I heard the moon scratching
upon my windowpane,
curiously full,
tearing at my dreams and licking feathers
within my loins.
I tasted the purple night, turning and twisting,
through wintergreen and columbine,
the crickets’ ancient aching chant,
and a thin hue of mist
stirred up by memories lush.
I took hold of the solid throbbing self and spilt
loneliness and ten million possibilities
upon the patient loving universe
and smiled
as I watched night’s daughters,
enticing and coy,
shake the slumber of the sons of dawn.
I am a witch, she says, so I believe her.
In consequence of our love,
I accompany her on this life journey.
Who are you? she dabbles in my psyche,
like a feather in a mudpuddle.
I am no man, I say, wishing to avoid the obvious.
Who are you?
she tosses a spell over to me and I catch it:
I am the smoky continence looking over the fire.
I am the breath emptied into holy night.
I am the stirring branch in the cauldron.
I am the trout settling between slick stones.
I am the hoot of the barn owl.
I am the high dry grass conversing
with the west wind.
I am that which moves between the stars.
I am a bucket of skulls.
I am the winding path in a forest of shadows.
I am a strong drink, hot and foreboding.
I am a tune easily whistled.
I am now with you.
The spell eases and I relax.
She appears satisfied with my answer.
It’s your turn, she says, and I believe her.
Profound skin
awakening touch.
A tree, a snake and unrepentant knowledge.
She climbs up with me
and we discuss an unnamed world.
I have a tongue that senses the world
and swallows it whole.
Shedding our days
we renew ourselves
in the endless jungle night.
And at dawning
we unfurl our new bodies
to a first fiery day.
newblue
serendipity
you
gushing fullripe
easily harking
too dilly doo
on fresh grass grown
for the we
(for the we)
(for the we)
of two.
The circle of Initiation circumscribes the Void.
The pulsating skin of our experience
is stretched taut on the hoop of this Earth —
we beat slowly upon her.
Creating a rhythm that rings
from the caves of our ancestors
unto the hollows of the sky.
Into the underworld the Initiate must go.
I carry my corpse to the Temple of Sighs.
Striking a bell, calling forth the Brothers
Who sweep the fractured starlight
Into small blissful piles
and send me on my way.
And when the strain becomes too much
you will crack.
I wait for My Beloved:
her claws will rend my soul into thin pliant strips
to dry in the cold loose wind.
She’ll chew on them
at the end of the world
and think of me.
Rupert the Rabid Rabbit
was trolloping along Interstate 88.
The drool off his lip
and a head stuffed full of dandelions
lit his view with golden nostalgia.
The admonishment of his Elders
and post-cold war policy shifts
held no ground in Rupert’s deliberations.
Mogadishu at dawn,
chewing stems and counting clitoridectomies,
would have suited Rupert well.
For there was no time for ambivalence,
no time for hesitation,
yet the heat waves rose off the raving road;
giving him pause.
From his perspective
all the world spat quicksilver infomericals,
fax pornography,
and ethnic cleansing in a New World Order.
Nearby a thin brew of fetal tissue
and other roadkill fermented
on the hot macadam.
He ignored all this however —
dismissed Mercury in retrograde,
neglected the sightings of the Virgin,
misconstrued the arc of foucault’s pendulum.
He knew he had to cross over
to ask that one oatmeal cookie question.
The highway jeered with
FedEx and cancer cures.
He knew but he didn’t know how.
But then
inspired by Oklahoma City,
eschatological interpretations
and a balanced budget amendment,
Rupert made a dash
into the arms of Atropos the Wise:
a drive-by martyr perfected
and so ended Rupert’s consternation.
Ain’t no great shakes.
Contact with me is deadly, incurable and final.
I am virulent.
I am suspect.
I am that shadowplay,
creeper into noxious corners,
screamer into pillows,
raking my claws indifferently
and steadily through the copulating masses.
I have the power to bless you with knowledge:
the knowledge of how you are going to die.
Rejoice, for you are truly blessed.
To be suddenly
and completely tossed out of earthly existence,
to smile up at that damp moss angel
as she slowly (slow oh so slowly)
eats your body away until you slip out
supple as an otter upon a mud bank
then disappearing beneath the river
without a trace.
Let me kiss your wounds.
Her blood stains my bed and now she is gone.
That stain will never wash out:
it is the mark she has made on me.
A confluence of Semen and Blood.
And so the cycle begins again.
Despair can be subtle:
like a rattling windowpane unexplained.
I can read her blot
and I’m confounded by mysteries.
Blood tides in dark moon.
Blood curdling like milk left unattended.
Blood memories in this vivid night.
Blood stain. Blood pain.
Blood trance. Blood glance.
Blood share. Blood dare.
She was here and now she is gone.
Only blood remains.
Do not want to end up
an old man cursing
a lifetime of rancid promises
and shriveled expectations.
To beat my silence
down upon your head
like a broken sword
(bitter and fell)
till the shame of it blasts dignity
out a tenth story window shattered
upon the sorry street alone.
Iron bells mutter blackly
extinguishing the stars, one by one,
with black calloused fingertips.
