before
And tell me all will be alright
though I squandered the boon of night,
Tell me that when the world resigns
it will take me along the brines
to trek through ages out of reach
to finally anchor on that beach
And say that when I see you there,
I'll give away all earthly care
and run to you and cherish you
and know the bliss that I once knew,
Oh Dame of Night! Do hear my plea
I see your form about to flee,
Oh please don't go! I'll never know
if you go now by winds that blow
Where I'm to be! But oh, you leave!
You fade to air! I'm left to grieve!
What is this world, what is this world,
to which I was consentless hurled?
I'll stalk its depths, late and alone,
estranged in what I once thought home,
I'll write out poems no one will read
to shout on peaks as tides recede,
The clouds won't come, all night is done,
the plants shrivel from brazen sun,
All wind will stop, all things shall broil,
the woodlands all the deserts spoil,
The skies blurr tan before my eyes,
as seas up to the sun do rise,
But I will not repeat your name,
But match this ending strong and tame!
I hate the winds through which you've blown!
I'll leave you now for gods unknown!
I loathe your stare to night above
with hate as stark as my past love!
The less and less I seem to know,
as I'm beneath the sun's last throe--
But still your hair and dress I see,
in whorls I view ever clearly.
Why have you here abondoned me?
Why did your words I never heed?
Where will I go after all this--
Can I still walk those shores of bliss?
I can make out in my last breath,
a light that seems larger than death:
Before that night where winds blew by,
By morning docks you blandly lied,
The mist opaqued the pier-glass sky,
your locks around your chest did lie,
the mist brushed o'er the slender wake
and through your dress of simple make,
Resting with me, almost asleep
Talking of pastures you did keep,
where friends would come while passing through--
those were the things that I once knew.
You fell asleep, your whole face still
your cheeks with daybreak's goodness filled,
Where does life go? Where does life go?
This is the thing I'm sure I know.
*
A Daemon sung through his barbed lips
To orioles in bloody lisps,
though they flew out as lyric swelled—
His lusts for them could not be quelled.
A Dame sat nigh, her thumb on lyre,
From practice soon she would expire,
As sky rolled coats of coarser gray
Till night plucked out the specs of day,
The daemon who the birds had snubbed,
Lied down in steppes to cry of love—
The Dame, then, with a pluck resigned
That whimm’d through air for him to find.
In white soft lace, she sat alone
While past the bluff the current droned,
She thumbed through Mathew, Luke, and John
And paused at times to make cat-yawns.
The Daemon perched on trees to peer
Where seemed the pluck’s epicenter,
so fast enflamed his soul with love
When woman yawns he heard thereof
The Dame flipped past a feeble page
—While his chest-engines spun with rage—
She mumbled prayers up towards the sky
So elegant, the poppies sighed.
When he had poised upon the tree
A few leaves fell unto a lea,
So quick he leapt into some wind
to lift those leaves with ruffling din
Once he possessed the common leaves
They turned scarlet and silver-rimmed
to lace the lyre’s silken strings
with melodies of Bach to weave
She looked aghast that wind could guess
Which strings would sing a song when stressed,
But quick this queer display she solved--
Its God who in those leaves had delved!
"Oh praise the Lord", the Dame had said,
while her lyre pure with Bach had bled,
"Life up his name" she bleated out,
not knowing jinn were there to tout,
The daemon was ecstatic then,
not by her love but by the name
she'd given him, for wasn't it
the Devil's wish to o'er God sit?
As pride replaced his lustful drive,
the Bach in variations thrived,
He raged with swift polyphony
in forms two hands would never weave,
She grew afraid from this violence,
and while the Daemon saw this fear
he was for his own glory bent
so had to to the lyre adhere,
She paced away, for she'd been sure
she just had heard Bach demonized--
She sensed the lunatic allure
of silken strings wet with hell's lies.
Did she, when mixing God and jinn,
Commit unpardonable sin?
She grieved this thought, though she forgot
Paul's blind blasphemes were forgiven,
As she recanted her past words,
the daemon all her regret heard,
and cried himself since now was done
the praise he had for moments won,
He fled out west to manless leas,
with no one's love, wisted, lonely,
and she fled east delirious
and thought her naming serious,
her prayer would not relieve her guilt,
and so the Dame with fear did wilt,
She'd stammer out Christ's wisdom when
exhorting friends to not make sin,
The daemon prayed to God above,
"I'll leave my pride for her true love",
and prayed he could take human flesh
to tell the Dame she need not thrash.
"Not at this time, but soon to come"
Our God did say to he below,
"Not in this age, or that to come"
the Dame read in the Bible slow,
She threw her Bible to the ground,
and wept with funereal despair,
and wanting words of peace profound,
she opened Heine and read this there:
"A single fir-tree, lonely,
On a northern mountain height,
Sleeps in a white blanket,
Draped in snow and ice.
