Poetry

A Collection of My Best Poetry

2009-02-06T14:46:00.000-08:00

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--
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 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,
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: 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.

Meditation in Seasons

2008-10-25T17:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Scherzos

2008-07-30T10:03:00.000-07:00

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

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.

Preludes, Book II

2008-07-12T23:59:00.001-07:00

Prelude #1

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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!

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Koans

2008-07-04T13:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Sonatas

2008-06-14T01:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Nocturnes

2008-06-14T00:22:00.000-07:00

*
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.

Canticles of Ecstacy

2008-06-14T00:21:00.001-07:00

Abstract: Assorted Hymns appropriate for any religious occasion
highlighting the dynamic faith process: Our God is just, yea,
our God overcomes the wiles of sin and the heathen. Our God
had visited us once and now he looks elsewhere for vocation.

*

Breeze, come by just one more time,
And bring my friends who are bygone,
Give me my sin and God’s pure Grace
And let all view the light rain dawn,

For you’ll soon leave as fast you came,
And puddles will fill up my name,
Friends will leave to a fading place—
Oh where did I God’s Love misplace?

*

I've watched you always from afar
please hold your hands to me,
There are so many places you could have gone
But they are too beautiful for you to see,
There were fervent visions you could have known
Its not time to think of those but time to go,

From future shores I watched your steps,
your amorous raptures without fleshly fulfillment
dreadfully free from love but not free to express it,
and now the puddles of your sorrows dry thin,
But now’s not time to remember your sin

Where souls like cotton candy dust away, I saw
you bask in your own evil's excitement,
guilty of all your attempts for fleshy enjoyment,
and to God's Mercy you'd then dishonorably pray,
But don't dote on things that soon taper away

Where angel's eyes roll back silently, I saw
you cower before God in your wicked delight,
But hell's eternal visions also burned in you bright,
Visions of molten shackles, suffocation, and decay
But none of that matters for that all dies away

Where butterflies dissipate to mellow ink, I saw
Reason destroy your beloved image of God,
how you triumphantly wept when you saw the facade,
I saw you ever exiled from God's perfect Grace
I've always watched you, but to love is not my place,

You friends exist and subsist in your memories,
as you exist and subsist in their thoughts,
but soon all of life and memory will be gone,
and thus all will doubly extinguish from reality's purview,
though all those you wronged and your guilt from those wrongs,
will wax strongly as that last things in your mind' s review,

whether there is someone with you in that last hour
will not lighten the deeper loneliness of inward meditation,
And then you shall finally acknowledge my power
Greater than any that you gave to God in your visions

As the things around you, your family and friends,
in the bellows on lung cinder to nothingness,
Finally and permanently, naught shall survive, save one thing,
all will die out, profoundly and loud, though one thing shall sing:
Naught shall go on, All things shall fall,
Naught shall go on expect sounds of this song.

*

The shadows shift o’er flower beds
Margined with marble palisades,
The blooms wait there with pedals bare
As each is passed by smoothing shade

A rindle trickles lightly past
That can’t the meadow’s length outlast—
The sun lifts it as it nears end—
The place where flower beds you tend.

Follow that rindle up its path
As its gains girth and depth and grace
I’m there taking a river bath
Though other lands my closed eyes face,

Those lands where mountainous divides
Are swept as God o’er their plains glides
as his dry winds empty to sea—
That is the place I wish to be.

Won’t you join me to venture there?
You only need to leave your baskets
There amidst the flower fields,
You only need to hold my hand

As we cross through old miles of land.
I thought you’d like to travel there,
For I saw once in your eyes’ stare
All that was right with this world here.

But I know you have your things to do,
So I’ll wait here till your work is through.

*

The sun’s swelter through slits of leaves
dots veldts grown tall in memories.
lilac, lily, limber daisy,
deft larkspur through lithe daffodil

I chase you down the meadow wide
as we sprint long and late uphill.
When out of breathe we lie beneath
The grass and flowers high,

I lift your dress amid the swales
And kiss you roughly on the thigh.
We sleep till sky purples then blacks,
While night covers all shadows’ tracks.

