Thursday, March 22, 2012
Here are the lines that are drawn by the prisms of the waters on the grasses in the sands of the skies.
a sun palm.
The sun in my palm
radiates out its
It is a human palm fit between tension and ease.
A part, a top a thousand sequined seams.
which we wave around our arms
and are a star
of hands, are rays of stars.
sun spines. sun crowns. sun eyes.
colonies of beautiful and hideous
we pluck apart the others’ feathered heads
turned by the turns of the birds.
In the culture of birds there are blue birds and swooping birds and crooning birds and chirping birds.
turning birds in starry meadows on the navels of the earth.
we tumble inconceivable mounds of swollen clouds.
Scatter into salted oceans pillowed into
parts between our knees
bent upon the bottom of the earth of empty beds.
we will join ourselves together
into migratory patterns
alone along our wings glide
To lift up!
the folds of rainbow parachute
our little bodies cross legged in the ruby
glow our faces
in the colors of a billowy
descent up lit, the rainbow tent
to see us
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
I watched it for a little while
I love to watch things on TV
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Put it something beautiful
Or hide it beneath rug.
Did you put it? It wouldn’t go
and wrecked my nails while I tried to scratch it in
Fatly, plump and of precision
The ugly young woman put the cup down
She was there.
I was a tableau.
We stretched ourselves into a taught and multicolored fiber
we became glittered and we glowed
of body marks of tender stretches
tenders gestured emptily
in all the emptily gestured
toward what ever was in the frame, caught in the instant
was an eidolon in separation
hunting or of an apparition
in between look of her laughter escaping sound of her laughing
Rolled up we tried so hard to leave it behind us it would be left behind us
left behind us caught inside the picture
i was a picture woven into a tableau we wove
Below the rug, unsmiling in the oily, unsmiling in the woven
where nothing there was to be removed.
The faces twist grotesque double chins of hysterical laughter
If you paused your own hideous chuckling for an instant
Probably you would be surprised. Maybe you would cry and claim
“it is not me”
to return whatever it was you spent all of your money on.
Let us return to ourselves and to our homes. Let us plough the dirt of our being with our minds and our fingers and let us all hold all of our hands in a circle let us form an undoing and let us let go, wisely we will be there all becoming.
Back to the garden unclamoring, undemanding, let us all try to climb back out of our clothes for foliage
As if nothing ever happened.
Before the first pear fell.
though hast flayed us with thy blossoms.
We could do anything.
We could crush the wet ripe fruit to make us a juice.
I would make a juice for you
Sometime in the morning.
It would be
Of a fruit
You would want to drink
You would want to travel down
its honey river
Your silver glint
Your feathered crown
You graceful swan
Your greying feather
You swan lover
Or instead would you stop yourself from out biting wildly
You would never let yourself make such a scene
As a bird on a girl
you would never turn around
You would not be struck
At the intersection
Or walk across a minute late
In the little death
In the click of an instant
You would be no feathered ghost
You would be no luz
You would not be luz
you would take no luz
You would take no picture,
It could only take
if it could only take a picture
And register voice among the registers
To put in some files to be lost
in one of all the archives whiled away, meaningless or burned,
untranslatable and boring, violent
inherently forgetful of themselves as such.
It would be one of those days
When we burn books to keep warm
And my voice could not be yours.
When the winter goes in like a lamb and out
Like a lion.
Or is never a lion
And is never a lamb.
And is only the weather.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
“and Petals flying like wounds”
maybe a heart to start.
our heart beats flutter in our mouths.
our hearts beat flutters.
try to put your fingers round my heart.
try to make up heartbeats of my heart.
try to take up heart beats of my heart.
my heart made of heartbeats beaten up up off of my heart.
Your heart's beating heart beats up up at my heart.
It takes it to heart.
It is taken to heart off a butter flight wing.
strung to sky i am sky i am light i am dust i am here
in the wind, a thread running bare through the breeze
lit, it is singing in me.
I arrange some petals stemming in the vase
of the stemmed.
Where it shoots roots at my root rooted out with a snout
like a mouth with a tongue,
It tries to take my picture and it plucks at my fruit.
It tries to shoot me with a picture and it sizes up my fruit.