His dreams are of a palm-tree,
Who, far in eastern lands,
Weeps, all alone and silent,
Among the burning sands."
She closed the book and said aloud,
"If God hates me, then thee I need,
my Demon muse, you leaf-full cloud
who harped to me, my lonely tree."
And then God knew the time was right,
to grant the jinn flesh tinted white
and take away his hellish mien
as to not scare away the Dame,
then he who had wept all alone
was reformed with a human tone,
and then he said, "I Praise to Lord
to let me the Dame's joy restore,"
And off he heard her forlorn calls,
wanting the Daemon's lyric thrall,
So quick he ran back to her place
lacking hell's hex, with a man's face.
He came to her and said, "just wait,
God still can change your final fate,
for how can you be held with blame,
when without knowledge you misnamed?"
She did not recognize this man,
"How do you know which gal I am?”
she said, and then he replied back,
"I am your jinn, hell's skin I lack,"
She did not trust this handsome man
and so she placed to lyre his hand,
and said, "replay the song you played,
when you were wind with ruffling blades”
He played again, but pure like Bach,
not crazed, but ordered as a clock,
and quick her hear enflamed with love,
a man below with tunes above!
She said in haste, "You music is
the only words that heaven says,
God's never played to my relief,
but in his silence made me grieve,
So why should I on him believe?"
The Devil knew that she was wrong,
but how she loved his human song!
Here was the love that he had longed!
Forgetting his plea for God’s good help,
he filled with love for this sweet belle,
She said again, "its only hell
that exists here, that lives in me,
my only heaven’s to know thee."
The daemon could not keep it in,
And kissed upon her all his sins,
but filled with guilt himself within,
And then she said, "My last blaspheme
was ignorant, but to know you
I'll curse this God I never knew,
My heart so fears that brand of sin
that would keep me from heaven's kin
but if this oath I dare recite
then can I fear its luck to pass
when chance and hap cannot harass?
Is not the possibility
that I would random speak those words
a much greater anxiety
then if those words are fain rehearsed?
I can no longer see difference
from thoughts I will and thoughts that pass,
these thoughts of fear and hate and guilt
are both unwilled and by me willed,
I no longer know who to name
myself, but I know that hell's name
I will assign to him above,
and exchange God for your sweet love!"
Despite the daemon's lust for her,
he could not let her cat-like purr
enunciate the blaspheme words
that were for him relaxed leisure,
he tried to stop her lunacy
but quick she set her grin to space,
attempting to exclaim aloud
the words that would let her soul waste,
but then she choked! Her own body
would not let her bleat out her bane,
or was it God who plugged her throat
to keep her from that brutal quote?
She was amazed, for this restraint
seemed not to come from her in fain,
and so just like her thoughts of hate
this muting leash felt of elsewhere,
and then God in the sky above
appeared to them who were in love,
and said, "vile daemon, you gave in
and kissed upon her all your sins
instead of not tempting her heart
to love your sin and craft sin's art"
But then he said, "But did you see
how when she was about to say
those words I tried to halt their sound?"
God fast replied, "go to your grounds!
those peaceless caverns go to now!
you choose before I made this world
to hate and never love a girl,
so there forever you belong!"
and then the Daemon and the Dame,
who both felt awful love and blame,
glanced at each other one more time,
before to hell he went again.
So what becomes of this good Dame,
now that her soul from hell was saved?
She'll never doubt the love of God
that saves her from her inane mind;
but once she's done with praise and laud,
she thinks on how things could have been:
If God had let her blaspheme Him,
and never showed His providence,
she would have wandered agonized
by one shrill question on her mind,
for what of God she ever felt
would, at her words, shrivel and melt,
and of this absence she would ask:
"Has heaven left because I taught
my subconscious how false is God
to save it from heaven's mirage,
or was it that God really was
there listening in skies above
and when he heard my final wish
decided to God's trace remove?"
Oh that question is hell enough,
God saved me from it with his love!
and still at times when God's asleep
she thinks of where that daemon is,
Weeping, lone and silently
Among the burning sands.
*
Your kiss, silent in its strength,
as a tendril pierces stone, reminds me
of my sojourn to my home I've never been to,
We kiss when the present arrives,
whose length is long enough
to thank God we're alive.
Lean longer on my shoulder
without tallying wilting moments,
look far into night woodlands
for when you're at my side
you're a friend who after vagrant years
revisits me by a fire-vital hearth,
too in love with life for words or mirth.
You're a lone desert traveler and you sail in the seas
for the rest at their end, where good life began.
God sing to you--night pen its verse to you--
hold my hand to walk somewhere . . .
I've heard that truth is there . . .
embrace my bankrupt soul and tell me
sin will flee life's scroll,
and pledge you'll rest your head on mine
that I might rest my head to yours.