Surprised by the windy cold we wake
The sky too dark to know the hour.
The soundless summit we rise to take,
Through paths of weeds and sparser flowers.

Atop, though none could hear our voice,
We sat silent by our own choice—
But all could have been said right there!
All we had to do is ’round us peer

To the goodness of life that God gave us,
But we looked past it unaware!
Wherever you’re now I can only trust
That you know this too, and for God you lust.

*

I dreamt of a lass—who then dreamt of me,
And we sat on some planks above a fast stream,
Leaning close, watching wordless the water run past
whose surface from sun’s warmth was blissfully glassed,

The trees far away volleyed silence that went stray
One could see past their leaves darkness hid from the day
And we smiled looking down knowing all was what it seemed:
Ages carved old the hills quick in moments—in her dream.

But in mine—as we sat with the sun with same warmth
And we thought through the ages we’d always sit there hearth’d
God arose from the hills while all else warped away
In her place sat Hafiz who my scared soul allayed

Then we wept timeless depths as God spoke out in shapes
Fractal’d rays, cube cascades, dendritic planes, raised and razed.
Come the morn, her dream stopped—as did mine, so we woke
To live now in God’s dream filled with the beauty He had spoke.

*

Years away I wait for you on thalo thatched shores
Where God set loose the clocks from their pedantic chore
Where your times and all your fears are unimportant lore
Oh would you join me here as you did years before?

The day you were born I died, and the day you died I revived,
And through your life I slept by your side, my unknowing bride,
The day you let the sunset stain your soul I remember well
The day cosmic darkness bled in you I remember better still

But all that’s done and thus a profitless meditation
For soon you’ll be recruited nameless to your new vocation
To e’er record with wistful marks the memories you’ll be given
Of Centuries of centuries of iniquities that’ll be forgiven

Soon you’ll come to colorless fountains frothing colorful water
Of raspberry, of burgundy, of mulberry of your lovely Father,
And then you’ll cry in a way you never have before
Oh won’t you join me soon in rapturous rapport?

*

I haven’t always been this outside reality
but it is now that God speaks to me,
And He spoke to me today, saying,
Behold, this life, this life you have,
Unbelievable and magnificent,
The very kernel of my creation,
Full of joy brimmed to the crest,
And made so at my loving behest.
But, being insane, I replied mightily,
In rash and distasteful blasphemy,
“Please leave from me” and then
God speckled me with success,
And then I said, “I have hate for thee”
And then God placed me in rest,
And then I said, “I am wearied by your goodness,
For I try to escape it, and depart here or there from it,”
And then God said that I was he,
And he me,
And that our separation was only
Because I was deceived.

I am wearied from life,
Because I have this queer impression
Beyond all reason, that God speaks to me,
That he foreordained me a prophet,
And rages with love for me . . .
That he gives me secret thoughts,
About how the world ought to be,
That he tells me that if I mess up,
I will go to hell eternally.

but Sometimes the demons come inside me,
making me spasm and making it impossible
for me to think strait,
but sometimes God tells me that
It’s alright, that soon I will be with
Knowledge bright and o’er-brimming,
And be a prophet calm and preaching
About how logic proves his parables.

I’ve been insane since my junior year
Of high school, when God sent me to Elysium,
When school girls were so cruel,
It still has not gone away,
But I don’t worry, for God
Tells me that that's the way it should be.

I don’t know why nobody will listen to me, but
I am bipolar, which is why, in a week,
I can have only three hours of sleep
every night, and only be more
Energetic than I would be normally,
though I felt that it was God who
Kept me up those nights, just so I could solve Him
And let the world know of His love.

I am insane, but I am also
One of the two end-time prophets
Predicted in Revelation;
God told me so, and I do not
Budge on my vocation.

I am in my last throe, in my last throe,
it is either that I am holy prophet,
or that my brain has hit a all-time low,
I cant believe it, but life is so glorious
and I did not even heed it,
and God sustained me in my wickedness.