It plucks at my strings
and it runs at my root
and it rips at my root with its teeth.
Run at my root, go ahead
Rip at my root with your teeth.
i want my root to be seen in your teeth.
my root in your teeth won't you please show it to me.
put your teeth in my teeth.
eat my teeth with your teeth.
suck my teeth with your teeth.
crush my teeth in your teeth.
with your teeth teeth your teeth with my teeth.
suck with your teeth at the rooting in me.
and lick at my teeth
lick at it showing it licking at me.
The men watched man giving birdseed
Break it out.
Gush it out hot little streams .
It is the wonderfully beautiful moth in the room.
in the bush
Isn't it the moth in my mouth that flutters itself
beating itself at the roots of my teeth?
Isn't this the moth wanting me?
the moth that puts me to put its moth wings
to suck this wanting moth
to take its moth's wanting upon myself
to suck its
there is a red fruit deep inside well a glamorous girl well
it would be pleasant if this planet had no name well
eat a peach at the edge of the cosmos then
faintly swaying eyelessly green
why there was no mystery
i bought a watermelon the size of a great planet
a mysterious ship
spirit on it.
the planet aches looking at the clear night sky the planet turning
i have nothing to say
i'm empty headed
this land of water's children.
of strange and tattered drops of fruits.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
If only I had been born
Instead of a monster
of spaces from shells to sands
always assumed within the counted ones
until proximity loosens our hair and the piles of stardust from our palms
loosening the locks of our starry gathered umbrals
and we can not be numbered
some in our arms upon rising leave behind the nights costume
heading out into the day to the rooms of the world outside where we uncover nakedly
things of our former selves
to set them up stark against the foliage
like paper cutouts of secret silhouettes
or swinging statues
to click off
still swinging around in the back yards of our dreams
it is a wilderness that is not so much Rousseau like
although it is built of the momentum of wanting and its debris
sorting through the flotsam floating wreckage
we are racoons in the trash
of a statue garden
want looks and want searches and want wraps us up until we are the wanted, or not
and it becomes us
accumulating in the garbage to hunt or to pick each other between the waves we come in like waves and we go out like waves and the tides and the moons send us running off or to bury ourselves amidst the discarded furs of others we try to
bury ourselves in the sand becoming sand
or topple off the used upness of castles crumbling in topples off each other in heaps like
little stones like flakes of skin or leaves or the beginning of snow where it is very still
and we are the snow and we
try to catch us in our open mouths but tout le monde runs out
and we are cold sparks
in infinite dusts
in fragments of foam
in blown up marble
and we are swept off
we will not be ours
but flicker in twirls of differentiation simultaneously forever
and one finds oneself in it and one is familiar with it and one can be in it with everyone else everywhere crystallized or melting otherwise this is not a world
and we are all strange animals that try to go into the others and protect ourselves at the same time
with our big open black eyes towards the night
and our paws.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Back of the play garden,
we made love like angels in snow.
Tilting til oceans took to hereafter
le sable rose
washed up shored
from our lost arms
lost out on waves,
crescendoing in leaps into the pool across the banister
atravezando las ruinas de moteles de amor.
We’ve all heard it come rushing,
when it comes rushing in
it rushes in and all we hear is
all we hear rushing
as it comes
in claustrophobic back flips
in fish bowl swims
light it scoots in fins away
it scoots in swims
or let's it go,
The time makes everything old
so the kissing, young darkness
a monstropolous old thing.
There are parts when the monster is almost painful
the good view of him
and his struggle
along the border constellations
maybe not supposed to tells
fifteen year old secret hybrid dots rubbed out along the
thirty seven years ago today, he says, fingering harder
knots in our pretty hair.
knots in our soft tummies, kneaded under bellies of
frozen fog shit and guts tinkering
swills of beach lines in river faucets back into our mouths
plugged and making sucking.
of frozen pipes of fogged shit and guts swell
our skins and stretch across
some of us have
some of our bellies
some belly howls cower.
some of us are cowered.
Meanwhile, Yemanja leaps in flotsam jetsam and ripples off the smokey veils
Let us skip
in mind in the morning wind bangs up the creaky doors
and going on about in the apartment.
to begin again.
The first day of the year the sky is violet.