Do not change as moments do,
let your arcane eyes endure,
Do not change your lovely face,
let it ebb with naturalness--
do not let this moment pass,
though it passes, and has passed,
and all the willows say "amen",
the birds flap, "a--", the sky gleams "--men."
and so its when I kiss your cheek
and feel your face skim mine,
that all the willows tickle the air
and all the birds dissolve in skyline,
and if this life is good to you
or if this life is poor to you
or if all life's in love with you,
then hear my kiss and hold my face,
and if the Lord framed heaven fair
or if he forms man self-aware,
then be aware of what's in this,
this moment 's gone and here's my kiss.
I've ne'er seen one moment that stays,
yet it I'll seek while dies my days,
and if it's permanence comes, let it remain!
and hope were kissing at its pause,
but till that time of tireless bliss
this moment 's fled and here 's my kiss.
We think if we don't feel time's pulse,
the reddened sands of an hour glass
will climb back up,
But gravity 's cruel company, a sobering pressure
that pushes horizontally to future's door,
and if it were to reverse its force
then each time-slide would still pass by,
and I'd try to hold to each past kiss
as time stuffed me back into the womb.
We think if we dissemble time's abacus,
and disperse our minds to food or rhyme,
then time will not find end this time,
that time 'll suspend its stoical cadence,
But let us wear wisdom in time,
and cough with willows mellow tones
and warble as birds, and leer like wind--
so transient be earthbound bliss,
and so this moment: a sigh, a kiss.
At each moment, I can kiss just once,
so if life 's moments were all one moment
my kiss could only be yours,
and would be the world's wine stain forever.
and green tides, how green tides torque to gray tides,
still the jealous sun abides--
and then your arcane smile arrives,
let's not obey what is in this,
what are moments? but here's a kiss.
Who made tame earth? Who measured
out its boundless sky? If it be boundless
then why not a kiss,
If God made God then what's amiss?
Who fashioned the firmament, who
crisped the seas with cob-webbed sun rays,
Who devised kisses? why mouths? why words?
Why woman? And still time spurns my spurless soul.
Which realm reclaims my soul at sleep?
Sure: savior sleep, if dreams can dream
of anything, then can't I dream eternity?
dreams are still the experience of life,
so dreamed eternity must be real eternity,
and so wont I dream of your kiss
and never leave the length of bliss?
But then dreams fail, you wake to life
to suckle all of it you can--
as wall street falls to foolish debt--
Trillion for bail bond, but trillion'd
kisses as well, so what's still amiss?
A sigh, at sight some end, the kiss.
Did I give license to God to create me?
But if God asked, I'd deny my own abortion:
Full Life! Glare of Goodness! Vehement force!
Towered Truth! And so let me ill-place sorrow,
and fight for life with words and fists,
and gain the strength within your kiss,
and if God asks me years from now,
where I first saw my unknown home,
that place I'd been too long before,
I'd say September, northward coasts,
I'd say how well you nursed my soul
and how you wrote the poems I wrote,
I'd talk of 20 and 22
and how those ages are of the blessed,
I'd talk of 21 years of life
and all my friends, and love's ached strife,
and then I'd say what 's all of this,
that life was good, just like a kiss.
But until God revives the meek
or ends the 7th day of his week,
and fufills pastures of timeless bliss:
this moment's here so here's my kiss.
through night blow fields of sealong swales
where tides warmed deep with violet hue--
That is the night that I once knew.
The cliffs held brush that stretched a mile
and let the winds the brush defile
while seas rumbled with amber glow--
You walked those shores I used to know.
Your hair whirled out in strait-cut wind
While calm you watched the waves set in,
Your dress flailed round your unmoved legs
as waves slid back to leave their dregs.
I know this must have happened then--
But its your words I've forgotten!
I've lost those words you once did say
making all else I know go gray.
I'd rove the world but ne'er recall
Your talk I once thought was mere scrawl,
I'd hear hoarse winds through each new night
yet still your words not regrain quite,
You said something of greater shores,
greater than those of life before
And no amount of walking land
has brought me to those sacred sands,
You said that I could meet you there,
I forgot where, so unaware
of what the future had in store--
Now all I want is at that shore!
Blow those winds round me once more!
And stand there as you did before
And tell me all will be alright
though I squandered the boon of night,
Tell me that when the world resigns
it will take me along the brines
to trek through ages out of reach
to finally anchor on that beach
And say that when I see you there,
I'll give away all earthly care
and run to you and cherish you
and know the bliss that I once knew,
Oh Dame of Night! Do hear my plea
I see your form about to flee,
Oh please don't go! I'll never know
if you go now by winds that blow
Where I'm to be! But oh, you leave!
You fade to air! I'm left to grieve!
What is this world, what is this world,
to which I was consentless hurled?
I'll stalk its depths, late and alone,
estranged in what I once thought home,
I'll write out poems no one will read
to shout on peaks as tides recede,
The clouds won't come, all night is done,
the plants shrivel from brazen sun,
All wind will stop, all things shall broil,
the woodlands all the deserts spoil,
The skies blurr tan before my eyes,
as seas up to the sun do rise,
But I will not repeat your name,
But match this ending strong and tame!