No more tears, no more crying,
pain has left, all else is dying,
all are out, none are hid,
everything is bright, its Christmas,
I'm a kid.

I am insane,
but I look at each sane person
every day, so depressed so lonely,
completely unaware of what I see,
that perfect, perfect reality,
all around us, bright and early,
and I think, to be this happy,
I will do anything for it,
even if its price is insanity.

*

I

Anticipation for Everything,
Cripples my limbs and my willing to be,
For God made me a prophet,
yesterday, by the sea—

I saw the loveliest lady there
and I felt God too much or else I would have said hi,
but now He is gone, and her beauty passes by,
She seemed too beautiful to ever be sad,
I wanted her and I wanted to be her,
And I don’t know which desire was greater,

At the pier I squinted to see
The celestial bodies in front of me,
But instead I saw the small ripple of ghostly probabilities,
Wroughting things into existence
While orange slices rotted into lemons cuts
into lime, like before, during dim Christmas eve,
When I long-suffered the end of time. Ohm. Selah.

II

I'm tapping Palm Leaf Rag on my
Spanish classes' desk, but all I hear
is Chopin's dirge, unheard by all the rest,
I am writing down this poem
But only at God's behest.

I’ve willed untrue things to be true,
Enough that God, mercifully, into truth grew,
Like my drive home yesterday,
When I wept at His grace anew,

I've always felt that my soul is in my stomach
Which is why I want to lose weight, to make it leave
with its insanity,
Soon a south beach diet will purge that small book I ate.
Selah, Selah.

III

Perfume of propane
Weaving memories in my brain,
that I was once
Elijah or Bahaullah,
Before my depression
and its pain—

Its just the smell of barbecue,
like those my Hispanic family threw,
so authentic in its enjoyment
while our food writhed in the stew,
the dying food, which lived like Epicurus,
God had not foreknew,
nor foreordained, so it remained reprobate
and stained.

IV

Breast's are God's tears drops
Suspended on women’s' chests,
For God is not willing to let drop yet
his greatest regret,
the creation that was created
for Noah and Japeth's enjoyment,
that was soon scrapped,
and resounding in its annulment.

During the flood,
God's cooking bowl was the entirety of the sea,
so he added Red 40 and Lake Blue 5,
to make seductive sugar cookies.

V

Buddha’s asshole and Joseph Smith’s Asshole,
My left eye and right eye respectively,
Double-shit when I squint.

Allah is a Neanderthal in a hot-dog-on-a-stick
Employee outfit, watching from above
The lovers flood throughout the wilderness,
Telling each other they would die for one another
But knowing they would never do it.

VI

God gave me
an ontological proof of himself,
but not wanting to show it to someone else,
like the servant who dug his talent in the ground,
I took it to a pawn shop, hoping it would
give me enough for 3 months rent.

He also pinned an American Flag
On my wife's new pleated dress
but she failed to understand why
so she repositioned it on her thigh,
and bled out her red blood,
on dance-floors blue and white.

VII

Nighs the hour,
Now's the hour--
for I saw
the limbs of
Evolution’s animals being
Woven into
A new creature called "Modesty",

For I saw the world at its end:
all sparrows and farthings,
unwatched and left to fend,

I heard afar off,
The crashing of waves,
The crashing of stock markets,

I heard the kicked dust of bulls,
And dust bowls pirouetting to a tee.

I heard a knock on wood,
by a rabbit’s foot—

Wait—I heard someone screaming
Divinely, into the well holes, into the meadows,
Proudly, the scream flitting through snow-viewing attics
and fire-watching basements,
saying “Selah, Selah” but said cheaply and
destitutely, “Selah and Selah”, But
said as a murder done routinely,
“Selah, Selah”, as Rosie the Riverter
and Rosie the Robot play tag around the Kab'ah,
“Selah, Selah”, as pilgrims weep at the sound of a saw.