Crows insist upon a dawn
raking the air, unrepentant,
with their call for clarity: hard and cold.
Sulfurous priests hammer out
God’s meta-rationales in Heaven’s courtyards
to placate the prime time worshipful masses.
Their cocks mournful
in the service of their dying god.
As the bells
As the bells clap
As the bells clap (hard and cold)
As the bells clap (hard and cold) wrenching me
out of my dream.
I grab fistfuls of dust
to mail out to my friends
as an invitation to my awakening.
She stirred the waters.
Ripples ringing out
disappearing into the chaos.
A reasonable person would leave —
accepting the loss of clarity — yet I lingered.
She questioned the Great Blue Heron
as it hunted the shallows deliberately.
She had lured me there with a jelly sandwich
and a low humming.
She asked me to sit with her awhile
as she disturbed the waters.
The pea-green waters,
the borders of turbulence,
patterns of nature bent and broken up.
I see this and I am tempted
to reach out to save her,
to bring her back to home and hearth,
to confound her turmoil.
Then I shake my head.
The waters, smooth and calm,
are reflecting perfectly.
She is gone.
I smell you on my fingertips.
Years ago we argued about petty matters
and laughed at the Grand Scheme.
We stood upon the heights
and considered in cool deliberation
the fate of this world.
What did I know of living?
One Day
you took me to the river and said:
“It is beautiful, is it not?”
“Of course,” I smiled benignly
as I contemplated our reflections
mixing together.
Then without warning
you pushed me into the current
and yelled, as I floated away:
“Is it still
Beautiful?”
I was enlightened
then drowned.
I smell you on my fingertips.
10 Thousand Lips
as soft as cornstarch.
I will enter into this next kiss
the next swamp creature caress.
I’m ready to dive head-long
forsaking vanity and caution
to suck up the dark recesses
of your funky blood-engorged soul.
Mixing loose virtue and delirium —
I am thrice-born to a lackluster world.
Embrace me, my beloved.
I fear no hell. I desire no heaven.
I will process from mouth to mouth —
red lips and rough tongues.
Explore narrow sweaty empty avenues
on a voyage of discovery.
The bud swells and fruits — we share all.
Can I eat you now and be forever nourished?
“Hey, you want sum of Judy’s Strawberry Pie?”
I had to think for a
link
and then think again.
Do I dare?
Is it good for me?
Is she good for me?
So I strolled over to see
to see the Pie,
Strawberry Pie
by Judy.
She
that kicks up piles of leaves for the fun of it.
She
with knowing glance and calculated mystery.
She
whose fingernail follows the curve of my throat.
Judy’s Strawberry Pie and a sanguine invitation.
Yet I hesitated.
You call me.
Menacing my freedom and to suffer secretly.
You call me.
You ask: Will I? Could you?
You know I will.
You know I
will.
Could I pass by Judy’s Strawberry Pie?
I could taste it:
a thin lilting crust,
a red elemental slurry of strawberries.
The first bite would alarm the glands
squeezing tight.
Then later will come the crash and sugar sleep.
But during (Ah…)
but during the consummation of
That Strawberry Pie
is time out of mind.
You call me.
If it is true,
as Einstein’s fingerpainting quartet
seems to infer
that time is but a convenient notion
we carry around with us
like a parrot preaching: Pieces of Eight!
Pieces of Eight!
I can only lie here,
reciting the Jabberwocky over and over again,
thoroughly wrung dry of all convictions,
interdictions and predictions
and secretly hoping to remain that way.
Angels, gowned and masked, hover over me
whispering: “you’ll now feel a pinch.”
Memories form in the sterile fluorescent lights:
Those early morning walks I used to go on
when the other kids were at Sunday school.
The tall grass dry, milkweed pods splitting open,
the drone of countless insects,
the carp rising to the surface of the lake.
To be alive was as natural as breathing.
Why did I wait till now to remember?
I am alone.
Being served upon a platter
for the dance of Justice.
Her bangles and bells, her vaporous veils,
her sweaty musk, attract and entice.
She feels the press of the enraptured throng,
curious and filled with a unspoken lust.
I am not even sure of what I did or did not do.
I hear a humming.
The slow drip drip drip. . .
.
A humming permeating every vessel,
sinew, cell and twisted bit of DNA.
drip.
Like a moistened fingertip
on the lip of a fine wine glass, reverberating.
Humming.
A full fleshy kiss from my Saviour.
drip.
They have made it so clean and kind.
I wonder why.
drip.
Mother.
Where is my Mother?
Who is my Mother?
The lights become brighter
like approaching a city at dawn
and turning that radio on, tuning it in.
I listen:
It
is
humming
louder
now.
drip.
Mystic tower dark
Evening pours tart burgundy wine
Sipping casually
Gradually emptying
His brass goblet
Into forgetful night.
Fragrant glances
Peaceful sadness
Dwelling long in the Queen’s garden:
Nutmeg and myrrh
Mint and yarrow.
Incantations pardon threadbare aspirations.
And we drift
In cambric obscurity
Under the jasmine moon.
Womb Stone
She was Joan of Arc after the abortion
— defiant and ashamed —
having plucked the seed of her enemy
from the pit of her womb.