I hate the winds through which you've blown!
I'll leave you now for gods unknown!
I loathe your stare to night above
with hate as stark as my past love!
The less and less I seem to know,
as I'm beneath the sun's last throe--
But still your hair and dress I see,
in whorls I view ever clearly.
Why have you here abondoned me?
Why did your words I never heed?
Where will I go after all this--
Can I still walk those shores of bliss?
I can make out in my last breath,
a light that seems larger than death:
Before that night where winds blew by,
By morning docks you blandly lied,
The mist opaqued the pier-glass sky,
your locks around your chest did lie,
the mist brushed o'er the slender wake
and through your dress of simple make,
Resting with me, almost asleep
Talking of pastures you did keep,
where friends would come while passing through--
those were the things that I once knew.
You fell asleep, your whole face still
your cheeks with daybreak's goodness filled,
Where does life go? Where does life go?
This is the thing I'm sure I know.
*
A Daemon sung through his barbed lips
To orioles in bloody lisps,
though they flew out as lyric swelled—
His lusts for them could not be quelled.
A Dame sat nigh, her thumb on lyre,
From practice soon she would expire,
As sky rolled coats of coarser gray
Till night plucked out the specs of day,
The daemon who the birds had snubbed,
Lied down in steppes to cry of love—
The Dame, then, with a pluck resigned
That whimm’d through air for him to find.
In white soft lace, she sat alone
While past the bluff the current droned,
She thumbed through Mathew, Luke, and John
And paused at times to make cat-yawns.
The Daemon perched on trees to peer
Where seemed the pluck’s epicenter,
so fast enflamed his soul with love
When woman yawns he heard thereof
The Dame flipped past a feeble page
—While his chest-engines spun with rage—
She mumbled prayers up towards the sky
So elegant, the poppies sighed.
When he had poised upon the tree
A few leaves fell unto a lea,
So quick he leapt into some wind
to lift those leaves with ruffling din
Once he possessed the common leaves
They turned scarlet and silver-rimmed
to lace the lyre’s silken strings
with melodies of Bach to weave
She looked aghast that wind could guess
Which strings would sing a song when stressed,
But quick this queer display she solved--
Its God who in those leaves had delved!
"Oh praise the Lord", the Dame had said,
while her lyre pure with Bach had bled,
"Life up his name" she bleated out,
not knowing jinn were there to tout,
The daemon was ecstatic then,
not by her love but by the name
she'd given him, for wasn't it
the Devil's wish to o'er God sit?
As pride replaced his lustful drive,
the Bach in variations thrived,
He raged with swift polyphony
in forms two hands would never weave,
She grew afraid from this violence,
and while the Daemon saw this fear
he was for his own glory bent
so had to to the lyre adhere,
She paced away, for she'd been sure
she just had heard Bach demonized--
She sensed the lunatic allure
of silken strings wet with hell's lies.
Did she, when mixing God and jinn,
Commit unpardonable sin?
She grieved this thought, though she forgot
Paul's blind blasphemes were forgiven,
As she recanted her past words,
the daemon all her regret heard,
and cried himself since now was done
the praise he had for moments won,
He fled out west to manless leas,
with no one's love, wisted, lonely,
and she fled east delirious
and thought her naming serious,
her prayer would not relieve her guilt,
and so the Dame with fear did wilt,
She'd stammer out Christ's wisdom when
exhorting friends to not make sin,
The daemon prayed to God above,
"I'll leave my pride for her true love",
and prayed he could take human flesh
to tell the Dame she need not thrash.
"Not at this time, but soon to come"
Our God did say to he below,
"Not in this age, or that to come"
the Dame read in the Bible slow,
She threw her Bible to the ground,
and wept with funereal despair,
and wanting words of peace profound,
she opened Heine and read this there:
"A single fir-tree, lonely,
On a northern mountain height,
Sleeps in a white blanket,
Draped in snow and ice.
His dreams are of a palm-tree,
Who, far in eastern lands,
Weeps, all alone and silent,
Among the burning sands."
She closed the book and said aloud,
"If God hates me, then thee I need,
my Demon muse, you leaf-full cloud
who harped to me, my lonely tree."
And then God knew the time was right,
to grant the jinn flesh tinted white
and take away his hellish mien
as to not scare away the Dame,
then he who had wept all alone
was reformed with a human tone,
and then he said, "I Praise to Lord
to let me the Dame's joy restore,"
And off he heard her forlorn calls,
wanting the Daemon's lyric thrall,
So quick he ran back to her place
lacking hell's hex, with a man's face.
He came to her and said, "just wait,
God still can change your final fate,
for how can you be held with blame,
when without knowledge you misnamed?"