*

Numbered with the living, numbed of my headless guilt,
I sang a love of mercy that to nothingness has spilt.
I’ll bunt my breathe of worship still, to each direction’s haze,
In hopes my savior will receive my echo down those ways.

I sing a psalm of questions still: why was I kept alive?
Who’d want to take my sins for me so careless and deprived?
Perhaps it was just nothingness who random gave my grace,
For conscious love poured out to me is such a spilling waste.

I sing a psalm of gracious will: Whose love is stored this great?
How could another want to a love a man so set in hate?
Perhaps it’s not because of me that grace had saved my life,
But that through me some mercy may be beautiful when rife.

I’m numbered with the living, yea, my guilty is fully numbed,
And soon I’ll see grace greatest held when heaven-walled its summed—
Or maybe, grace is just a name I’ve wrongly given luck,
And maybe in religion’s game I’ll evermore be stuck—

But either way, as of this day, from life I’ve not been plucked.

*

I

Krishna, mushroom cloud of severe Self-bliss
whose ruby halo widens till it's everything's equator,
or a missile mirroring all with sanitarium-cleanliness,

How are you my Father? Are you those suns erupting
in my squid for a heart, anvil for a soul? Lord respond hastily, before
the smell of an abortion makes the world’s mirrors shatter.

O Dhalia Allah, Car crash of harmony, press
foxtrotingly dense on my solar plexus, Be strands
of lightening skewering through the core of earth, O meringue of senescence,

Or if Lightning were a strand of DNA, I would
climb its sugary phosphate chain
and know God.

II

How many selves I've been, O, how many selves I'll be!
God's all of them at once as they contrast towards eternity,
say heaven's only won through the neck-rest of a guillotine.

Zoroaster's gods be a spoon and spork, corpse and a young queen,
Penitent Nietzsche, what if a cactus was the only thing?
So Nietzsche smelt that World War I married World War II

for then they give birth to the 100 years war, a shame
children sometime outlive their parents, ticklish shame
World War I speeds to cuckold's sheets with coy Waterloo,

Fain would Zoroaster and Zarathustra remarry
and re-divorce only so that they could re-remarry,
their gods or re-gifted wedding gifts be a charcoal pear and albino grape . . .

III

Satan the cattle-mutilator, Satan abducting porch-anguish'd Jephthah
and running experiments on his manhood, Satan starts touring
the world in a UFO painted with an American flag,

the American flag is red, yellow, and black,
like the black, yellow, and red rainbows that are Ms. Satan's shadows;
Gerbiling Jehoshaphat! Satan just caught praline dementia, Satan just

fanned a posthumous kiss, crop circles appear
every time he blinks, crop spheres every time he winks! Satan purchases
fuchsia drapes, Satan always picked on at the tether ball courts, now Satan

wanted to divorce his VCR, Satan does the jitter-bug when John Stuart Mill
(oft-merciful Stuart Mill!) and Baal serve up
slab of Islam, side of fries, Satan cries,

The hot air of hell is silence,
The cold air of hell is screams,
hell is aliens keeping watch of us stoically,

Satan lights incense before the iconography of UFOs,
Satan crumbles like foil a mellophone, Satan paves the lands with
rubber instead of walking on the rubber soles of shoes. Satan.

IV

Zoroaster's parents-in-law be the white sand and blue sun,
like the sound of the broiling ocean accompanied by rip'ning fields
of lobster screams under the cobalt and black-bloodshot sun,

right? lobsters have a brain in each claw? a heart in each head?
One time God threw an election for someone to take his stead
though he also went in as one of the candidates . . .

please hear: God thinks He should not necessarily be God
but instead the person who best fits the job,
God, after all, never chose to be God (weep, weep)

but since he is a Lord so good and just
he thought that out of all of us
we should democratically pick the Ruler of the Universe.

In order to choose the new God, there are three
competitive events: Bruce Springsteen look-alike contest, discus,
embossing stigmata scars onto Model-T Fords.