She did not recognize this man,
"How do you know which gal I am?”
she said, and then he replied back,
"I am your jinn, hell's skin I lack,"
She did not trust this handsome man
and so she placed to lyre his hand,
and said, "replay the song you played,
when you were wind with ruffling blades”
He played again, but pure like Bach,
not crazed, but ordered as a clock,
and quick her hear enflamed with love,
a man below with tunes above!
She said in haste, "You music is
the only words that heaven says,
God's never played to my relief,
but in his silence made me grieve,
So why should I on him believe?"
The Devil knew that she was wrong,
but how she loved his human song!
Here was the love that he had longed!
Forgetting his plea for God’s good help,
he filled with love for this sweet belle,
She said again, "its only hell
that exists here, that lives in me,
my only heaven’s to know thee."
The daemon could not keep it in,
And kissed upon her all his sins,
but filled with guilt himself within,
And then she said, "My last blaspheme
was ignorant, but to know you
I'll curse this God I never knew,
My heart so fears that brand of sin
that would keep me from heaven's kin
but if this oath I dare recite
then can I fear its luck to pass
when chance and hap cannot harass?
Is not the possibility
that I would random speak those words
a much greater anxiety
then if those words are fain rehearsed?
I can no longer see difference
from thoughts I will and thoughts that pass,
these thoughts of fear and hate and guilt
are both unwilled and by me willed,
I no longer know who to name
myself, but I know that hell's name
I will assign to him above,
and exchange God for your sweet love!"
Despite the daemon's lust for her,
he could not let her cat-like purr
enunciate the blaspheme words
that were for him relaxed leisure,
he tried to stop her lunacy
but quick she set her grin to space,
attempting to exclaim aloud
the words that would let her soul waste,
but then she choked! Her own body
would not let her bleat out her bane,
or was it God who plugged her throat
to keep her from that brutal quote?
She was amazed, for this restraint
seemed not to come from her in fain,
and so just like her thoughts of hate
this muting leash felt of elsewhere,
and then God in the sky above
appeared to them who were in love,
and said, "vile daemon, you gave in
and kissed upon her all your sins
instead of not tempting her heart
to love your sin and craft sin's art"
But then he said, "But did you see
how when she was about to say
those words I tried to halt their sound?"
God fast replied, "go to your grounds!
those peaceless caverns go to now!
you choose before I made this world
to hate and never love a girl,
so there forever you belong!"
and then the Daemon and the Dame,
who both felt awful love and blame,
glanced at each other one more time,
before to hell he went again.
So what becomes of this good Dame,
now that her soul from hell was saved?
She'll never doubt the love of God
that saves her from her inane mind;
but once she's done with praise and laud,
she thinks on how things could have been:
If God had let her blaspheme Him,
and never showed His providence,
she would have wandered agonized
by one shrill question on her mind,
for what of God she ever felt
would, at her words, shrivel and melt,
and of this absence she would ask:
"Has heaven left because I taught
my subconscious how false is God
to save it from heaven's mirage,
or was it that God really was
there listening in skies above
and when he heard my final wish
decided to God's trace remove?"
Oh that question is hell enough,
God saved me from it with his love!
and still at times when God's asleep
she thinks of where that daemon is,
Weeping, lone and silently
Among the burning sands.
*
Your kiss, silent in its strength,
as a tendril pierces stone, reminds me
of my sojourn to my home I've never been to,
We kiss when the present arrives,
whose length is long enough
to thank God we're alive.
Lean longer on my shoulder
without tallying wilting moments,
look far into night woodlands
for when you're at my side
you're a friend who after vagrant years
revisits me by a fire-vital hearth,
too in love with life for words or mirth.
You're a lone desert traveler and you sail in the seas
for the rest at their end, where good life began.
God sing to you--night pen its verse to you--
hold my hand to walk somewhere . . .
I've heard that truth is there . . .
embrace my bankrupt soul and tell me
sin will flee life's scroll,
and pledge you'll rest your head on mine
that I might rest my head to yours.
Do not change as moments do,
let your arcane eyes endure,
Do not change your lovely face,
let it ebb with naturalness--
do not let this moment pass,
though it passes, and has passed,
and all the willows say "amen",
the birds flap, "a--", the sky gleams "--men."
and so its when I kiss your cheek
and feel your face skim mine,
that all the willows tickle the air
and all the birds dissolve in skyline,
and if this life is good to you
or if this life is poor to you
or if all life's in love with you,
then hear my kiss and hold my face,
and if the Lord framed heaven fair
or if he forms man self-aware,
then be aware of what's in this,
this moment 's gone and here's my kiss.
I've ne'er seen one moment that stays,
yet it I'll seek while dies my days,
and if it's permanence comes, let it remain!
and hope were kissing at its pause,
but till that time of tireless bliss
this moment 's fled and here 's my kiss.
We think if we don't feel time's pulse,
the reddened sands of an hour glass
will climb back up,
But gravity 's cruel company, a sobering pressure
that pushes horizontally to future's door,
and if it were to reverse its force
then each time-slide would still pass by,
and I'd try to hold to each past kiss
as time stuffed me back into the womb.
We think if we dissemble time's abacus,
and disperse our minds to food or rhyme,
then time will not find end this time,
that time 'll suspend its stoical cadence,
But let us wear wisdom in time,
and cough with willows mellow tones
and warble as birds, and leer like wind--
so transient be earthbound bliss,
and so this moment: a sigh, a kiss.
At each moment, I can kiss just once,
so if life 's moments were all one moment
my kiss could only be yours,
and would be the world's wine stain forever.
and green tides, how green tides torque to gray tides,
still the jealous sun abides--
and then your arcane smile arrives,
let's not obey what is in this,
what are moments? but here's a kiss.
Who made tame earth? Who measured
out its boundless sky? If it be boundless
then why not a kiss,
If God made God then what's amiss?
Who fashioned the firmament, who
crisped the seas with cob-webbed sun rays,
Who devised kisses? why mouths? why words?
Why woman? And still time spurns my spurless soul.
Which realm reclaims my soul at sleep?
Sure: savior sleep, if dreams can dream
of anything, then can't I dream eternity?
dreams are still the experience of life,
so dreamed eternity must be real eternity,
and so wont I dream of your kiss
and never leave the length of bliss?
But then dreams fail, you wake to life
to suckle all of it you can--
as wall street falls to foolish debt--
Trillion for bail bond, but trillion'd
kisses as well, so what's still amiss?
A sigh, at sight some end, the kiss.
Did I give license to God to create me?
But if God asked, I'd deny my own abortion:
Full Life! Glare of Goodness! Vehement force!
Towered Truth! And so let me ill-place sorrow,
and fight for life with words and fists,
and gain the strength within your kiss,
and if God asks me years from now,
where I first saw my unknown home,
that place I'd been too long before,
I'd say September, northward coasts,
I'd say how well you nursed my soul
and how you wrote the poems I wrote,
I'd talk of 20 and 22
and how those ages are of the blessed,
I'd talk of 21 years of life
and all my friends, and love's ached strife,
and then I'd say what 's all of this,
that life was good, just like a kiss.
But until God revives the meek
or ends the 7th day of his week,
and fufills pastures of timeless bliss:
this moment's here so here's my kiss.
Nocturnes
*
I thought Orion swiftly would the lunge of Taurus end
and that Orion's soul this hunt's suspense would hast'ly rend,
yet his anxiety the static stars ever suspend
to broadcast angst to all below who forage, feed, and fend,
And who were these stars' namers that their names I should prefer?
I could retrace Taurus, Artemis, and Orion, her wooer
and thus make love the drama that the stars would always stir--
though amour's incompleteness then would evermore endure.
It seems that God has fashioned us unlike the stagnant stars
whose movements are unfit to script this flux-full life of ours,
so man, instead inscribe the clouds with our dynamic plight
since on their shapes dread forms to joy by sublunary sight,
And yet Those clouds shall ever tell of life's capricious weather,
for clouds cannot choose whether they'd seek lover or seek leather.
Good Lord! I pray star-ward to you: please clear this cloudy variance,
let shine Your Good and e'er emit the joy of peaceful permanence.
*
The sickly song of crackling fire,
in chorus sung on leaves afire,
does wax throughout the wilderness,
yet's only half of my desire.
The calming taps of tearful rains,
that winds do blow to dousing strains--
my sorrow's strife is double more,
yet can't cover my fiery gains.
*
Your sleeping eyes can't see your sleeping eyes
nor how soft sleep carves slightness in your smile.
Your dream-drunk mind knows not the sun's slow rise
nor when your breathe descends amidst its while.
These sights are mine to bear, though they're your life
and prove life there. This view is only mine
although it shows how all could end all strife,
Thus as your soul drinks up a dreamer's wine
I'll note your image in my sleepless eyes
with words: your fragile breath and fragile smile
are of an angel's caught in timeless skies,
Rapt by God's love, e'er freed from stress or trial.
So now see all I see that you can't see,
that you see God in ways unseen by me.
*
Leaves fall along with the autumn rainfall
to furnish the floor that the winds calmly travel,
Those winds that dully wore the dead stars during spring
But returned to the earth to the stars' silence bring,
And the doves in bark burrow, with their still, beady eyes
That God had furnished stiff to not show woeful sighs,
and the worms God had formed without minds to discern
Flail dumb in the cold while its skin cladless burns,
But my eyes show my pain, though there's no one to show,
and thoughts crawl through my brain to brood o'er natural woe,
God before forged me thus, so after autumn cold,
Spring cannot clean the stain left from autumns of old.
*
What grazes my hand when I grasp in the wind
But the breathe of old poets reciting their verse
And the ashes of their audience who had listened close,
Or the commands of dead generals who cindered out cities
Whose soot would join up with its enemy’s charge?
Its not hard to see why the wind sweeps with a howl,
When there’s naught but death’s potpourri lodged in its jowl.