What an opening ceremony: martyrs of Islam swimming in a river of milk,
river of wine, swimming through rivers of woman's breasts,
much more exciting/interactive than Milton's heaven,

a closing ceremony heroic: Chopin's Butterfly Etude is played on a vacuum.
Glorious results: Chunks of Snuffalopogus and a Texas shaped umbrella
are our two new Gods . . . Zoroaster and Zarathustra crying in the stands.

VI

How many selves I've been, O, how many selves I'll be!
the Master said after all, "red with black-like intensity is necrophilia's font,
therefore burn like a cigar, darling, until it hits the spot"

but the redness, fuzziness of watermelon is when
you reach the climax of sexual frustration and turkey
baster is your scepter whispering NATO secrets to you . . .

Sometimes, Arjuna fears he'll sleep walk
and accidentally kill someone, or that he'll sleep walk
and turn the stove or oven on,

somnambulism, after all, is a spelunking, spelunking
into depths of a soul, into litigious, sinuous codex sinaiticus,
into righteous accuracies of the Samaritan Pentateuch with abashed Bernie Mac . . .

God the sunset eternal slobbering through glacial expanses
says brush through all my suras and sutras and see what life may find:
Our omnipresent bliss with somewhat present mind

for The master never said, "Each raindrop that ever hit the ground
contains every fire that ever scorched the land,
Each jewish foreskins ever moyle'd is round enough to be a Hawaiian lei

but too rotund to be a noose, hanging with Mr. cooper,
too non-conical to be a cone-collar,
keep a world with a-bombs from biting its own balls"

only Nuclear Krishna in news-papyri, in lipstick-marked equator, in Kooks Klux fire
but Allah aloof from us as souls soak in testosterone tea,
O how many selves I've been, only some of them given eternity.

*

To the Coastal Bride:

. . . be fearful too of ocean's lack of detail and infinitude . . .

The sheer ocean might as well be everything
—your left, your right, your future, your past—

All within laps of froth from wind,
Happening and tapering over and over again,

white flats of sea, white salty spray,
white saline clouds, white stratus crowds,
happening and tapering over and over again,

Statuesquely you meditate while all the waves set in.

The Desert Groom speaks:

While heat-pressed sands emit this jagged wind
Recall when all was well with life, recall

The redwood blossoms ripp'ling open
Above my lady’s ear, beneath a skyline’s ease—

For the desert furnishes its roads in me,
Crocheting sorrow in my lungs and stitching it to my marrow,

And the winter considers much ire towards me
Though its inning is aloof.

All is mind but me; all is life receding;
some depart to Sheol, some receive the seasons,

One does call for me, One who hates and loves me,
none respond, for none are creators of me . . .

To the Coastal Bride:

. . . shallow breeze decrease my sentience . . .

Crishna gestures:

Arjuna, my nervous,
know north and south as merely names . . .

. . . Oscillation of Self-bliss, Self-bliss
I am Self and accordingly Selfish, It is either the desert
or ocean I hear, like those faint picaninny days
when fog was the encumbrance of the pier.

The Desert Groom speaks:

My lady is the most beautiful,
wants to be the most beautiful,
She wants to be so beautiful
to the point where she is
even more beautiful than herself.

and so again he says:

I am my own father and my own brother,
and thus create myself vertically and horizontally,
She is her own sister and her own daughter
and thus births herself annually, biannually--

Arjuna is eager but novice:

With the emergence of Adharma,
O Crishna, women become impure. Do not love
a bride who values beauty, but neither marry
an unbeautiful bride.

Crishna rebuttals:

Asat knows nothing of existence while Sat knows
nothing of non-existence. The seers who had
the visions of both concluded thus about the

two. one

of the seers who I met
sat under a palm tree and saw

the Mother Mary sitting under a palm tree
holding the Baby Buddha.

Arjuna is eager but novice:

Sometimes, when I look the other way,
the sky and ocean trade positions,
but then they always return
when I look back.

everything always returns . . .

Is worship the worship of
the God of goodness or the glory of romance,
the God of goodness or intimate wickedness,
the God of goodness or Beethoven's 7th and 9th symphonies,
The God of goodness or Tchaikovsky's 4th and 6th?