As it howls, it asks me what I’ll place in its groan
To send out with this dust for the future to own.
And this one thing I say to inheritors of wind:
You’ll be cities of poets, and generals, who’ll listen
To this gust that had once given me all its wisdom,
And like me, you’ll ignore all its modest instruction
And disperse in the wind some new poetry of destruction.
*
The edge trimmer through a clement meadow mows
And lays soft-pedaled flowers down in dying rows,
Out-doing natural death in lethal brevity—
Death so usurped wins liberal time to dote o'er me,
And so I sleep my last for come the morrow’s morn
Bored Death will cut me like those blooms another strewn forlorn,
And cut me soon enough so that my casket may be tress’d,
With those late flowers neatly bundled, blissful, youthful, lifeless.
I know my nightlong sleep is such a cheap accessory
To death who will much longer make my poor mind thoughtless be
I nonetheless to mindless plains decide to shortly luff—
Though eternity, eternity, eternity’s enough.
But amid my sleep God in my mind a passion’d vision sewed
Where he removed me from a field of flowers all death-row’d,
And said I would see goodness joy, and joy in His goodness,
And soon this world where evil’s joy He would in full redress
I woke and quickly peeked outside—the flowers did regrow!
I knew that, though it did not seem, goodness as joy I’d know,
And what a cheap addition was my praise that death had bluffed—
Eternity, eternity, eternity's enough.
*
Clustered Peaches dried from summer's sharpening thaw
erupt, when pressed, with inner-ale tricking raw,
But yours lie clean against the basket's rounded rim
With spicy nectar still inside to wring from them,
A canyon's heat can cause a shrill delirium
that fevers plants to curl in weaves of dulcet trim,
contorted thus your red sienna hair lays down
and in the peaches' crevices sweeps all around,
Your eyes cast out a flame-froze presence deeply spliced,
like cool agate with fiery patterns on its slice,
they dimly tell a history of speechless stones,
shaped in the sea, in caverns hid, or left alone,
Then as you shift your eyes away and trail off,
your broad saunter rolls left to right, slowly and soft,
leaving to loiter fragrant strains of hyacinth,
the fading hint left to evoke your lovely width.
Your ruby lustre was not made for this tame earth,
but just to glide its plains resigned from human whirr,
To light its hearths, to pry the shadows from the land,
To dry up brooks, to sprint sunward from umber's span,
But flesh-contained you fill to brim unnat'rally
with nat'ral vim your breasts and hips soak inwardly,
You plump atune with oranges set to fill their rind,
so harvest come give me your peeling to unwind.
*
Side-winding sands, run the path of the wind,
Only think with the thoughts that align with its whim,
Sweep the flats, carve the seas, though your thirst never ends—
Fall asleep once the wind lacks the force that it lends.
Fleeting dust, though I came from your tones long ago,
I still slide as you do, only by windy throe:
Once we’re woke from the ground, dim instincts pick our way
Till they rust, dully rust, all our fierceness away.
Fleeting dirt, ribbon'd dirt, weave the blades o'er the lea
See them lie while you pierce through the sky tapestry,
they lie calm though you shall never share in their rest
and disperse, demon-tide, through the lands you must press.
Fleeting Days! and each one is used up wanting things,
an absurd cavalcade of unending yearnings--
And the floral pavilion this parade soon leads to
Burns away as you rub your coarse blur on its roof.
Cycle through, cycle through, through this life once brand-new. .
We met once when I cried to the god of the dunes—
And we'll meet there again—from God’s wind left inhumed.
I thought Orion swiftly would the lunge of Taurus end
and that Orion's soul this hunt's suspense would hast'ly rend,
yet his anxiety the static stars ever suspend
to broadcast angst to all below who forage, feed, and fend,
And who were these stars' namers that their names I should prefer?
I could retrace Taurus, Artemis, and Orion, her wooer
and thus make love the drama that the stars would always stir--
though amour's incompleteness then would evermore endure.
It seems that God has fashioned us unlike the stagnant stars
whose movements are unfit to script this flux-full life of ours,
so man, instead inscribe the clouds with our dynamic plight
since on their shapes dread forms to joy by sublunary sight,
And yet Those clouds shall ever tell of life's capricious weather,
for clouds cannot choose whether they'd seek lover or seek leather.
Good Lord! I pray star-ward to you: please clear this cloudy variance,
let shine Your Good and e'er emit the joy of peaceful permanence.
*
The sickly song of crackling fire,
in chorus sung on leaves afire,
does wax throughout the wilderness,
yet's only half of my desire.
The calming taps of tearful rains,
that winds do blow to dousing strains--
my sorrow's strife is double more,
yet can't cover my fiery gains.
*
Your sleeping eyes can't see your sleeping eyes
nor how soft sleep carves slightness in your smile.
Your dream-drunk mind knows not the sun's slow rise
nor when your breathe descends amidst its while.
These sights are mine to bear, though they're your life
and prove life there. This view is only mine
although it shows how all could end all strife,
Thus as your soul drinks up a dreamer's wine
I'll note your image in my sleepless eyes
with words: your fragile breath and fragile smile
are of an angel's caught in timeless skies,
Rapt by God's love, e'er freed from stress or trial.
So now see all I see that you can't see,
that you see God in ways unseen by me.
*
Leaves fall along with the autumn rainfall
to furnish the floor that the winds calmly travel,
Those winds that dully wore the dead stars during spring
But returned to the earth to the stars' silence bring,
And the doves in bark burrow, with their still, beady eyes
That God had furnished stiff to not show woeful sighs,
and the worms God had formed without minds to discern
Flail dumb in the cold while its skin cladless burns,
But my eyes show my pain, though there's no one to show,
and thoughts crawl through my brain to brood o'er natural woe,
God before forged me thus, so after autumn cold,
Spring cannot clean the stain left from autumns of old.
*
What grazes my hand when I grasp in the wind
But the breathe of old poets reciting their verse
And the ashes of their audience who had listened close,
Or the commands of dead generals who cindered out cities
Whose soot would join up with its enemy’s charge?
Its not hard to see why the wind sweeps with a howl,
When there’s naught but death’s potpourri lodged in its jowl.
As it howls, it asks me what I’ll place in its groan
To send out with this dust for the future to own.
And this one thing I say to inheritors of wind:
You’ll be cities of poets, and generals, who’ll listen
To this gust that had once given me all its wisdom,
And like me, you’ll ignore all its modest instruction
And disperse in the wind some new poetry of destruction.
*
The edge trimmer through a clement meadow mows
And lays soft-pedaled flowers down in dying rows,
Out-doing natural death in lethal brevity—
Death so usurped wins liberal time to dote o'er me,
And so I sleep my last for come the morrow’s morn
Bored Death will cut me like those blooms another strewn forlorn,
And cut me soon enough so that my casket may be tress’d,
With those late flowers neatly bundled, blissful, youthful, lifeless.
I know my nightlong sleep is such a cheap accessory
To death who will much longer make my poor mind thoughtless be
I nonetheless to mindless plains decide to shortly luff—
Though eternity, eternity, eternity’s enough.
But amid my sleep God in my mind a passion’d vision sewed
Where he removed me from a field of flowers all death-row’d,
And said I would see goodness joy, and joy in His goodness,
And soon this world where evil’s joy He would in full redress
I woke and quickly peeked outside—the flowers did regrow!
I knew that, though it did not seem, goodness as joy I’d know,
And what a cheap addition was my praise that death had bluffed—
Eternity, eternity, eternity's enough.
*
Clustered Peaches dried from summer's sharpening thaw
erupt, when pressed, with inner-ale tricking raw,
But yours lie clean against the basket's rounded rim
With spicy nectar still inside to wring from them,
A canyon's heat can cause a shrill delirium
that fevers plants to curl in weaves of dulcet trim,
contorted thus your red sienna hair lays down
and in the peaches' crevices sweeps all around,
Your eyes cast out a flame-froze presence deeply spliced,
like cool agate with fiery patterns on its slice,
they dimly tell a history of speechless stones,
shaped in the sea, in caverns hid, or left alone,
Then as you shift your eyes away and trail off,
your broad saunter rolls left to right, slowly and soft,
leaving to loiter fragrant strains of hyacinth,
the fading hint left to evoke your lovely width.
Your ruby lustre was not made for this tame earth,
but just to glide its plains resigned from human whirr,
To light its hearths, to pry the shadows from the land,
To dry up brooks, to sprint sunward from umber's span,
But flesh-contained you fill to brim unnat'rally
with nat'ral vim your breasts and hips soak inwardly,
You plump atune with oranges set to fill their rind,
so harvest come give me your peeling to unwind.
*
Side-winding sands, run the path of the wind,
Only think with the thoughts that align with its whim,
Sweep the flats, carve the seas, though your thirst never ends—
Fall asleep once the wind lacks the force that it lends.
Fleeting dust, though I came from your tones long ago,
I still slide as you do, only by windy throe:
Once we’re woke from the ground, dim instincts pick our way
Till they rust, dully rust, all our fierceness away.
Fleeting dirt, ribbon'd dirt, weave the blades o'er the lea
See them lie while you pierce through the sky tapestry,
they lie calm though you shall never share in their rest
and disperse, demon-tide, through the lands you must press.
Fleeting Days! and each one is used up wanting things,
an absurd cavalcade of unending yearnings--
And the floral pavilion this parade soon leads to
Burns away as you rub your coarse blur on its roof.
Cycle through, cycle through, through this life once brand-new. .
We met once when I cried to the god of the dunes—
And we'll meet there again—from God’s wind left inhumed.
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About Me
- Alexander
- “Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense.”
--Buddha