Once I sat under a palm tree and saw
Father Abraham sitting under a palm tree,
meditating in order to reach the halls of zen,
for what is a sin in zen, but only a zin itself?

The End of the Age, Quickly I Come:

where's the loveliness of my salt-teary bride?
the shade of palm, refusal of suicide . . .

a sunset made of 4 shades of black,
all happening over a seashell, Pint of God let waves pour drought,
let the winds cast dry spell,

love of my life echoically, euphoniously still.

*

Father of Mercy, from lust I came and to lust I return,
for beauty I yearn; your creation loves most conditionally,
Darwinially, a lover chooses the most beautiful and strong,

But with this bias you formed us, that by our strongest lust
we'd worship you, for no creature and no nocturne, no woman,
man or blissed aubade compares to you,

But which among conditions do we greatest praise you for?
Love without conditions, your mercy meted evermore,
for while we whine with preference in friend and foe

Your loving preference translates your true foes to friends;
And since this poem can't show complete that grace sans end
for compared to grace it's its weak-lit sign,

I'll in these words partially witness to your glory now,
While preferring the truest thing, your goodness impartial.

Preludes, Book I

2008-06-14T00:19:00.001-07:00

Prelude #1

Boundless folds of marigolds
No one shall ever see.
The Porcelain to put them in
That haunts my memory.

Prelude #2

As trees their valued umbrage shed
To placate wind of summer’s stead,
So too I offer leaves of verse
To sway your snub to govern terse.
Thus if you end your heather term
Then my verdure will grow back firm,
And if your love’s shine e’er sustain
my writ of you will greenest gain.

Prelude #3

Your laughter more clearly exists to me than my own thoughts,
So you become the truest reality to dwell in me.
And since your shard stuck in me must drag to like,
I can’t resist being drawn to you by selfhood’s gravity.

But don’t let your bits leap out from me to sculpture re-complete,
For then I’d waif-wander lowly shores with ever-hollow cavity.
Let us abide bound to perch Love’s peak: for by being
Incomplete, you’d save me from incompleteness's lone depravity.

Prelude #4

I’ve lived many lifetimes since I can’t recall
Half of what I’ve done from birth to anon,
For every new mem’ry I gain from now on
Usurps a timeworn one from years bypast,

So life’s felt length now shall never be surpassed,
and to want more life is a quenchless end,
Hence though I have more youth that I shall expend
I won’t fear death’s final, imminent pall

I’ve loved many lifetimes, since I could recall,
whose deep luster I’ll never know in all.

Prelude #5

A spider’s legs deftly carriage its poisonous torso,
I too am wicked inward though handsomely my hands flow,
Which spin-out fugue and rhyme, shaped webs of gorgeous gossamer,
To capture men and make them praise my remorseless ego.

Before from pulpit’s sermon could I only see my sin,
But now empirically can I see the wrong within
For my void-filled eight-eyes can’t miss how I use spinnerets
To fashion silky psaltery paged with self-eminence

Good Lord oblate with mercury my muscled lips and legs,
Though I’m too scared of my own sin to for forgiveness beg,
And then your silvery mercy will burn off my gross hairs
And force the virtue out of me in mechanistic prayers,

And then please take my woven works and redesign their shape,
“Dei Gloriam” retitle them and weave them no escape,
For then I’ll be your will-less toy placed in their sticky mesh,
A silver spider, glazed by God, with goodness as his flesh.

Prelude #6

The perfect poem has not occurred,
Since poems perfect by slight degrees,
So don’t regret a crooked word,
Perfection then will steal your ease,

But if our writ is Zeno’s race,
And we shall never heaven grasp,
Then why stride with impressive pace,
If all it gains is breathe with rasp?

Prelude #7

Cascades brush to nothingness--
Casual streams cobalt your hips--
Profoundly distanced, the stars roar static
Out to Godless audience--

Harvest leaves drift on the trickling flow,
Below the emerald eaves. The water laps
wet your back as your charcoal hair you lave.

By the armoires, by the armchairs, I left lilacs you won’t go see,
I caught the freshest lavender that you won't accept from me,
And still you bathe and sing soft verse out there to all the elm
Offering to each passing leaf your milk and honey warm.

Through night, bothered by clothing and cloth, I feign the pose of sleep,
And by my chronic thoughts of you the somber time I keep
Since thoughts of you are my sole hope to calm this raged unrest
But spurn recall of eschewal that keeps woke grief abreast,
And still you wash, shoulder to wrist, with thick whips of frothed tide
Sleeving in white to christen yourself your own vainglory’s bride.

Some hours, by hap, I’ll swindle sleep and dream our mid-stream embrace,
But soon, I’m woke from this cruel nap by the pitiless grin of space,
Woke to recall that I never shall hold your water-polished body,
Left to waste my life estimating how I'll waste paltry eternity,
And still you wade and sprinkle drops into your wet cupped hand
to canonize my tears with others' on your ego's trophy stand.

Prelude #8

Its when the day inclines towards night
that through its sunset it's most bright,
I know likewise Your sweetest Grace
when after sin I choose to chase.

Once I'm grieved by night's a-whoring
a mother's love blue day does bring,
but by noon I'm bored of goodness
and flee in night to You transgress.

But this circled folly You love,
for Your Mercy waxes thereof,
since blue prismed is rainbow-returned
To show love's best hue, grace unearned.

So when I lapse into the night,
recall to cast towards moon your light,
So I'm preserved by its beam's pull,
that in Your Grace I e'er cycle.

Prelude #9

Your head lies down, a polished pearl,
Your hair like nacre mollusks whorl,
Your glow twists from this round helix
And does my mulm-hushed soul elix.
You’re present sea that mariner sails
But past sea too of half-land whales,
And last, you skirr through future tides
And strain shore’s ken by brine-edge strides.

Prelude #10

I’d travel as many days as a dulcimer plucks
For my neck to be stained by your syrupy kiss,
But its time’s distance that sets your heart to flux,
Not a difference of space that's amiss,

Age hinders me from embracing your sienna mien,
Like those oaks that incline to smell your auburn hair—
Its only when they’ve finished their yearlong lean,
That your ambrosial scent shall lessen there—

Like them I can waft faintly but can't hold,
But if we love what matters that I’m this old?
We love by spirit and mark not skin’s yearly rings.
During my youth I’d see God clambering through all things:

In those august times I wish you knew me
And let your sweet lips to mine hang idly
Since God would blind us of our fluky fleshed cages
And show us Colors of Autumn, Colors of Ages.

Prelude #11

Better my head three-portioned Guide, for I
need be exorcised of demons--and angels too.
In me, a believer prays and an apostate weeps,
but this two-personed nonsense also undo.

The bizarre voice of god
Ravished me with commanding presence,
Overthrew me with hellfire judgments,
and made captive You to diverse forms of insanity.

Reason, Your viceroy in me,
protected me from this destructive voice,
blotted out my fears of unpardonable sin,
and restored me back to my childhood's healthy normalcy

You gave me my life back,
So what you hindered completely remove:
Holy Guide of Doubt, Science, Logic,
the sin of faith--question, falsify, disprove.

Prelude #12

The seeds of love are whisked to air
To random fall on fertile grounds,
Its whimsy’s wind that guides tree’s heir
To dive to sundry bachelor’s bounds.
If choice to love is zephyr’s cull,
then why by its caprice be swayed?
But you’ll abide and blindly lull
and leave me veiled by fallow blade.

Prelude #13

We heard that things
would slow and freeze
and stay that way forevermore

I choose to stand by a dock shore
as things clicked to their final lock
and watch the humid black noon air

Prelude #14

As an old tongue translates to new
your lips' allure decrypts to me,
but my love back-transcribes askew,
my argot's grace you do not see.
And since sense passes one way through,
my speech is clipped when sent to you

unlike the way your words will spill:
snowflakes quill-etched,
English or Spanish,
earth-known but sky-niched--
descending from caps of wisest truth,
dissolved by my grope still grimed with youth—

Prelude #15

Prayer scares me shitless—for after “Amen” I sometimes
Feel dizzying depression, signs of meaninglessness
In blank succession, accelerated awareness
That just amplifies duress,
Baseless woes made
Trembling throes--

I’ve wondered before
If I'm fucked-up somehow
But Merciful Lord, don't let these fits
be defects, but saintly projects: birth pains,
making way, by clever theodicy, for butterflies to emerge from waves. Amen.

Prelude #16

I’ve reached the peak, but then must fall,
For Life gives Moses quick a view,
I breathe the heights, then leave it all,
While life tastes eons, death plans coup.

And if life is just felt as fixed,
Then all things made shall wilt one day,
So let’s sing verse with script unmixed:
To be poets, from poems let’s stray

Prelude #17

You have two souls, so your presence is doubly known—
You feel twice the hue and timbre we feel, twofold the peace and woe,
So teach us twice as long as we’ve let sons of God
That your wisdom might out-endure their loved tittle and yod.

And since you are blessed with soul’s surplus, will you not loan me one?
Love me while you sojourn this earth, let me see those private sights
Of your expanded mind, and then by death I’ll give back your soul
With my love as usury, that you may be that worshipped triple witness of heaven’s profundity.

Prelude #18

Calculated like a Moorish rug,
Consoling like slow summer wine,
Your words roll thick with swollen wilderness
Below your obsidian eyes aflame,

You're the holiness and loneliness of
Ascending stories sycamore-towered,
Whose stairs I weep on
Knowing this force is held in your dainty frame.

That I could hold that figure so tame,
And hear that nursing voice love my name,
That your smile would be my decades' refrain
While the firmness of our skin did slacken--

I would devote all my verse to you
If from your lips love's oath I heard,
Though I will commit mine to woe's flame
Knowing that its my youth you spurn.

Prelude #19

My love for you is self-love's guise—
I love you most through poet's eyes—
So if my love for you lacked verse,
I'd gain no pride and thus love terse,

So boast not that you've bliss-slain me,
Though God's blows have only matched thee.
How can you brandish your anlace
when to my pen its strength will trace?

Prelude #20

Death, if you be a never-ending waiting room,
with which boring God did you a contract assume?
Or was He romantic, by numbering our days,
So we’d write lovely lament, diseased with malaise?

If he’s just romantic, then we’re his research tools;
Though unjust, at least an attentive Yahweh rules.
As aloof Zeus, He’d cause both lovely mortal dread
and creative poems on unmeant pain till we’re dead.

Prelude #21

When I wake up and the sky is blushing purple,
I will know what she meant that one time
When she grazed my shoulder twice in class.

Prelude #22

Gaunt Shepherd, please peer from your worn widow cave,
Watch us balloon for a day then waste away
In the banquet of our growling lusts while
The drowsy wind strums your ribs to dust.

A shadowy blue encumbers our town's foilful shine
as our carnival ambitions twirl,
But don’t waste a look of rebuke
While we are busied in our delicious hurls

For soon by your feet, war-headlines
Will blow, whispering of Battalions.
Just pick them up to prepare to burrow
For when the fission staleness covers us thorough.

And when all you hear fidgeting men
Fighting for cans, then you'll know it’s almost done,
And when you hear gazing gardens of timid erections,
Then you can wean off to sleep's womb.

Prelude #23

All is echo from Zenith of Being—

Lemon tulips boil and brim—
Seas dry to dregs of summer pink and autumn orange—
Mars' shores fill with fiery sunset—

Thy Light refracts and fractals through—

Deadened nebulae spin off scintilla—
Aeolian dust of Zen lith doth Zing—then hum—
Zills oscillating—then hymn—

Thy Light refracts and fractals through
and pours absurd to me—
through my mind resounds enslaving Idyll Ecstasy—

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.